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Does she bind, too? I can’t tell. I bet she does. Or maybe she doesn’t. She didn’t when we hooked up, but that was twelve years ago…

“Why not?” I ask. Annie has saved my scatterbrained ass more than once.

Her mouth twitches into a wan smile. Smug. So fucking smug. “I rather rely on my abilities to get my shit done.”

I slump my shoulders and frown at her. “Thanks.”

“I didn’t say anything…”

“Passive aggression isn’t attractive.”

Her smile widens. Finally, some semblance of emotion coming from her! “Now, you know how aggressive I can be.”

“Uh-huh.” What’s she referring to? Her business prowess? Her dominance? Her ability to slam a woman against the wall and growl into her ear as she fucks her?

Whoa, where did that come from?

I glance at Ira, but she’s already reading something on her laptop again. Her look is so pensive that it’s almost brooding. Ugh. I love the brooding types. Dominating them, anyway. They make the best subs.

Now I’m imagining Ira Mathison as a sub, and I can’t decide if I want to laugh at the impossibility, or…

Or bite my lip and wonder some more.

I already know what kind of sub she would be. The worshipful kind. She’d be a sub who makes a girl feel like a fucking goddess in the bedroom. A master of oral sex in whatever position she wants. The kind to hold her hips as she rides her and controls the angle of her pussy. All she would ask for is the extreme honor of being on top, one of the hottest, more intimate things a Domme like me can allow. I know some other female Dommes who don’t let their lovers, male or female, ever get on top.

I don’t really care. I don’t see letting someone rutting on top of me as a sign that I’ve let go of power. But they better be calling me Mistress while they do it. And it better be hot.

Ira would be the kind of sub to beg to fuck me with that packer of hers. Then she’d eat me out until I came, either for the first time or the tenth time. With any luck, the whole experience would be so hot that she’d want to get on top and fuck me again. And again.

And then I’d ride her until I died.

“Kathleen.”

The way she says my name – and subsequently knocks me back from my weird as hell fantasies – isn’t anything like the way she said it at Midnight when she….

“Yes?”

“I’m going to the gym. Text me if there’s something important. You have my number.”

I nod. I’ve had her number for years, not because we’re anything more than acquaintances, but because I have everyone’s number. Everyone’s. “I’ve got your number.”

“Cool. See you later.”

The office feels empty without her. Even though Annie is here, sitting in her corner typing a thousand emails, all I can think about is the way Ira said my name now. And the way she said it at the height of her climax, her mind thinking only of me as she fucked one of the hottest women in Hollywood.

I’m flattered. I’m frightened. I’m feeling things that I haven’t felt for her since I was fifteen and wondering if the stories about her were true. Dammit, Ira, get out of my head! Don’t you understand that it could never happen between us? We both want completely different things from the other person.

You want things from me you could never have. I want things from you that you would never do in a million years.

There’s no compromise here. I need to stop thinking about you, for my sanity.

Chapter 8

Ira

I’m losing my fucking mind.

For three days, I’ve sat across from Kathleen Allen at this table and tried to get my shit done. For three days, I’ve been slow as molasses answering emails, updating spreadsheets, and making speech notes. Makes me want to call in my assistant.