1
Emma Lia Grant
Mon bebelle?
I may not know a lot of Cajun French, but I know what mon bebelle means. My doll. Such an unexpected choice of nickname for the submissive he plans to dominate… andhurt.
Kitten. Pet. Minx. Those seem like more typical submissive monikers. Not something as endearing as mon bebelle. But what do I know? Maybe he’s used all of those classic names on his other submissives and is running out of the usual derogatoryones.
“Would you like to have breakfast on theveranda?”
Tristan would like to have breakfast instead of his first go at dominant sex with his new submissive? That’sunexpected.
He laughs, and I realize that my expression has probably given away my thoughts. “Sorry. I’m just surprised. I thought you’d want to go to my bedroom and crack open the kinky cabinet as soon as I saidyes.”
He chuckles louder. “The kinky cabinet? That’s what you’ve namedit?”
I nod, a smile breaking through my exterior. “Yeah. That’s what itis.”
The chifforobe is beautiful. It looks like a piece you’d have seen in the house when it was built in 1857… but open the doors and drawers and you’ll get a not-so-nineteenth-centurysurprise.
“The kinky cabinet. Fitting name. I like it. And as much as I’d love to crack it—and you—open, you drained my tank last night and this morning. I need protein and time to recharge my batteries; I want to be at the top of my game for our firstscene.”
Translation: he wants his balls to be full when he dominates me for the first time. I noticed that he has a thing about that—filling me with his cum. No man has ever done that inside me. It hasn’t been possible with my trio of defenses against pregnancy: the pill, condoms, plus pulling out just incase.
Not a single one of my boyfriends has ever convinced me to deviate from my anti-pregnancy routine. But Tristan did. And I caved soeasily.
The act of a man coming inside a woman—it’s not something that I’ve ever given much thought. I’ve always considered the guy’s orgasm to be the finish line, but it doesn’t end there for Tristan. He gets his rocks off even more on coming inside me and then watching it drip out of my body. It’s bizarre and hot at the sametime.
“How do you feel about frittatas forbreakfast?”
I’ll try anything that Ray cooks. “Soundsgood.”
“We’ll sit on the veranda and talk while wewait.”
It’s only nine o’clock, and I can tell that the sun is going to be merciless today. My hair is already sticking to the back of my neck. And the steaming hot black coffee that Tristan brought to me isn’t the least bitrefreshing.
“I hate blackcoffee.”
He lowers the cup from his lips. “I am a man who remembers details, and I distinctly recall your telling me that you take your coffee black, just as Ido.”
I guess there’s no reason to not tell him the whole truth now. “I did, but it was a lie. The coffee they brought to us in the hotel suite was steaming hot. I was going to throw it in your face and escape if I got theopportunity.”
“Well, fuuuck.” He looks like he’s letting that one sink in for a moment. “You’re not still planning to maim me when I least expect it, areyou?”
I probably shouldn’t tell him that I was also planning to stab him in the eye with an ink pen. Or choke him with the lamp cord. Or slice him open with shards from the mirror after I broke it. “Notanymore.”
He touches the healing scratches on his face. “You did an excellent number on my face. These lacerations are going to take a while toheal.”
“I’m sorry I did that toyou.”
“I’m not angry about it. I liked the way you fought me.” He smiles and a single dimple appears in his right cheek. “I think I’d look pretty badass with a scar across myface.”
“I hate to break it to you, but you’re never going to look like Mufasa. Those scratches aren’t deep enough to leave a scar. Plus, your face is far too pretty to bescarred.”
He scowls. “Let’s get one thing straight: I am notpretty.”
He can deny it all he likes. He is very pretty but in a masculine Matt Bomer or Rob Lowe or Henry Cavill kind of way. “Okay. Handsome is a more suitabledescription.”
