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Maybe I’m not ready.Monique sat at her desk, wishing she had a crystal ball to tell her what to do. This was why she didn’t like having relationship balls in her court. Too much pressure. Too much anxiety for a submissive like her. She wanted Helen to set the rules and follow through once the conditions were met. If only there were some magical words Monique could say to make her appear.

I’m desperate. A slut. An easy woman.She was sure that’s what people would say about her. The first woman to pay attention to her like that after Jacqueline… and Monique ran into her arms? Shit, Helen was right. If Monique were her, she would have abandoned the situation as well, no matter how badly she wanted to go through with it.

Except there was a fallacy in Helen’s way of thinking. If she waited for Monique to be over Jacqueline, then it would be forever. There was no way Monique would ever be completely over a relationship like that. Wasn’t that part of the reason she hid herself away? So she could stew in her misery while watching other people enjoy themselves?

What did other women do? Did they force themselves to move on? Did they go up against people who told them that they weren’t ready? Did she insist that they were, then live happily ever after? Monique wasn’t sure she believed in happily everafter. She wanted to build a life with a good woman, yes, but she also wasn’t naïve anymore.

Helen might hurt her. She might break Monique’s heart and cast her out. At one time, Jaqueline had been a kind, attentive lover who seemed to love nothing more than pleasing her sub. Who was to say that all Dommes weren’t like that?

Monique pressed her face against her hands and contained a sob. She wanted to be much younger, back when she first discovered the lifestyle, and instantly jumped into all of the possibilities. Her first girlfriend had been as clueless as her when it came to domination and submission. At least those mistakes were explained away with inexperience. What Jacqueline did to her later… there was no excuse for that.

Monique didn’t want to make that mistake again. She owed it to herself to find a woman who both understood and respected her.If such a woman can be found.

Either stop hoping or give it one last chance.Monique wouldn’t say she was jaded. Just cautious. In her lifestyle, she had to be cautious.

“To Ms. Helen Warner,

“You are cordially invited to attend a party thrown by Madam Monique Grant at Le Manoir on Friday. Parking and dinner will be provided.

“Formal wear is to be expected. Black tie is not necessary.

“Failure to arrive may mean severance from all future invitations. Please RSVP.”

“I’m ready.”

Chapter 8

To Serve and to Dominate

Butterflies danced in Monique’s stomach when she descended the staircase to greet the first guest. Contrary to what her invitation said, it was simply another night in the Manoir. Two patrons were scheduled to come in for appointments, but otherwise, the only business was two walk-in clients who happily walked away with Chelsea and June to their rooms.

Mr. Carlisle entered, although Sybil was not ready for him yet. Not until Monique took his hat and coat for him did he speak… besides the usual greetings.

“That is a lovely shawl, Madam,” he said, gesturing to the light red wrap adorning Monique’s otherwise bare shoulders. “The color suits you.”

“Thank you.” Monique bowed her head, but Mr. Carlisle’s attention was soon taken by Sybil, who bounded down the grand staircase in her little black dress, pearls, and freshly curled hair.Her ecstatic greeting was probably a half-truth, but Mr. Carlisle didn’t care. He paid for her time, and he was here to take what he paid for.

Monique waited in the front hall for Grace’s patron Ms. Anderssen to arrive. She brought her wife with her again. This time the other Mrs. Anderssen, in her fur stole and emerald necklace, looked much more comfortable standing in a house of damning pleasure than the first night she came.And how many times she came…If Monique believed Grace, anyway.I should start charging by the orgasm if we’re getting clients like them.

When it looked as if no other clients would show, Monique put the doorman on standby. Their drop-in clients might take the whole night for all she knew. Although, knowing June, she would take on anyone if she were available.

Monique went back to her room. The dangerous part about waiting was sitting around and second-guessing her decisions. Mostly her clothing and hair. Monique donned a red satin dress, falling to her knees and hugging her svelte curves. There were no sleeves to contain her shoulders – mostly because she wanted to wear Helen’s ruby-laced gift.

She had few accessories to go with it. Simple shoes and gold earrings. Monique decided to forego other jewelry in favor of styling her hair in a large, curly bun that rested easily on the back of her head, one released chestnut tendril falling along her neck and stroking her clavicle.

Usually, Monique did not wear much makeup. People always called her a natural beauty, whatever that meant. Yet she wanted her intended to see her in a new way – to blow expectations into another universe the moment Helen laid eyes on her. So Monique opened her makeup tray and considered her options. Smoky eyes, yes. A faint pink lipstick, definitely. Some rouge on the cheeks, of course. The only thing she was unsure about was the eyelashes. In the end, just when the doorman called up thatsomeone had arrived, Monique curled her eyelashes until they made her look like a different woman.

The moment she stepped out of her door, her role in the Manoir changed. No longer was she Madam Monique, the matriarch of young women looking to make a lucrative career in BDSM and other sex work. She was Monique, or whatever her Mistress wanted to call her.She-Wolf.She stopped in front of the Cigar Lounge and cracked a small smile.

Everything went according to plan. Helen stepped into the foyer, where a maid took her coat and presented her with a silver tray. On it was a piece of folded paper.

“The safe word is Blossom. Meet me upstairs for dinner.”

Monique raced to the balcony where dinner was already halfway served. By the time she reached the railing overlooking the garden, she heard a familiar voice behind her.

“Good evening.”

She turned, fingers clutching the railing as if she would fall over.I’m on the verge.Helen Warner wore a pristine dress and sweater, her sandy hair brushed to perfection, and those blue eyes alight even in the setting darkness of twilight. A chill spread through Monique’s skin. She clutched the ruby-studded shawl closer to her body.