Chameleon Page 8

“Not that they mentioned. It pays to be well in with the management, I expect. Would you like to stay in the bar for a while and order our food here, or would you prefer to go straight to our table?”

  The tables were arranged in secluded booths, altogether too intimate, too private for her liking right now. Fleur needed more time in the relatively public setting of the bar to compose herself—and to think.

  “Here, please. If that is all right with you, Mr. Savage.”

  “Quite all right. And if I want you to call me Mr. Savage, or even Sir, you can be assured I’ll tell you. It’s Ethan this evening. I insist.” He eyed her, his expression hardening. The shift was subtle, indefinable almost, but it was there in his tone, a glint in his eye, a tightening around his mouth. When Ethan Savage decided to insist, he meant it.

  Fleur shivered, her pussy clenching madly. Her wet knickers put her skirt in mortal danger. How did he do this? She was not even interested in—that. She might have been once, but not now. Never again would she venture into such perilous terrain. Even the most attractive, most likable of men could turn in an instant. She had experienced that once and was not risking it again. Ethan Savage might seem different. He might seem to bear not the slightest resemblance to her husband, but it was not worth taking the chance.

  Glancing sharply at him, Fleur was torn. She knew she had no alternative but to set him straight regarding her intentions, even if that required a confrontation with him. Her head insisted that she just say what she needed to say, just tell him she was not interested, would not appreciate further barbs. Her instincts were having none of that. Every fiber of her being screamed caution. She might need to set him straight, but she wanted to submit.

  “I apologize. I meant no offense. Ethan.” She hoped her response struck the correct note of courteousness. She was going for polite—not too formal. But not familiar either. Definitely not that. This evening was going to be a trial. She needed to get it over with, eat her meal, remain calm and collected, avoid that stern air he seemed to evince effortlessly, and above all remain firm in her resolve.

  She was a professional woman, mature, and she was on her home turf. She should be able to manage that.

  “That’s fine, then. Have you eaten here before? Is there anything on the menu you could recommend?”

  “The food here is all superb. The menu is in French, though. Would you like me to translate?”

  He opened the finely embossed leather folder on the bar in front of him and glanced at it. “No, that’s fine. Do you like seafood, Fleur?”

  “I do. They serve a very good dish with mussels, moules au Roquefort. It has cheese…”

  “Mussels, excellent. We’ll have that for a starter, then. What would you like for your main course?”

  Fleur scanned the menu before her, hardly taking in any of the delights on offer. She quickly landed on one of her personal favorites, a traditional dish made from monkfish “Could I have the Lotte a L’Imperatrice, please?”

  “Good choice. I’m going for the lobster myself. Wine?”

  “Anything. You choose.”

  With a small nod and an almost imperceptible lift of one finger, Ethan summoned the maître d’. The man bustled over to them smiling profusely, the wine list in his hand and his immaculately pressed white linen tea towel draped across one arm

  “Bonjour, monsieur, soirée, madame. Bienvenue dans Le Jardin Français. Etes-vous prêt à commander ou voulez-vous que je vous recommande nos meilleurs plats?” Fleur started to respond, intending to thank him for the kind offer that he might recommend the specialties of the restaurant, but Ethan beat her to it.

  “Merci, mais non. Nous aimerions les moules, puisla lotte pour mon compagnon et moi, je suis allant avoir le homard.”

  Fleur stared at him as he ordered their food in more or less flawless French.

  “I thought you spoke only English. In the car the other day you said…”

  “I told you I was English, not that I couldn’t speak or understand French. I’m not at your standard, of course, but I get by.” Ethan smiled at her before turning his attention once more to the maître d’, who had concluded his frantic scribbling on his order pad.

  “Nous aimerions un vin blanc bon. Que proposez-vous?”

  The waiter beamed, flicking open his wine list. Clearly in his element when asked to make suggestions, he rattled through the dizzying collection of fine white wines, all priced at amounts that Fleur privately thought might wipe out the national debt of several Third World nations. Ethan seemed unconcerned and simply asked the maître d’ to bring something suitable for them with their mussels.

  Left to their own devices once more, as their effusive host rushed in the direction of his beloved wine cellar, Fleur found herself again the sole focus of Ethan’s attention.

  “So, I’ve impressed you with my French, and I’ve demonstrated that I can deliver a decent orgasm. What else will it take?”

  “I beg your pardon.” Fleur splashed her water across her lap as she juggled her glass in suddenly trembling fingers.

  “I want you in my riad, naked, on your knees. What do I need to do, or say, to get you there?”

  “I… I…” Completely thrown by this sudden and direct approach, Fleur reached blindly for her glass again, her fingers fumbling over the polished mahogany of the bar. Ethan reached across and placed his hand over hers, stilling her movements.

  “Pay attention to me, Fleur. Answer my question.”

  She wanted to set him straight. Here was her chance, the perfect opportunity. She just had to say no. He might protest. He might seek to persuade her. But eventually, he would accept her word. She just had to say it.

  “You could just ask me.” What? Where did that come from? Fleur looked up at him, met his gaze now and managed not to waver.

  “I’m asking.”

  “Very well. I would like that. The naked part, that is. I will not kneel, though.”

  He lifted one eyebrow but made no comment. He had no need to. His expression said it all. His gaze conveyed his doubt and disbelief. Fleur felt compelled to make her point, to put matters beyond doubt or misunderstanding now.

  “I will sleep with you. Tonight, if that is what you would like. But those other things you mentioned, the scarves, and…and…”

  He raised his eyebrow further, clearly enjoying this, despite her resolve to thwart the plans he had been making for her. Fleur’s face flamed, the heat creeping upwards, but she was in now, she was set on her course and determined to get her point across, however difficult he made it.

  “I am not that sort of woman. Honestly. I want… I mean, I like…”

  “You’d like me to fuck you but not tie you up?”

  She drew a deep breath. “Yes. Exactly.” More or less.

  “And my tongue. Would you like to feel that again on your sweet, hot pussy? Are you wet now, Fleur, thinking about what I might do to you?”

  Another deep breath, then, “Yes.”

  “Yes, what? Yes, you’d like my tongue on your pussy, or yes, you’re wet.”

  “Mr. Savage, you are very…forthright.”

  “I am. And it’s Ethan. I already told you that. And you’re playing for time, which I won’t allow. Now, which is it?”

  His gaze hardened, again that oh so subtle glint, that flash of something vaguely metallic and wholly inflexible in his deep blue eyes.

  Fleur abandoned any attempt at prevaricating. “Yes. To both questions.”

  His smile broadened and he inclined his head to her politely. “I’m so pleased. And I do want you tonight, Fleur. All night.”

  “I see. Very well. But not to… I mean, you won’t…”

  “I would never do anything to you without your agreement, your consent. You will be safe with me, Fleur. And you’ll have fun.”

  As easy as that? No pressure? No coercion? No threats or false promises? It never occurred to Fleur to doubt his sincerity or his ability to deliver. She would be safe and she would have fun. So she wo
uld be spending the night in Ethan Savage’s riad.

  Chapter Six

  “Now that we both know exactly where this evening is headed, you can relax and enjoy your meal.” Ethan leaned in to murmur the words into Fleur’s ear, amused at the bright flush still staining her face and neck. She blushed so easily. He loved it. He intended to make her blush a lot. It was a pity he wouldn’t get to redden her arse too, but he accepted he couldn’t win them all.

  He was puzzled, though, and more than a little surprised. The signals were there, he’d not imagined those. Nor had he been mistaken. He didn’t get those things wrong. Yet Fleur was adamant that she did not want to explore that aspect of her nature, determined not to lift the lid on that particular can of worms. Her inner submissive would remain untroubled, at least by him. He had no intention of trying to persuade her otherwise. In his view, a submissive needed to embrace her role freely, with enthusiasm. Reluctance, ambivalence—none of these boded well. Maybe Fleur just wasn’t ready yet. Ethan envied the Dom who was to hand when she did finally acknowledge her desires.

  But for now, he was blessed with a beautiful companion for dinner and the promise of delightful vanilla sex later. Not a bad outcome at all. He turned the full gleam of his dazzling charm on Fleur.

  “Would you like to go to our table now?”

  “Yes, that would be nice. More private. A little quieter, perhaps.”

  “Perhaps.”

  He offered her his arm as she made to hop down from the bar stool. Fleur took it with a grateful smile and dropped to the floor. She was light, he thought, and nimble. He’d already noted the delicacy of her fingers as she’d patched up his head wound. Now she seemed delicate, frail almost. Perhaps it was just as well… He dismissed that notion—he’d never inadvertently injured a submissive and he didn’t imagine he’d start with Fleur Mansouri. Not that she’d give him the chance.

  They strolled together across the restaurant, her hand tucked neatly in the crook of his elbow. He liked the feel of it there. A waiter followed them, their half-full carafe of water and glasses on a silver tray. At the table the waiter discreetly deposited their drinks, shook open their neatly folded linen napkins then made himself scarce.

  The maître d’ had followed his instructions diligently, Ethan noted. They were shown to a suitably isolated corner, dimly lit and secluded but offering a decent view of the rest of the room. Ethan ushered Fleur to the best seat. She could observe her fellow diners, but wouldn’t feel unduly crowded or hemmed in. He wanted her to relax, to enjoy her evening with him as the prelude to a truly breathtaking experience later. He intended to take a lot of time and trouble over her and his instincts told him his care would pay off.

  It wasn’t just that he wanted her response. He liked Fleur, genuinely enjoyed being with her. She was beautiful, but funny too, amusing, intelligent, a pleasure to be with. She deserved a man who would appreciate her and he fully intended to do just that. He leaned across the table to top up her water glass, his smile open now, friendly.

  “Are you comfortable? Not too warm?”

  “It is perfect, thank you.” She sipped her water, and he noted her hands were no longer shaking. That pleased him. Perhaps now she might satisfy his curiosity.

  “Tell me about yourself, Fleur. Did you grow up here, in Marrakesh?”

  Her frown was brief. She seemed surprised to be the topic of conversation, but not disinclined to share a little about herself. “Yes, mostly. We lived here in the city. My father teaches at the university, and my mother’s work is here.”

  “Yes, Yvette said. So you went to school here?”

  “At the international academy, yes.”

  “You must have done well at school, to be accepted to study medicine at Edinburgh.”

  “I suppose so. I was able to meet their entry requirements for overseas students, and I am qualified to practice in the UK. I did, for a while.”

  “Oh? Where?”

  “I worked in the accident and emergency department at the Royal Victoria Infirmary, in Newcastle. I was there for four years, but decided to come back home for a while. I have been back in Morocco for nearly a year now.”

  “Do you intend to remain here? The work you do now must be very different from what you did in Newcastle. Totally Five Star clientele are a far cry from a bunch of drunken Geordies out on a Friday night binge.”

  “Drunken…?” She looked puzzled.

  “Geordies. People from the northeast of England. It’s a slang term.”

  “I see. Yes, the hospital could get a little chaotic at times. But most patients are quiet, perfectly sober and just glad to receive help. Guests here are exactly the same. Except for you, of course. You were very hard to help, Mr. Savage.”

  He noted the mock sternness in her tone, and his smile to himself was rueful. She would make a truly perfect submissive.

  “I’m sorry to have disappointed you, Doctor Mansouri. But if you want me to lick that pretty little clit of yours later, I must insist you call me Ethan.”

  She blushed again, lowered her gaze. And muttered her apology.

  Absolutely fucking perfect. “I get the impression you remain keen to have my tongue on your pussy. Are you perhaps feeling a little aroused, Doctor? Panties wet again?”

  Her complexion darkened, taking on a delicate shade of something close to puce.

  Ethan leaned across the table to place his palm on her burning cheek. “Very wet, I’d say. What am I going to do with you?”

  “Please stop. You should not talk to me in this way. It is not—decent.”

  “I’m not trying for decent. Now, indecent…?

  “I am a respectable woman.” Her words were perfectly articulated, her expression almost haughty.

  Ethan leaned back, studying her still-flushed face, though now he wondered how much of the high color was owing to mounting anger rather than embarrassment. No, on further reflection not anger, more like… He considered for a few moments, groping around in his head until he had it.

  Defensiveness. That was it. Methinks the lady doth protest too much.

  Ethan watched as Fleur retreated back into herself, her brief display of defiance evaporating before his eyes. He found he did not much care for that. He wanted her bristling, answering back. He liked sassiness in a submissive, was always drawn to the more assertive types. But with Fleur it was something more, something he couldn’t easily define underlying her response to him. Something she was hiding, suppressing. And it had to do with this image she seemed to need to project, this façade of decency and respectability.

  Is it a façade? He thought not. In truth, Ethan was a little in awe of Fleur—of what she’d achieved. Although hers was not a traditional Moroccan family, still it was not easy for a woman to succeed professionally here, as Fleur seemed to have done. She’d worked hard, was clearly intelligent, dedicated. Of course she was respectable, how could he not respect her? How could anyone?

  “I hope that nothing I’ve said or done to you has created the impression that I believe otherwise. If so I apologize, that was not my intention.”

  She shook her head quickly, as if trying to clear it. “I know that. You would not insult me. Not when you, when you want…”

  “Do you think I’m trying to sweet-talk you into bed, Fleur?”

  “I… Perhaps. That is what men do.”

  “Why would I need to do that? You’ve already agreed to spend the night with me. I’ve promised to fuck you very nicely and to lick your clit for you, as long as you call me Ethan. Why would I need a charm offensive for that? You’re a done deal, honey.”

  “You make it all sound so sordid.”

  “Not sordid. Not at all. You’re a beautiful, sexy woman, and I’m looking forward to sinking my cock into your tight cunt. I think you might be looking forward to it as well. Are you?”

  “No… I mean, yes, but…”

  Ethan had the good sense not to interrupt. He sat still, silent, waiting for her to unravel her thoughts. It p
aid off.

  “I am not a whore.”

  “I see. Did I give the impression I thought you might be? If so, I apologize unreservedly.”

  “Is that not what men always think? When a woman wants sex? When she demands pleasure? Even without all that, that…”

  Her tone was bitter, not something he had heard from her previously.

  “Even just vanilla?” Ethan prompted gently, sensing he was close to something important now, and keen for her to continue to open up. In a flash of inspiration, he continued softly. “This concerns your husband, doesn’t it?”

  Fleur nodded, her eyes fixed on the spotless tablecloth. Her hands in her lap, she twisted her napkin violently. Ethan made no attempt to calm her. She might not be a submissive, or she said she was not, but all his Dom instincts were on red alert. She needed to articulate this, whatever it was, and he needed to hear it. So he waited, and eventually she rewarded his patience.

  “He said it was disgusting. He said I was disgusting.” Her voice was a mere whisper now, tears streaming unchecked down her face.

  From the corner of his eye, Ethan spotted the waiter approaching with a tray of food. He gestured the man and his mussels away and leaned across the table to take Fleur’s hand.

  “He sounds like a fucking idiot, but tell me anyway.”

  “I cannot.”

  “You can. You can tell me anything.”

  “Why? Why would I tell you about this? This is private.”

  “Because you want to tell someone, and I’m on your side. And you already agreed to fuck me, so you’ve nothing to lose.”

  Fleur peeped up at him through spiky, wet lashes. And seemed to arrive at the same conclusion. Slowly, haltingly, she told him about her disastrous marriage, those few months of violence and fear, shame and degradation as her fragile sexuality was crushed and trashed by her bully of a husband. She told of her months of self-loathing and of the years since. She’d learned to set her inappropriate urges to one side, to adopt a lifestyle that would not attract comment or criticism. She lived quietly now, discreetly, her sexuality under firm control. She intended to enjoy Ethan, would not regret their time together, but never again would she make the mistake of assuming that it was okay to be kinky.