Page 11 of Ted's Temerity
“Jesus, Ted.” I take a step back from the collection of toys and shake my head. “We haven’t even tried a scene together yet.”
“Maybe I just wanted it for my collection. Ash visits. He likes to play teddy bear tea parties.MaybeI thought he’d also like the dollhouse.”
Well. Damn.He’s got me there.
Typical weaselly lawyer. Even though the words are negative, I can’t help the fondness I feel when I think them.This man is definitely going to keep me sharp.
With twitching lips, I concede defeat. “Alright, that’s a fair argument.” I look back at the dollhouse, once again overcome by the need to carefully pull it down from the shelf and open it up. It’s one of those big, old-school designs with the two halves that open like a book, straight down the middle. “It really is beautiful.”
“I’m glad you like it.” His tone is all soft and gentle again, and my need changes from wanting to play with the grand ‘toy’ to wanting his lips on mine once more.
Giving myself a little shake, I look around the playroom one last time and ask to continue the tour. Ted drops my bag by the door as we walk out, and he shows me the rest of the house.
His master suite is like something out of a grand hotel. It’s at least three times the size of the playroom, with an enormous bed in the middle of the wall facing the large windows overlooking the city view. Dusk is settling, the sky outside lighting up in orange, peach and pink hues as the sun slowly sets, and twinkling lights begin to speckle the cityscape in the distance. I can imagine sitting on that bed and watching the view for hours, day or night, like a fair maiden in a castle.
Like the rest of the house, the carpets are white. The walls here are more a light gray color, though, and the furniture darker and more masculine. The comforter on the bed is a darker shade of gray, matching the two armchairs nestled in the corner beneath a wrought-iron floor lamp that looks more like art than a functional item. But it’s the master bathroom that takes my breath away.
The space is unsurprisingly huge, and tiled from floor to ceiling in large, dark granite tiles with gold flecks, sparkling in the sunlight streaming in from the large window overhanging a massive spa bathtub, built in and surrounded by the same granite as the walls and floor. The tub itself is clearly designed to fit two people comfortably, as is the walk-in shower on the opposite wall, designed as it is with two rainfall shower-heads and a bench seat built into the wall. A long, double vanity stretches in the space between the two decadent wash spaces, and the toilet is positioned on the remaining wall.
With all the dark tile, you would expect it to feel dated or oppressive, but it’s somehow still airy and welcoming. It’s certainly beyond luxury.
“Fuck me,” I mutter, taking it all in, once again feeling out of my depth.
“Okay, I’ll admit that I might have gone overboard here,” Ted acknowledges, rubbing the back of his neck with a sheepish smile at my reaction. “But I just wanted to spoil myself, I guess. It’s not like I have anything else to do with my money.” There’s that edge again. A hint of melancholy. Maybe regret? He shakes it off and gestures back towards the direction we came from. “The other two bathrooms and the powder room downstairs are all pretty normal in comparison. But this,” he waves his arm around, “this was for me.”
I finally realize that I have absolutely no right to judge him for spending the money he’s worked hard for on the lifestyle he wants to live. He’s earned the right to live in luxury if he so chooses. And, from all of our interactions so far, he hasn’t seemed at all arrogant or dismissive of those of us (read: me) whose living situations and incomes don’t exactly compare. Hell, his social circle, or at least the people I met at Ash’s wedding, all seem to be in a similar socio-economic bracket to me, too.
I feel guilty that my reaction to his home has put some sort of divide between us and I make it my aim to fix that immediately. Turning sultry, I saunter over to the tub and lean against its granite frame. “Do you like to soak in this big, beautiful bath, Mister Masters?” Running my finger over the gleaming chrome faucet when he nods, I muse with faux innocence, “With or without bubbles?”
His lips curl upwards and he stalks forward, crowding me with his tall, toned frame. “I am partial to a good bubble bath,” he tells me in a low, sexy drawl. “But, I’ll admit, it can get a bit lonely in this big tub sometimes.”
“Hmm,” I make a show of thinking about how I could possibly help him with that dilemma. “Maybe, if you’re lucky, we can think of a way to fix that one day.”
“You’re a real tease, tiny dancer,” he groans, but his eyes are glinting with mirth and desire. “And, if you become mine, I will punish you for that.”
A shiver of anticipation runs down my spine.Yes, Daddy.The words are on the tip of my tongue, but I bite them back. I’m surprised by how readily the title comes to me, but I shouldn’t be. We’ve got real chemistry and our banter has been beyond enjoyable. Not to mention the kiss we shared in the foyer.
“Someone promised me dinner first.” My own voice has gone husky, my gaze glued to his lips, wanting another taste but unwilling to make the first move. He’s the Daddy here. He needs to take charge. We both know I’ll stop him if I’m uncomfortable, and I trust him to respect the boundaries I set.
“Mmm,” he agrees, but he closes the space between us and kisses me again, his tongue sweeping against mine, moving his mouth with a hunger that has nothing to do with dinner. It’s a kiss full of longing and need and promises full of more to come, and I’m just as lost to it as I was to our first kiss.
As much as I should probably take things slowly with this man, I can feel my resistance slipping, and I’m powerless to stop it.
Chapter Five – Ted
Zephyr’s presence does things to me that I just can’t explain. I usually pride myself on my self-control. On my ability to remain stoic and firm and guarded when necessary. But with Zephyr I feel like the babbling, fumbling, insecure teenager I was thirty years ago. It’s both exhilarating and nauseating.
Especially when I do that math. When I was younger, I was closer in age to the boys that are my ‘type’. But, as I’ve aged, my type hasn’t really changed.
There have been times I wished that my tastes were more varied. Turning down Matt’s advances when we first met was difficult because he was, and still is, a very sweet man. However, I couldn’t force myself to be interested, no matter how compatible our kinks are. It wouldn’t have been fair on either one of us, and it would inevitably have ended poorly. Instead, we were able to build a friendship, and he found a Daddy much better suited to him.
And still my tastes haven’t changed. I understand that committing to a relationship means watching your partner age alongside you, but it doesn’t mean that I’m not still drawn to men of a certain build or appearance. I just can’t help it.
And now? There are fourteen years between Zephyr and me. It does make me a little uncomfortable.
At least it’s not seventeenyears.That’s my magic number. A line I can’t cross.
My initial draw to the BDSM Daddy/little lifestyle is not something I like to dwell on often. My motivations were unhealthy, to say the least. I was young: barely twenty and an absolute mess, and I was looking to prove that I had paternal skills. Looking to prove that I had the ability to nurture and protect and care for a little. But I was doing it forallthe wrong reasons. Reasons that make me feel sick to admit now.
