“Yes, my lord.” He turns to face me, waiting patiently.
For what, I’m not sure.
“Oliver, I…”
“Yes, my lord?”
I want to throw myself at him and kiss those tempting lips, pull his clothes off so I can bite into that ass of his that has filled my dreams all week, but I remember myself in time. “I would appreciate it if you would iron the shirt yourself. You did a…good job last time, I seem to recall.”
The lips give a little twist, and once more, I wish I could tear that mask from him, read his face fully. Is it filled with contempt? Regret? Irritation?
Or worst of all: amusement?
“As you wish, my lord.” He gives a sharp bow of the head and leaves the room.
I stare down at my sheet music, at the banal and stilted notes littering the page like empty cocktail glasses strewn around the morning after a party. I set down my pencil, carefully rip the pages in two, and pull a new sheet over to start again.
Oliver is back.
* * *
On his return, I make sure I stand and cross to the dressing area before calling out for him to enter. He strides across the floor to me with a confidence that I’ve not seen in Nik’s other house staff, or not this week, anyway.
I’ve spent the last ten minutes recalling my actions during last weekend—not to mention this week—and I am suffering from a very uncomfortable sensation: shame. I need to make up for my actions. “Oliver,” I begin, as he holds up the shirt for inspection.
“Your shirt, my lord.”
“Yes, yes; very good,” I say impatiently, already forgetting my new resolution. “Put it on the bed for now.”
I find myself following him as he goes, my eyes drifting over his body before I can stop them. “Oliver,” I try again, once he’s put the shirt down and turned to face me.
“I’ve come to dress you, my lord.”
“Yes, but—Oliver—” I find myself lost for words.
“Yes, my lord?”
“I’m sorry I wasn’t there to say goodbye to you on Monday.” I force it out. I am not a man who is used to apologizing, and the words feel clumsy on my tongue.
“I see.”
He’s not supposed to sayI see. He’s supposed to tell me that it’s perfectly alright and to not give it another moment’s thought.
There are more words spilling out of me. “I was uncertain if you would want to see me after the night before.”
The mask shifts on his face, and I wonder if it’s because his eyes have widened. That damned mask is becominginfuriating.
“Why wouldn’t I want to see you?” he asks. “I enjoyed the night, I’m just sorry I fell asleep. But you could have woken me and sent me away, if it was so unpleasant to have me there in your bed.”
Irritated, I give a little shake of the head. “No, that’s not—it wasn’t unpleasant at all, I just…” He stays silent, not giving an inch.
I’m going to have to explain. Never before have I felt the need to explain myself to a service submissive in this household.
Never,ever.
“After you fell asleep,” I tell him, “I went back to work. You know that I’m a composer. Well, I have a piece that is required—very soon now—the first professional composition I took on since…” I can’t say it. “Since I took time off.”
He’s curious now. “Did you enjoy your time off, my lord?”
