Page 22 of Daddy's Naughty Bartender
"Especially that." No apology in his tone. "I wanted to see you in red. Wanted to know you'd trust me enough to follow a simple request."
"And if I'd worn blue?"
"Then you'd have looked beautiful in blue. I’d have been disappointed that you didn’t follow my directions." He takes his seat across from me. "But you didn't wear blue."
"No," I agree softly. "I wore red."
"Good girl."
Two words, and I'm liquid heat. He knows it too, his smile slow and satisfied.
"We'll start with whites," he says, as if he hasn't just melted my brain. "Work our way through to the reds. Take our time."
A server appears, one of Dale's staff, professionally invisible, pouring our first selection. Jason lifts his glass, studying the pale gold liquid.
"Tell me what you taste."
I sip, trying to focus past his intensity. "Crisp. Green apple, maybe? Something floral."
"Good. What else?"
"I don't know. I'm not a wine expert."
"You don't need to be an expert to know what you like." He leans forward. "Trust your instincts. What does your body tell you?"
Everything about this feels like a metaphor. "It's bright. Clean. Uncomplicated."
"Uncomplicated can be good," he agrees. "But sometimes we want more complexity. More depth." The server pours the next selection. "Try this."
Fuller, richer. Honey and stone fruit and something that makes me think of summer afternoons.
"Better?" he asks.
"Different. More layers."
"Like people." His eyes hold mine. "The best ones reveal themselves slowly. Each sip, each moment, showing you something new."
"Is that what you're doing? Revealing yourself slowly?"
"Would you prefer I lay it all out at once?" He sets down his glass. "Fine. I'm forty-five, divorced, childless. I've built a successful business but an empty life. I have a dominant personality that's cost me relationships because most women want equality, not equity. I believe in taking care of what's mine, in being needed, in the exchange of power between people who understand that submission is a gift and dominance is a responsibility."
My breath catches. "That's... direct."
"You asked." He picks up his glass again, casual as if he hasn't just laid himself bare. "Your turn."
"I don't know what to say after that."
"Sure you do. Tell me who Karen is when she's not being everyone's rock."
The third wine appears. Red now, bold and complicated. I take a sip for courage.
"I'm forty-two, widowed, sometimes feel like I'm drowning in responsibility. I used to paint, but I haven't touched a brush in five years. I sing in the shower but nowhere else. I read romance novels and pretend they're literature when caught." Another sip. "And lately, I've been having dreams about giving up control. About what it would feel like to just... let go. To step into one of the novels I read and be a heroine who finds herself in love with a dominant man."
"What happens in these dreams?"
Heat floods my cheeks. "Jason..."
"Tell me." Soft command. "What happens when you let go?"
