Princely Passions

Sunday dinners, cooked by Mary. I’d missed these dinners, but looking around the table now, inhaling the smells wafting up from the bulgur and cashew stuffed eggplant, I’m in heaven again.

Except for Heather. She’s shown up at my office twice more this past week, and I’ve had to take a restraining order out against her. At this rate, I’m going to have to put my secretary on a standing order with the florist; she can get a new bouquet of daisies, her favorite, every Tuesday and Thursday. I’m quite afraid I’m going to end up losing her, all over an insane woman who doesn’t understand the word “no.”

Daphne seems quiet tonight. She’s been quiet for the last week, actually. I’m not sure what’s going on. I’ve been sidetracked by Heather’s reappearance in my life and some new clients at work, that we haven’t been able to spend enough time together. I vow to myself to make time this week, in her schedule and mine, for her to come back to my place and spend some … quality time in the bedroom. I can buy some rose-scented lotion and give her a full-body massage to help her loosen up. Plus, bonus points—I get to run my hands all over her body. I can pay special attention to her—

“How are things going at work?” Mary asks, interrupting my pleasant daydreams.

“Fine. Some new clients are keeping me busy.” And some ex-girlfriends are making me insane.

“This weekend, a bunch of my friends and I were going to go to a concert over at the Barclay Arena,” Daphne says, looking straight at me, almost like it’s a challenge. “Carla got us some good seats. Will you be able to come?”

I pause, fork midway to my mouth, staring at Daphne. I’d love to say yes, of course I would, but we can’t be public about our relationship. Not right now. Especially not with Heather out there, going a little more crazy every day. We have to be careful.

The silence is stretching out between us and I’m just staring, not sure what to say and I can tell she isn’t happy…

“That’s what I thought,” Daphne snaps. “I’m not good enough for you to take out in public. Well, Dominic, I don’t think you’re good enough for me anywhere. We’re through. Go find someone else to bamboozle with your bullshit.” With a screech, she pushes out her chair and storms out, grabbing her purse from the counter on the way to the front door. I stare after her, mouth hanging wide open, as the awkward silence fills the air. The slam of the front door reverberates through the silence like a gunshot, making everyone jump.

Fuuuucccckkkkkk…

53

Dominic

I can’t get her off of my mind.

I haven’t seen her since Mary’s house—God that was awkward, having my ex-wife watch her daughter break up with me, but oh, how I miss her.

When she was my stepdaughter, we did things together. I attended her school plays and helped her with her science fair project and helped her fill out scholarship applications and studied chemistry right alongside her.

She was gorgeous back then, although in a young colt sort of way. A little awkward, a little gangly, totally unsure of herself. I loved being around her, but there were no sparks between us. I didn’t look at her long legs beneath a short skirt and drool over them. I looked at her long legs beneath her short skirt and tried to tell her to put on leggings. Or a nun’s outfit.

I couldn’t force her to, and Mary always took Di’s side, but there were more than a few times where I thought, “I know what the boys are thinking when they see that much skin!”

But it was never what I was thinking.

Now, though … I miss her. I miss her smile and her laugh and her willingness to try anything in bed and her sense of humor and her intelligence.

None of that matters, of course. She’s pissed at me, and I’m not sure if I’m ready to be who she wants me to be.

God, I miss her in bed. So fucking much. I want her so badly, my balls hurt. I’ve got a constant hard-on, everywhere I go, and it’s ridiculous. It’s out of control.

So I figure, what’s the cure? One last final fuck. Hard and rough and I can fuck her like a bitch, just the way she likes it, and then we can say goodbye. It’ll be closure for us.

Yup, I’m totally going to stalk her. I can’t say I’m proud of that fact, but I know when it is that she gets home from the gym. I know her routine. If I just call her and ask her, “Hey babe, wanna fuck?” she’d tell me to go fuck off.

I need to be there when she gets home, and she won’t be able to resist me, once I’m there and she’s looking at me. It’s much easier to say no over the phone, when her senses aren’t involved.

Sneaky? Yup. Underhanded? You bet. Going to do it anyway? You bet your ass I am.

I’m leaning against the wall outside of her apartment door, checking my watch impatiently. Any minute now … I try not to tap my foot but damn, I’m not used to be kept waiting, even if Daph doesn’t have a clue I’m here.

Finally, the elevator door dings open and she steps out. She stops, mid-step, her foot crashing to the floor awkwardly as she’s staring at me. “What are you doing here?” she hisses.

Not necessarily the start I was hoping for, but realistically, I couldn’t expect anything less. She begins digging through her giant-ass purse; why is it that women insist on carrying everything and the kitchen sink with them when they go out into the world?—searching for her keys.

I jerk my head toward the door. “Let’s go inside and we can talk.” She looks suspiciously at me but finally pulls her keys out and we get inside the apartment. She shuts the door behind us, throws her purse onto the hallway table and crosses her arms, leaning against the door and glaring at me.

“So talk,” she half growls.