The Agreement (Unrestrained 1)

I can't wait to bind you with my leather restraints and make you cry out my name as you come, again and again. Then, I will really kiss you, smothering your moans with my mouth...

I would have loved to read those letters all night but I had an early class in the morning. I couldn't sleep, and since I couldn’t run because of my ankle, I got up once more and made a pot of tea, reading the pages of my book until I felt asleep long after midnight.

~~~

I spent the next few days going through my daily routine, getting up, going to classes, working on my article, coming home, rinse, repeat. Dawn and I didn’t see much of each other because she was busy with her own coursework. Still, as busy as I was, I thought often of Drake Morgan, wondering why he'd warned me off, regretting that he did.

That Friday, I dressed in my prettiest clothes – a cream cashmere sweater and black pencil skirt, black hose and heels, my black leather jacket over top. I sat at the same café where I met Lara, preparing to meet the gorgeous man-god Dom she promised me. She said it was only a few blocks from her law firm's office and so I went once more and waited, sitting at the same small table with my back to the wall, having arrived fifteen minutes earlier so I could calm my nerves. The night before, I read another of the Dom's letters to his new sub. I couldn't get it out of my mind, the words so intense, the promise of pleasure in his description of what he would do to her so enticing.

While I waited, I re-read the letter over, thinking about what I'd ask this Dom I was meeting.

To my new sub.

When we are together, I expect you to surrender control to me in all things. You do so because you trust me completely. You are able to let go of all shyness and self-doubt without fear that I will judge you or harm you. I will only draw out of you what you can give, using your body and your mind to bring us both as much pleasure as we can possibly feel together.

When we part, you are your own woman and I admire your independence. We only meet to slake our thirst for what we give each other, for the special relationship we have established that satisfies our unique needs. For me, that means Dominance; for you, submission.

I expect you to comply with my commands without hesitation. I know your limits for we have already discussed them. You know my desires, for I have already described them. We will establish ahead of time exactly what we will do together so that you are well-prepared.

There will be little need for conversation for we will communicate using touch, eye contact, and only occasionally, a verbal command or word of encouragement, and when necessary, correction. We have discussed your safe word, but I don't expect you to need it for I will not lose control. Of that you can be certain.

Control is what I desire and it is what I am best at.

Why did the Dom's words so arouse me?

I glanced up from my iPhone when the café door opened and Lara walked in. I took in a deep cleansing breath as she made her way to the counter. I put my phone down and watched as she ordered an espresso from the barista then came to my table. She sat down, removing her coat, and glanced at what I was wearing as if to judge whether I met her standards.

"You look nice enough," she said, rubbing the cashmere of my sweater between her fingers. "Classy but not overdressed, nice skirt, hose, even heels. He'll like you. I knew that the first time I saw you."

"Why?" I asked, sipping my drink nervously.

"He likes petite women. You're exactly his type."

As we passed the time waiting for the Dom to arrive, we talked about my father.

"You must invite me to a fundraiser one of these days," she said when her coffee arrived. "Making connections is everything in my profession."

"I will," I said, a bit reluctant even though I liked her. What if it got out that she was a Domme?

Lara checked her watch.

"I wonder where he is," she said, her voice a bit impatient. "He's usually right on time."

I took in a deep breath, trying to calm my nerves. As we waited, he walked into the café – Drake Morgan, MD. Assistant Professor of Neurosurgery at the Columbia Center for Movement Disorders, Bass Player, Volunteer for Doctors Without Borders, the medical charity we both belonged to, the son of my father's oldest and best friend.

What was he doing here?

Seeing him once more, I realized that he was perhaps the most beautiful man I’d ever met with those impossibly-blue eyes fringed with thick dark lashes and a few days-worth of stubble on his very square jaw. Fresh from the OR at NY Presbyterian, he still wore blue scrubs under a white lab coat.

He stopped up short, frowning when he saw us, glancing around the deserted café as if in confusion. When Lara stood and waved him over to the table, I got a very bad feeling.

"You’re late," she said, air kissing his cheeks when he arrived as if she'd been expecting him.

It was only then I realized why he was there.

The look on Drake's face would have been hilarious if it wasn't the most awkward moment of my life.

This was a disaster.