“Fontenot.” A shiver of anticipation clawed down her spine as she said the name she’d vowed never to utter again in her lifetime. “Boudreaux Fontenot.”
“One sec… Fontenot, Fontenot… I’m sorry, Mistress, we don’t have a record of any Fontenot in the database.”
Violet drummed her fingernails on the desk agitatedly. Maybe she was just imagining things—that scent was uncommon, but it didn’t mean her ex was the only one who wore it. “Have you seen a guest around here, around six-three, broad shoulders, wide hips? He dresses sharply, business attire.”Smells like sin.“Short black hair, blue-green eyes?”
Abigail stared at her, mouth open. “No, ma’am. Is he available?”
For an appointment with the devil, sure.
The surge of paranoia ebbed, leaving her cold and empty. Stupid,stupid, how she reacted to even the notion of him after all this time. He’d been her first and only love, but his true colors had hollowed her out completely. “No, sweetheart. You wouldn’t want him to be.”
“He sounds dreamy.”
Violet’s jaw tightened. Oh, he was, in the beginning. Smooth, sophisticated, attentive. He’d made falling for him easier than breathing, luring her in with beautiful words crooned in that alluring accent—Louisiana French—designed to wind into a woman’s nervous system and take control.
“Forget I said anything, Abigail.”
“Okay… Would you like me to let you know if anyone matching that description arrives?”
What was the point? Obviously, one sniff of that scent was enough to freak her out; she couldn’t spend the next month looking over her shoulder until she convinced herself the boogey Dom was far, far away, ruling over his kingdom as though she’d never existed.
“Thank you, but it’s fine.” She shook her head, turning away, only to stare at the girl when she cleared her throat. “Yes?”
“Don’t forget you have a session in the Dungeon at three,” Abigail said quietly, using her pen to point at the clock on the wall. “I know you like to prep for a scene, Mistress, and you’re cutting it close.”
Goddamn it, so she was. Twenty minutes wasn’t nearly enough time to adequately prepare herself and the area. “Who booked the session?”
“That would be James W., Mistress.”
It took her a second to sort through the numerous James’ in her mental files. While clients were encouraged to use pseudonyms when playing, many preferred to keep their own name—which was fine, unless there was an inordinate number of one particular name on her roster.
However, James W. was easy enough to please if she remembered correctly. She hadn’t seen him in a couple months, but he was some kind of fancy travel blogger, spending weeks at a time abroad gathering new tidbits of information for his greedy online fans.
Little did they know, he also spent a lot of his free time with his cock wrapped up neatly in various forms of predicament bondage, reveled in exhibitionism, and was happiest with a toy up his ass—Domme’s choice, of course.
Simple pleasures.
Heaving a sigh, Violet glanced down at her dress. It was meeting attire, not work, yet it would have to do… with a few alterations. Plucking a pair of scissors from the catch-all jar beside the keyboard, she pinched the material mid-thigh and snipped without mercy.
Abigail’s gasp would have been funny if not for Violet’s dour mood.
Fabric ripped when she pulled, shortening the dress by a hefty six inches. There was no longer a hem, and it was no longer even as the material came away at an angle, leaving the back of the dress slightly longer. The sleeves were next, cut at the shoulder seams and ruthless yanked down to leave her arms bare.
Her cleavage was ample enough to titillate, she supposed, and refrained from widening the dip between her breasts.
Sliding the scissors back into the jar, Violet handed the scraps of material to Abigail. “Dispose of those, please.”
“Yes, ma’am. Can I be like you one day?”
“If it’s who you’re meant to be.” God help the girl if it was, Violet thought. If the powers that be were kind, Abigail would become a lesbian and avoid all the misery and drama that came with asshole men. “If Elias asks where I am, tell him I’m unavailable.”
“Yes, Mistress.”
Mood still circling the drain, Violet strode out, trying to shove the altercation with the sadist from her mind and concoct a scene worthy of a loyal guest. Simple was better with James W.—submission and pain were his main objectives, which meant she wouldn’t have to deal with inane chatter.
Relocating and taking an extended vacation was sadly becoming more appealing.
Boudreaux
