PENELOPE GOES ON THE BLIND DATE
“A British accent, hmm?” A warm, tingly feeling in my belly blooms just thinking about a man with a lilt whispering in my ear. I don’t know why, and it makes zero sense, but for as long as I could remember, men with accents were always somehow more attractive than men without.
Before I can even tell her I’d take her up on the blind date, Shannon has pulled out her phone and is messaging her husband, squealing like the middle-schoolers she teaches.
“Drinks only,” I insist. “If things go well, dinner, but I don’t want to promise that at the start.” I’m already dreading this, trying to come up with excuses to get out of it. “And a weeknight,” I add. “That way if things don’t go well, I can claim an early morning meeting the next day.”
Shannon nods and her thumbs fly over her screen again.
Laura keeps trying to sell me on the clubs as Shannon is glued to her phone waiting for Nate to reply.
Suddenly, her phone chirps. “Nate says William said he’s available tomorrow!”
“Tomorrow?” I practically screech. That’s too soon! I want to say, but then I wonder… “Why is he available ?” I challenge, looking for any reason to derail this.
“You’re available,” she says pointedly.
I start to open my mouth to protest and am irritated that she would assume I have nothing going on, but I don’t have a leg to stand on. My calendar is, for the most part, wide open, even on weekends. There’s not even anything good on TV. I’ve binged everything on the streaming networks that I was interested in.
“Fine. Let’s get this over with,” I finally say, caving like a soufflé hit with a blast of cold air.
Shannon nods excitedly and just like that, my blind date with William is all arranged for the next night.
The closer it gets to five-thirty that Thursday evening, I’m seriously regretting my decision to let Shannon set me up, and the prospect of becoming a crazy, cat hoarding spinster seems almost appealing.
When I had gotten back from happy hour last night, I visited the website for the law firm where Nate works and did a little sleuthing. On the ‘Our Team’ tab, I scrolled down and found the name WILLIAM BRANDT and clicked to read his profile. My breath was taken away with the accompanying photo. When Shannon said that William was ‘gor-geous’, it was an understatement. Tanned with sandy, blond hair and blue eyes…the man was so good-looking he could probably be on the cover of a magazine. I half wonder if some photoshopping had gone on with the photo.
I’m on the verge of canceling, but know that I’d never hear the end of it from Shannon if I do, so I dig deep for the strength to just go forth and get it over with.
I look myself over in the floor length-mirror again. I scrutinized the black pencil skirt that covers my knees and the white button-down that I’d paired with a simple strand of pearls. My pale blonde hair is pulled up in a classic chignon and my makeup is understated and sophisticated with a little extra attention to my large, light blue eyes.
And now that I’m looking at the finished package, I feel like I look too conservative. More like I’m headed to meet a new client, not going out on a date—even if it is just for drinks. I think about my failed marriage. That I’m just not sexy enough. That maybe if I’d had a little more…va-va-voom that Peter wouldn’t have strayed.
While there is no way I could dress provocatively like Laura who doesn’t give a second thought about wearing see-through tops and leather pants, not even Shannon would go out on a date dressed as blasé as I am right now.
I return to my closet and in the back find a flirty and flared black skirt. I don’t remember why, but I never wore it. In fact, the tags are still on it.
I try the skirt on and am pleasantly surprised it still fits. Looking in the mirror I note how this hem falls a couple of inches above my knee rather than two inches below like the other skirt had. I also notice how the snug-fitting material accentuates my hips and while it is tight to the top of my backside, it flows away my body and actually looks good. Really good.
Feeling bolstered, I ditch the pressed white shirt and slip on a soft pink cashmere sweater that makes my skin glow, and hugs my curves a bit more than the white button-down shirt. I keep the strand of pearls in place, and as for my makeup, I opt for a brighter pink lipstick named Sweet Berry over the beige gloss I’d originally put on. And instead of the tightly pinned chignon, I pull bits and pieces loose for a more casual feel, even pulling a couple wavy tendrils free to frame my face.
Satisfied that I still look nice, and not too suggestive, I spritz my wrist with my favorite perfume and head out.
Walking up to The Stanton House, a popular local pub and restaurant in town, my earlier confidence wobbles, nerves taking root once again. I’m feeling ever so exposed in my ‘short’ skirt, I’m half hoping that William is late or changed his mind altogether.
The instant I make my way into the fairly crowded bar area, I spot him sitting at a small high-top table with a barely touched beer and typing something into his phone. Even his profile is stunning. The butterflies that had been bouncing around my tummy all afternoon suddenly whirl themselves into a frenzy.
I’ve never been on a proper date. Not as an adult, anyway. I have no idea how to do this. No idea how to flirt. Will I be a good conversationalist? What if things are dreadful from the get-go? Would it be rude to leave after one drink? What if he’s not interested in me? Will I be able to tell? I had been completely oblivious to the fact that my husband was cheating on me with three women.
How will I feel if he didn’t want things to go beyond a single drink? Or worse? What if he takes one look at me and makes up some excuse and doesn’t even stay?
I know I’m being silly. I just don’t think I could take the hurt if things go badly. But, of course, he wouldn’t be so rude. Shannon wouldn’t set me up with someone like that.
And then, almost as if there were some announcement that I’d entered the room, the man looks up and turns his attention to the doorway. Instantly his eyes land on me. His bright blue eyes—they seem to sparkle—and a matching smile spreads across his face.
He stands and strides confidently toward me. As he nears, he looks me up and down. My heart beats faster and my body heats to his less than covert appraisal of me.
When he’s but a couple of feet in front of me, he stops and our gazes lock. Those butterflies that have been batting around in my tummy freeze. Time seems to stand still. Up close like this, his appearance takes on a new aura and I decide that zero photo editing had been done with the photo on his firm’s website. And beyond his good looks, he smells good.
“You must be Penelope,” he says. His voice is deep, rich, and with that sexy-as-hell accent, it’s over the top. Not to mention that I never knew how good my name sounded with a British enunciation. “I’m William Brandt.”
His accent sends a thrilling shiver down my spine and my knees threaten to give way. As I stand there looking at the man who is easily six feet tall to my five-feet-three-inches (five-feet-five if you add in the heels) my thoughts are a jumble. I can barely think one word let alone enough words to assemble a coherent sentence.
“Oh. You’re not—” he says when I don’t reply. “Forgive me. I thought you were…” He shakes his head. “My apologies.” He bows slightly and turns back to the table he was sitting at.
“I am,” I finally manage, my voice strangled and squeaky and I mentally whip my brain cells together. “I’m Penelope Pierce.”
William turns back and flashes his smile at me, his eyes dance with delight.
“I’m sorry,” I apologize. “I’m just not used to being set up on blind dates.” That’s not untrue. I had been with the same man since my sophomore year of high school. I never really even dated let alone been set up on blind dates.
“Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Penelope Pierce.”
He locks his gaze with me and he offers his hand. I place mine in his and he envelops it with his long, strong fingers. I’m struck at how tiny my hand feels in his, but I almost don’t notice that given the zing I feel where our skin touches. When he lifts my hand to his mouth to kiss the back of my knuckles, my lady bits clench. This guy is too much!
I let William guide us to his table. He holds the tall chair for me, every bit the gentleman. There’s a brief pause while I’m scrambling through my brain looking for something to say, but William beats me to it.
“I will say that Nate understated your beauty.”
I’m stunned. For starters, that William would start with such a bold statement. But also, that Nate said I was beautiful, especially compared to his wife. Shannon is tall. Runway model tall. Almost five-feet-ten. And toned. She has that naturally tanned Italian skin that makes it look like she’s just come back from vacationing in a sunny spot, and she doesn’t need to ever wear any makeup, not even mascara with her long, dark, thick eyelashes. And William has met Shannon. I’m no Shannon. Short and not exactly toned. My skin is so pale, and I burn so easily in the sun. I always brush on a bit of blush just so people don’t think I’m ill. And my eyelashes are as blonde as the hair on my head. I look like I don’t have any eyelashes if I don’t wear mascara.
Thankfully, the waitress stops at the table and I order a glass of chardonnay. I almost decide to order something stronger if William is going to continue to be so audacious, but decide that I have to do everything I can to keep my wits about me.
Noting my silence, William continues, and I scold myself for being a terrible conversationalist. “So, Nate says you’re an interior designer. Tell me what that’s all about.”
Thankful for the neutral topic of conversation and something I love, I launch into the basics of what I do—my interior design company specializing in historical restorations. I find myself relaxing as I tell him about the call I’d gotten just this morning from a couple who purchased a home built in 1894. William listens attentively asking questions, about the challenges of restoring homes more than a hundred years old, his piercing blue eyes steady as he watches me.
When I feel I’ve spoken for far too long, I ask him about what kind of law he practices.
He tells me all about the Corporate Law he specializes in. I like that William doesn’t talk over my head, nor down to me as he explains the complexities of what he does. His accent and the timbre of his voice only make the whole topic sound far more interesting that it probably is.
Our discussion shifts to other interests like movies and music and we learn that we have similar tastes. I’m really enjoying William’s company.
I definitely have to hand it to Shannon and her matchmaking skills.
Finishing my first glass of wine and contemplating a second, William asks, “Might I persuade you to join me for dinner?”
Oh boy. Drinks turning into dinner. Definite “dating” category. And I decide right then and there, that yes, I want to date William. Besides, it’s just dating. Not getting married.
“I’d like that very much,” I answer.
William kindly asks our server to get us a table in the restaurant, and before the maître’d’ takes us there, William leaves our bar waitress a generous tip.
Walking through the restaurant, with it’s low, warm lighting and long white table cloths, I wish I’d dressed a bit nicer. More conservatively. I feel a tad bit underdressed.
William is just half a step behind me as we follow the gentleman through the crowded dining room. I notice other women glance up and spot William right away. They watch him and it’s like they’re trying to flirt with him with just a glance. I wonder if William notices it too when he places his hand at my waist, Well, it’s to pull me back slightly when a man who isn’t paying attention pushes his chair back from the table. But I can’t deny that I liked how William reacted to catch me. To protect me. And I thoroughly enjoyed that he didn’t remove that hand as we continued to walk to the quiet table in the corner.
The host moves to pull a chair back for me to sit down, but William steps in, practically pushing the older man aside.
“I’ve got it,” he says firmly, not paying any attention to the man, all of his attention on me. And then he takes the chair to my immediate left, which puts his back toward the rest of the room.
Smiling as he watches us, the man sets the menus down and then wishes us a nice meal and leaves.
“Have you eaten here before? Any idea what’s good?” William asks, picking up a menu.
I tell him that it’s been a long time since I’ve had dinner here and pick up my own, my hunger growing as I smell all the delicious food around us.
Our server, a tall, thin woman who makes her server uniform look like it was tailor made for all of her perfect curves, and beautiful dark brown hair pulled into a perfect pony tail that hangs down her back, stops at our table. A blind person could see that she has eyes for William. All of her attention is on him and she barely acknowledging that I’m even in the room, let alone sitting at the same table. She talks about the wine list and describes the specials. I might almost forgive her since the steak offering sounds incredible and I have to bite the inside of my lip to keep from drooling.
After she leaves, I return to studying the menu. William and I talk about the options, and whether or not we should get an appetizer. I suggest we pass soon those. I scan the salads first looking for something light. All of the options sounding either too boring, or too many calories—I mean, if I’m actually entering the dating world, I should probably eat lighter, and probably start working out more, too. I skip the meat sections and focus on the seafood, scanning for something without a sauce or breading.
Before I know it, the waitress is back.
When I tell her that I’ll have the baked tilapia, and ask for extra vegetables instead of the starchy rice pilaf, William gently covers my hand and gives a small squeeze. “She’ll have the filet special. Medium?” he asks, looking at me. I blink trying to understand what’s going on here. He’s ordering for me? I can’t decide if I like that or not? “You did want the filet, did you not?”
“I—It sounds wonderful, but…”
“You should eat what you want. Not some boring baked fish. Do you like your steak medium?”
“I do.”
He nods with a kind smile.
“And the baked potato?” the waitress asks.
“She’ll have the baked potato, too,” William says, giving my hand another squeeze. “I’ll have the same, but please make my steak rare.”
He also adds a bottle of cabernet sauvignon to our order. The waitress smiles with an over the top, “Of course, sir. Excellent,” collects our menus and leaves.
I don’t know what to say to William. Why did he order for me? Furthermore, am I upset? I don’t think I am.
“Life is short. You should eat what you want,” he says and I have to admire the thought.
I don’t know what to make of this man. He’s too handsome. Too confident. Is he too much like my ex-husband? But I can’t imagine Peter ordering my dinner for me. I can’t imagine Peter would have even known I wanted the steak and not fish.
“I have a confession to make,” William says, and I practically freeze with fear. What could he possibly confess? That he doesn’t really want to have dinner with me? That he was hoping I would say no? That he’s gay? That he’s a serial killer?
Swallowing the lump in my throat, I say, “Okay,” urging him to speak, the silence and the curiosity and insane ideas populating my thoughts and leaving me holding my breath..
“I almost didn’t come tonight.” I knew it. He doesn’t want to be here. I’m mortified and almost ready to to bolt, humiliated. “I don’t really do relationships. Not the traditional kind anyway.” What in the heck does that mean? I wonder. “But I’m so glad I trusted Nate.”
“You are?” I ask, confused.
“There is something about you, Penelope. Something beguiling. Something so pure. I’m glad I took the risk and came out tonight.”
Sounding like a broken record, I repeat, “You are?”
“I am.” He wraps that hand over mine again, issuing another small squeeze. “Very much.”
“Me too,” I confess. And it’s true. I’m really happy I’ve come.
“Tell me all about Penelope, like where did you come from. Don’t leave anything out.”
Over the most incredible steak dinner, paired with a phenomenal wine, William and I talk about hobbies and our background like, where we’re from, and college. I do leave some things out, like a certain ex husband. Getting to know William feels easy. Natural. He’s not vague and he doesn’t deflect when asked about anything. He even tells stories that others might save for a second or third date.
When he learns my mother is a high school English teacher, he says, “Ah, well, maybe we don’t tell her, but I was quite the troublemaker in my formative years.” He goes on to regale me with stories about all the ruckus he caused way back when and the many, many times he got into trouble with the headmasters of his schools, as well as the ensuing drama with his parents.
“You never even served detention?” he asks, shocked when I shared that I was never in trouble once in all my years of education.
“No,” I answer, shaking my head, still proud of my spotless record. “Remember,” I say, reminding him of my background I’d just shared. “My mom knew all the teachers and administrators in town. If I had stepped out of line, she would have heard about it before I got home. But I don’t think things would have been any different if she weren’t a teacher.”
“So you’re a rule follower.” He nods his head, studying me.
“There’s nothing wrong with following rules,” I answer, defending myself, feeling off kilter from his steady scrutiny.
“No, nothing at all,” he says shaking his head slowly, his expression heated, and his voice low and seductive. A charged energy floats between us and I have no idea where it’s coming from. It rattles me but not in an altogether uncomfortable way, rather in an exhilarating way. “In fact it’s one of the things I like so very much about you.”
His words—and the tone of his voice—send a wave of heat through me; makes things between my thighs tighten with need.
“I beg your pardon, but I have to ask.” William pins me with his ocean blue eyes, and combined with what’s going on between my legs…I’m breathless. “You are utterly charming, sincerely intelligent, and hypnotically gorgeous. Why a blind date? How are you single? Without a beau or married?”
I don’t quite know what to say. I chew on the inside of my lower lip searching for the words. For starters, I’m processing Williams flattery. Charming? Intelligent? Gorgeous? I can’t remember the last time a member of the opposite sex looking for something other than business transactions, complimented me, let alone so generously. Secondly, how do I tell him I’m a divorcée? Why hadn’t Nate told him?
Alas, he’s asked an obvious question. I take a breath and let it out.
“I’m actually recently divorced,” I confess, feeling a fresh shame over the failed marriage. William’s slight flinch doesn’t go unnoticed.
“I see,” he says thoughtfully. “Do you want to talk about it?”
There’s something in his eyes that compels me to trust him and tell him why. But not wanting to see pity in his eyes, I focus on, and toy with, the stem of my wine glass. “We had been together for eleven and were married for almost five years. And then, eleven months ago I learned he was cheating on me. With not one, but three women. Our divorce was finalized a little more than five months ago.”
“Penelope, I’m so sorry,” he says.
I shrug with one shoulder and stare at my wine glass in front of me, turning it slowly by rolling the stem through my fingers. “I guess, I don’t know…I just feel like an idiot or I wasn’t sexy enough—“
His slips a finger under my chin, his thumb at the front, stopping any more words from being spoken. With a tender tug, he forces me to face him. I look up into his eyes. The connection is…overwhelming. I barely know the guy and yet…with just a look, I feel he understands me. That he can see the shame I feel, but I can see in his eyes he doesn’t pity me. Or think that what happened was my fault. It’s almost unsettling. Almost.
“You are very sexy,” he says in a tone that brooks no argument. “And you’re not an idiot. You’re trusting. There’s a difference. I’ve never met the man, but clearly, he’s a fool. I hope karma is quite a bitch to him. There’s no room in the world for cheaters.” I can’t help the chuckle that escapes my lips. He smiles and relaxes his hold on my chin, then drags his fingers back along my jaw, leaving a trail of sparks before dropping his hand to the table. But I don’t look away from him. I couldn’t if I wanted to. Not that I want to. “And so there’s no question, I’m a firm believer in loyalty and monogamy.”
“So, I guess it’s safe to say you don’t have a girlfriend? Neither here, nor left pining for you in Manchester?”
“No. Not in the least.” His tone is firm. Resolute.
“Ever been married?” I venture.
“No. Never married. And should I ever find the right woman, it will be forever. I don’t enter into relationships lightly. And I’ve yet to meet the right woman to make the marital kind of commitment to. Although you, Penelope Pierce,” he says with another squeeze, “are giving me great pause.”
What does that mean? “What’s your right kind of woman?” I ask carefully.
With sincere frankness, looking me straight in the eye, says, “I’m what is referred to as a dominant. I’m looking for my submissive.”
My mouth goes dry as my brain runs through his blatant and definitive statement. I’m shocked. I’m curious. Of course I’d heard of the wildly popular Grey whatever books from a few years ago with the dominant and submissive lifestyle. I never had the courage to read it despite both Laura and Shannon urging me to do so. They both said while the books weren’t anywhere on par with my favorites like Jane Austin and any of the Brontë sisters, they did say the books were ‘eye opening,’ and I clearly recall their conversations about some of the points in the book. Is that what he’s talking about? So I ask, mustering as much frankness to match his, “Like…BDSM…like blindfolding your girlfriend? Sp—spanking her?”
Good god! Did I just ask that? Immediately, I want to retract my words.
“That can be a part of it. But not only that. Hopefully rarely that. It’s more about trust, respect, desire, anticipation, patience, pleasure, control, desire, the exchange of power…And before you think it’s the dominant who has all of the power, it’s not. The submissive holds a great deal of the power, if not all.”
“You said desire twice.”
“Did I?” he replies, the left side of his mouth curling with a knowing glint in his eye.
I’m drawn in. I want to know more. No, I need to know more. For purely educational reasons, of course. It’s not something I could ever do. I mean, I wasn’t even sexy enough for my ex-husband. He had to step out of the marriage to find others to satisfy his needs. Anything in some kinky sex world probably isn’t for me, but I still say…still ask for more. Or hint that I want to know more. “I don’t understand.”
“You see, a submissive gives the power to her dominant. By trusting him, she gives him power. But also, at any moment, she can withdraw that permission. She can end things with a single word.”
His eyes smolder and the table is blanketed with a charged energy bouncing between the two of us. A sexually charged energy. He brings his hand near mine which is again nervously fiddling with the wine glass in front of me. Extending a finger, he gently strokes the back of my hand, his eyes tracking his touch.
The contact is too much, and at the same time, not enough. I’m practically panting. My cheeks, and other places, heat with desire—the word he’d used twice.
What is he doing to me?
“I hope you saved room for dessert,” our server says, appearing out of no where and causing me to jump with surprise and I pull my hand back to my lap.
“Hmm, I was just thinking about dessert,” William says.
I’m about to tell him that I couldn’t possibly eat another bite when I’m stopped by the look in his eyes.
They’re consuming. Passionate. And the dessert…it’s like he wants me for dessert.
My breath falters. I’m dizzy and disoriented.
The butterflies that were attacking my belly at the start of the evening have returned with a vengeance.
“I’ll give you a minute then,” she says, then slips away as quietly as she arrived.
William leans toward me and slips his finger under my chin again, forcing me to look into his stunning blue eyes. I force myself to breathe and his scent envelopes me. Warm. Spicy. Manly. Again, I feel the world is starting to spin.
With the most sensual, gravelly, accented voice, he says, “Take off your panties and give them to me.”
What? I’m certain I didn’t hear him correctly. Did he just ask for my…unmentionables?
Before I can even tell her I’d take her up on the blind date, Shannon has pulled out her phone and is messaging her husband, squealing like the middle-schoolers she teaches.
“Drinks only,” I insist. “If things go well, dinner, but I don’t want to promise that at the start.” I’m already dreading this, trying to come up with excuses to get out of it. “And a weeknight,” I add. “That way if things don’t go well, I can claim an early morning meeting the next day.”
Shannon nods and her thumbs fly over her screen again.
Laura keeps trying to sell me on the clubs as Shannon is glued to her phone waiting for Nate to reply.
Suddenly, her phone chirps. “Nate says William said he’s available tomorrow!”
“Tomorrow?” I practically screech. That’s too soon! I want to say, but then I wonder… “Why is he available ?” I challenge, looking for any reason to derail this.
“You’re available,” she says pointedly.
I start to open my mouth to protest and am irritated that she would assume I have nothing going on, but I don’t have a leg to stand on. My calendar is, for the most part, wide open, even on weekends. There’s not even anything good on TV. I’ve binged everything on the streaming networks that I was interested in.
“Fine. Let’s get this over with,” I finally say, caving like a soufflé hit with a blast of cold air.
Shannon nods excitedly and just like that, my blind date with William is all arranged for the next night.
The closer it gets to five-thirty that Thursday evening, I’m seriously regretting my decision to let Shannon set me up, and the prospect of becoming a crazy, cat hoarding spinster seems almost appealing.
When I had gotten back from happy hour last night, I visited the website for the law firm where Nate works and did a little sleuthing. On the ‘Our Team’ tab, I scrolled down and found the name WILLIAM BRANDT and clicked to read his profile. My breath was taken away with the accompanying photo. When Shannon said that William was ‘gor-geous’, it was an understatement. Tanned with sandy, blond hair and blue eyes…the man was so good-looking he could probably be on the cover of a magazine. I half wonder if some photoshopping had gone on with the photo.
I’m on the verge of canceling, but know that I’d never hear the end of it from Shannon if I do, so I dig deep for the strength to just go forth and get it over with.
I look myself over in the floor length-mirror again. I scrutinized the black pencil skirt that covers my knees and the white button-down that I’d paired with a simple strand of pearls. My pale blonde hair is pulled up in a classic chignon and my makeup is understated and sophisticated with a little extra attention to my large, light blue eyes.
And now that I’m looking at the finished package, I feel like I look too conservative. More like I’m headed to meet a new client, not going out on a date—even if it is just for drinks. I think about my failed marriage. That I’m just not sexy enough. That maybe if I’d had a little more…va-va-voom that Peter wouldn’t have strayed.
While there is no way I could dress provocatively like Laura who doesn’t give a second thought about wearing see-through tops and leather pants, not even Shannon would go out on a date dressed as blasé as I am right now.
I return to my closet and in the back find a flirty and flared black skirt. I don’t remember why, but I never wore it. In fact, the tags are still on it.
I try the skirt on and am pleasantly surprised it still fits. Looking in the mirror I note how this hem falls a couple of inches above my knee rather than two inches below like the other skirt had. I also notice how the snug-fitting material accentuates my hips and while it is tight to the top of my backside, it flows away my body and actually looks good. Really good.
Feeling bolstered, I ditch the pressed white shirt and slip on a soft pink cashmere sweater that makes my skin glow, and hugs my curves a bit more than the white button-down shirt. I keep the strand of pearls in place, and as for my makeup, I opt for a brighter pink lipstick named Sweet Berry over the beige gloss I’d originally put on. And instead of the tightly pinned chignon, I pull bits and pieces loose for a more casual feel, even pulling a couple wavy tendrils free to frame my face.
Satisfied that I still look nice, and not too suggestive, I spritz my wrist with my favorite perfume and head out.
Walking up to The Stanton House, a popular local pub and restaurant in town, my earlier confidence wobbles, nerves taking root once again. I’m feeling ever so exposed in my ‘short’ skirt, I’m half hoping that William is late or changed his mind altogether.
The instant I make my way into the fairly crowded bar area, I spot him sitting at a small high-top table with a barely touched beer and typing something into his phone. Even his profile is stunning. The butterflies that had been bouncing around my tummy all afternoon suddenly whirl themselves into a frenzy.
I’ve never been on a proper date. Not as an adult, anyway. I have no idea how to do this. No idea how to flirt. Will I be a good conversationalist? What if things are dreadful from the get-go? Would it be rude to leave after one drink? What if he’s not interested in me? Will I be able to tell? I had been completely oblivious to the fact that my husband was cheating on me with three women.
How will I feel if he didn’t want things to go beyond a single drink? Or worse? What if he takes one look at me and makes up some excuse and doesn’t even stay?
I know I’m being silly. I just don’t think I could take the hurt if things go badly. But, of course, he wouldn’t be so rude. Shannon wouldn’t set me up with someone like that.
And then, almost as if there were some announcement that I’d entered the room, the man looks up and turns his attention to the doorway. Instantly his eyes land on me. His bright blue eyes—they seem to sparkle—and a matching smile spreads across his face.
He stands and strides confidently toward me. As he nears, he looks me up and down. My heart beats faster and my body heats to his less than covert appraisal of me.
When he’s but a couple of feet in front of me, he stops and our gazes lock. Those butterflies that have been batting around in my tummy freeze. Time seems to stand still. Up close like this, his appearance takes on a new aura and I decide that zero photo editing had been done with the photo on his firm’s website. And beyond his good looks, he smells good.
“You must be Penelope,” he says. His voice is deep, rich, and with that sexy-as-hell accent, it’s over the top. Not to mention that I never knew how good my name sounded with a British enunciation. “I’m William Brandt.”
His accent sends a thrilling shiver down my spine and my knees threaten to give way. As I stand there looking at the man who is easily six feet tall to my five-feet-three-inches (five-feet-five if you add in the heels) my thoughts are a jumble. I can barely think one word let alone enough words to assemble a coherent sentence.
“Oh. You’re not—” he says when I don’t reply. “Forgive me. I thought you were…” He shakes his head. “My apologies.” He bows slightly and turns back to the table he was sitting at.
“I am,” I finally manage, my voice strangled and squeaky and I mentally whip my brain cells together. “I’m Penelope Pierce.”
William turns back and flashes his smile at me, his eyes dance with delight.
“I’m sorry,” I apologize. “I’m just not used to being set up on blind dates.” That’s not untrue. I had been with the same man since my sophomore year of high school. I never really even dated let alone been set up on blind dates.
“Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Penelope Pierce.”
He locks his gaze with me and he offers his hand. I place mine in his and he envelops it with his long, strong fingers. I’m struck at how tiny my hand feels in his, but I almost don’t notice that given the zing I feel where our skin touches. When he lifts my hand to his mouth to kiss the back of my knuckles, my lady bits clench. This guy is too much!
I let William guide us to his table. He holds the tall chair for me, every bit the gentleman. There’s a brief pause while I’m scrambling through my brain looking for something to say, but William beats me to it.
“I will say that Nate understated your beauty.”
I’m stunned. For starters, that William would start with such a bold statement. But also, that Nate said I was beautiful, especially compared to his wife. Shannon is tall. Runway model tall. Almost five-feet-ten. And toned. She has that naturally tanned Italian skin that makes it look like she’s just come back from vacationing in a sunny spot, and she doesn’t need to ever wear any makeup, not even mascara with her long, dark, thick eyelashes. And William has met Shannon. I’m no Shannon. Short and not exactly toned. My skin is so pale, and I burn so easily in the sun. I always brush on a bit of blush just so people don’t think I’m ill. And my eyelashes are as blonde as the hair on my head. I look like I don’t have any eyelashes if I don’t wear mascara.
Thankfully, the waitress stops at the table and I order a glass of chardonnay. I almost decide to order something stronger if William is going to continue to be so audacious, but decide that I have to do everything I can to keep my wits about me.
Noting my silence, William continues, and I scold myself for being a terrible conversationalist. “So, Nate says you’re an interior designer. Tell me what that’s all about.”
Thankful for the neutral topic of conversation and something I love, I launch into the basics of what I do—my interior design company specializing in historical restorations. I find myself relaxing as I tell him about the call I’d gotten just this morning from a couple who purchased a home built in 1894. William listens attentively asking questions, about the challenges of restoring homes more than a hundred years old, his piercing blue eyes steady as he watches me.
When I feel I’ve spoken for far too long, I ask him about what kind of law he practices.
He tells me all about the Corporate Law he specializes in. I like that William doesn’t talk over my head, nor down to me as he explains the complexities of what he does. His accent and the timbre of his voice only make the whole topic sound far more interesting that it probably is.
Our discussion shifts to other interests like movies and music and we learn that we have similar tastes. I’m really enjoying William’s company.
I definitely have to hand it to Shannon and her matchmaking skills.
Finishing my first glass of wine and contemplating a second, William asks, “Might I persuade you to join me for dinner?”
Oh boy. Drinks turning into dinner. Definite “dating” category. And I decide right then and there, that yes, I want to date William. Besides, it’s just dating. Not getting married.
“I’d like that very much,” I answer.
William kindly asks our server to get us a table in the restaurant, and before the maître’d’ takes us there, William leaves our bar waitress a generous tip.
Walking through the restaurant, with it’s low, warm lighting and long white table cloths, I wish I’d dressed a bit nicer. More conservatively. I feel a tad bit underdressed.
William is just half a step behind me as we follow the gentleman through the crowded dining room. I notice other women glance up and spot William right away. They watch him and it’s like they’re trying to flirt with him with just a glance. I wonder if William notices it too when he places his hand at my waist, Well, it’s to pull me back slightly when a man who isn’t paying attention pushes his chair back from the table. But I can’t deny that I liked how William reacted to catch me. To protect me. And I thoroughly enjoyed that he didn’t remove that hand as we continued to walk to the quiet table in the corner.
The host moves to pull a chair back for me to sit down, but William steps in, practically pushing the older man aside.
“I’ve got it,” he says firmly, not paying any attention to the man, all of his attention on me. And then he takes the chair to my immediate left, which puts his back toward the rest of the room.
Smiling as he watches us, the man sets the menus down and then wishes us a nice meal and leaves.
“Have you eaten here before? Any idea what’s good?” William asks, picking up a menu.
I tell him that it’s been a long time since I’ve had dinner here and pick up my own, my hunger growing as I smell all the delicious food around us.
Our server, a tall, thin woman who makes her server uniform look like it was tailor made for all of her perfect curves, and beautiful dark brown hair pulled into a perfect pony tail that hangs down her back, stops at our table. A blind person could see that she has eyes for William. All of her attention is on him and she barely acknowledging that I’m even in the room, let alone sitting at the same table. She talks about the wine list and describes the specials. I might almost forgive her since the steak offering sounds incredible and I have to bite the inside of my lip to keep from drooling.
After she leaves, I return to studying the menu. William and I talk about the options, and whether or not we should get an appetizer. I suggest we pass soon those. I scan the salads first looking for something light. All of the options sounding either too boring, or too many calories—I mean, if I’m actually entering the dating world, I should probably eat lighter, and probably start working out more, too. I skip the meat sections and focus on the seafood, scanning for something without a sauce or breading.
Before I know it, the waitress is back.
When I tell her that I’ll have the baked tilapia, and ask for extra vegetables instead of the starchy rice pilaf, William gently covers my hand and gives a small squeeze. “She’ll have the filet special. Medium?” he asks, looking at me. I blink trying to understand what’s going on here. He’s ordering for me? I can’t decide if I like that or not? “You did want the filet, did you not?”
“I—It sounds wonderful, but…”
“You should eat what you want. Not some boring baked fish. Do you like your steak medium?”
“I do.”
He nods with a kind smile.
“And the baked potato?” the waitress asks.
“She’ll have the baked potato, too,” William says, giving my hand another squeeze. “I’ll have the same, but please make my steak rare.”
He also adds a bottle of cabernet sauvignon to our order. The waitress smiles with an over the top, “Of course, sir. Excellent,” collects our menus and leaves.
I don’t know what to say to William. Why did he order for me? Furthermore, am I upset? I don’t think I am.
“Life is short. You should eat what you want,” he says and I have to admire the thought.
I don’t know what to make of this man. He’s too handsome. Too confident. Is he too much like my ex-husband? But I can’t imagine Peter ordering my dinner for me. I can’t imagine Peter would have even known I wanted the steak and not fish.
“I have a confession to make,” William says, and I practically freeze with fear. What could he possibly confess? That he doesn’t really want to have dinner with me? That he was hoping I would say no? That he’s gay? That he’s a serial killer?
Swallowing the lump in my throat, I say, “Okay,” urging him to speak, the silence and the curiosity and insane ideas populating my thoughts and leaving me holding my breath..
“I almost didn’t come tonight.” I knew it. He doesn’t want to be here. I’m mortified and almost ready to to bolt, humiliated. “I don’t really do relationships. Not the traditional kind anyway.” What in the heck does that mean? I wonder. “But I’m so glad I trusted Nate.”
“You are?” I ask, confused.
“There is something about you, Penelope. Something beguiling. Something so pure. I’m glad I took the risk and came out tonight.”
Sounding like a broken record, I repeat, “You are?”
“I am.” He wraps that hand over mine again, issuing another small squeeze. “Very much.”
“Me too,” I confess. And it’s true. I’m really happy I’ve come.
“Tell me all about Penelope, like where did you come from. Don’t leave anything out.”
Over the most incredible steak dinner, paired with a phenomenal wine, William and I talk about hobbies and our background like, where we’re from, and college. I do leave some things out, like a certain ex husband. Getting to know William feels easy. Natural. He’s not vague and he doesn’t deflect when asked about anything. He even tells stories that others might save for a second or third date.
When he learns my mother is a high school English teacher, he says, “Ah, well, maybe we don’t tell her, but I was quite the troublemaker in my formative years.” He goes on to regale me with stories about all the ruckus he caused way back when and the many, many times he got into trouble with the headmasters of his schools, as well as the ensuing drama with his parents.
“You never even served detention?” he asks, shocked when I shared that I was never in trouble once in all my years of education.
“No,” I answer, shaking my head, still proud of my spotless record. “Remember,” I say, reminding him of my background I’d just shared. “My mom knew all the teachers and administrators in town. If I had stepped out of line, she would have heard about it before I got home. But I don’t think things would have been any different if she weren’t a teacher.”
“So you’re a rule follower.” He nods his head, studying me.
“There’s nothing wrong with following rules,” I answer, defending myself, feeling off kilter from his steady scrutiny.
“No, nothing at all,” he says shaking his head slowly, his expression heated, and his voice low and seductive. A charged energy floats between us and I have no idea where it’s coming from. It rattles me but not in an altogether uncomfortable way, rather in an exhilarating way. “In fact it’s one of the things I like so very much about you.”
His words—and the tone of his voice—send a wave of heat through me; makes things between my thighs tighten with need.
“I beg your pardon, but I have to ask.” William pins me with his ocean blue eyes, and combined with what’s going on between my legs…I’m breathless. “You are utterly charming, sincerely intelligent, and hypnotically gorgeous. Why a blind date? How are you single? Without a beau or married?”
I don’t quite know what to say. I chew on the inside of my lower lip searching for the words. For starters, I’m processing Williams flattery. Charming? Intelligent? Gorgeous? I can’t remember the last time a member of the opposite sex looking for something other than business transactions, complimented me, let alone so generously. Secondly, how do I tell him I’m a divorcée? Why hadn’t Nate told him?
Alas, he’s asked an obvious question. I take a breath and let it out.
“I’m actually recently divorced,” I confess, feeling a fresh shame over the failed marriage. William’s slight flinch doesn’t go unnoticed.
“I see,” he says thoughtfully. “Do you want to talk about it?”
There’s something in his eyes that compels me to trust him and tell him why. But not wanting to see pity in his eyes, I focus on, and toy with, the stem of my wine glass. “We had been together for eleven and were married for almost five years. And then, eleven months ago I learned he was cheating on me. With not one, but three women. Our divorce was finalized a little more than five months ago.”
“Penelope, I’m so sorry,” he says.
I shrug with one shoulder and stare at my wine glass in front of me, turning it slowly by rolling the stem through my fingers. “I guess, I don’t know…I just feel like an idiot or I wasn’t sexy enough—“
His slips a finger under my chin, his thumb at the front, stopping any more words from being spoken. With a tender tug, he forces me to face him. I look up into his eyes. The connection is…overwhelming. I barely know the guy and yet…with just a look, I feel he understands me. That he can see the shame I feel, but I can see in his eyes he doesn’t pity me. Or think that what happened was my fault. It’s almost unsettling. Almost.
“You are very sexy,” he says in a tone that brooks no argument. “And you’re not an idiot. You’re trusting. There’s a difference. I’ve never met the man, but clearly, he’s a fool. I hope karma is quite a bitch to him. There’s no room in the world for cheaters.” I can’t help the chuckle that escapes my lips. He smiles and relaxes his hold on my chin, then drags his fingers back along my jaw, leaving a trail of sparks before dropping his hand to the table. But I don’t look away from him. I couldn’t if I wanted to. Not that I want to. “And so there’s no question, I’m a firm believer in loyalty and monogamy.”
“So, I guess it’s safe to say you don’t have a girlfriend? Neither here, nor left pining for you in Manchester?”
“No. Not in the least.” His tone is firm. Resolute.
“Ever been married?” I venture.
“No. Never married. And should I ever find the right woman, it will be forever. I don’t enter into relationships lightly. And I’ve yet to meet the right woman to make the marital kind of commitment to. Although you, Penelope Pierce,” he says with another squeeze, “are giving me great pause.”
What does that mean? “What’s your right kind of woman?” I ask carefully.
With sincere frankness, looking me straight in the eye, says, “I’m what is referred to as a dominant. I’m looking for my submissive.”
My mouth goes dry as my brain runs through his blatant and definitive statement. I’m shocked. I’m curious. Of course I’d heard of the wildly popular Grey whatever books from a few years ago with the dominant and submissive lifestyle. I never had the courage to read it despite both Laura and Shannon urging me to do so. They both said while the books weren’t anywhere on par with my favorites like Jane Austin and any of the Brontë sisters, they did say the books were ‘eye opening,’ and I clearly recall their conversations about some of the points in the book. Is that what he’s talking about? So I ask, mustering as much frankness to match his, “Like…BDSM…like blindfolding your girlfriend? Sp—spanking her?”
Good god! Did I just ask that? Immediately, I want to retract my words.
“That can be a part of it. But not only that. Hopefully rarely that. It’s more about trust, respect, desire, anticipation, patience, pleasure, control, desire, the exchange of power…And before you think it’s the dominant who has all of the power, it’s not. The submissive holds a great deal of the power, if not all.”
“You said desire twice.”
“Did I?” he replies, the left side of his mouth curling with a knowing glint in his eye.
I’m drawn in. I want to know more. No, I need to know more. For purely educational reasons, of course. It’s not something I could ever do. I mean, I wasn’t even sexy enough for my ex-husband. He had to step out of the marriage to find others to satisfy his needs. Anything in some kinky sex world probably isn’t for me, but I still say…still ask for more. Or hint that I want to know more. “I don’t understand.”
“You see, a submissive gives the power to her dominant. By trusting him, she gives him power. But also, at any moment, she can withdraw that permission. She can end things with a single word.”
His eyes smolder and the table is blanketed with a charged energy bouncing between the two of us. A sexually charged energy. He brings his hand near mine which is again nervously fiddling with the wine glass in front of me. Extending a finger, he gently strokes the back of my hand, his eyes tracking his touch.
The contact is too much, and at the same time, not enough. I’m practically panting. My cheeks, and other places, heat with desire—the word he’d used twice.
What is he doing to me?
“I hope you saved room for dessert,” our server says, appearing out of no where and causing me to jump with surprise and I pull my hand back to my lap.
“Hmm, I was just thinking about dessert,” William says.
I’m about to tell him that I couldn’t possibly eat another bite when I’m stopped by the look in his eyes.
They’re consuming. Passionate. And the dessert…it’s like he wants me for dessert.
My breath falters. I’m dizzy and disoriented.
The butterflies that were attacking my belly at the start of the evening have returned with a vengeance.
“I’ll give you a minute then,” she says, then slips away as quietly as she arrived.
William leans toward me and slips his finger under my chin again, forcing me to look into his stunning blue eyes. I force myself to breathe and his scent envelopes me. Warm. Spicy. Manly. Again, I feel the world is starting to spin.
With the most sensual, gravelly, accented voice, he says, “Take off your panties and give them to me.”
What? I’m certain I didn’t hear him correctly. Did he just ask for my…unmentionables?
Oh My!
Should Penelope give her panties to William? 55.4%
Or
Does she keep her panties in place? 44.6%
Should Penelope give her panties to William? 55.4%
Or
Does she keep her panties in place? 44.6%
So close, but I have to go with the Majority!
To keep reading this path with Penelope peeling off her panties for William... CLICK HERE.
To keep reading this path with Penelope peeling off her panties for William... CLICK HERE.