Disgrace by Dee Palmer Page A

sincere. “I know you want this, Sam…as much as I do.” I kiss her lips; I can’t stop myself. “Do you trust me?” As much as I want this, as much as I can’t keep my hands off her, this is the clincher or deal breaker. Because in any relationship, but more so with BDSM, if we don’t have trust… we have nothing.
    “I do.”
    My smile is so wide my cheeks ache. I really like the sound of that. “Good.” I thread my fingers through hers and relish the instant grip she gives in return.

    Sam ran herself a bath and I have been searching in her kitchen for something to cook. I wasn’t necessarily expecting there to be all the ingredients for a full-on Christmas dinner, but I did expect a little more than this. The refrigerator is almost as empty as the day it stood in the showroom save six bottles of Bollinger and a litre of milk. The cupboards are filled with cans, ready pancake mix and tubs of weird protein powders for gaining bulk, some cereals, and very little else. I am using what she did have. A small tub of cream, some dried pasta, overripe tomatoes, and a sorry looking basil plant from her window ledge. The sauce takes less time to cook than the pasta, which is simmering nicely, and she did have a packet of those part-baked baguettes, so I am just waiting for them to turn golden. Then we are good to go.
    The aroma fills the small apartment. It’s a cosy space considering the extra height of the ceilings and large windows. A converted first floor apartment of a much larger Victorian terrace house in the fashionable and expensive West End of London. The living space is open plan. Just off to the left of the kitchen is a small dining table with four chairs and a low hanging chrome light in the centre. It is laid out with fresh flowers and now holds two place settings. The seating area has two small sofas, not matching but with various cushions and throws rugs. There is one leather armchair, and I am pretty sure that is a sex lounger disguised as a chaise-lounge tucked against the far wall. There is a massive television with a stack of controls for both an Xbox and PlayStation. I know the apartment has three bedrooms. I have only seen one, but I get the feeling Sam is sharing her home with a guy.
    Sam enters the room in the cutest pyjama set I have ever seen on a Dominatrix. White with a million pink frolicking bunnies, but on closer inspection, they aren’t frolicking, they are fucking. I laugh, and her cheeks colour and she giggles. She raises her perfectly shaped brow to challenge me to say something, but I just smile and pour the pasta to drain. She slides on the stool opposite and leans on the kitchen island. I have set the plates ready for food.
    “That smells good.” She sniffs in a deep, satisfied breath. “Can I do anything to help? Actually, don’t ask. I didn’t even know I had pans.” Looking more than a little sheepish, she points to the pan with the simmering sauce.
    “You don’t say.” I mock and start plating up. I’m no gourmet chef in the kitchen, but I can cook. Surely it’s an essential life skill. “Do you mind telling me what you were planning on eating today?”
    “Apart from you…” She drops her voice low and sultry, and I nearly drop both plates. Fuck, I’m instantly hard, but I’m happier she is back to her confident self. She jumps down from the stool and follows me to the table. “I would’ve ordered take-out.” She shrugs and shakes her head like I have asked the dumbest question.
    “It’s Christmas Day…nothing’s open.”
    “It’s London, and I think you’ll find everything is open if you know the right people.” She dips her finger in the sauce and sucks it clean. That would’ve been boiling hot, and she didn’t flinch. So, high threshold for pain. Not helping the hard-on but good to know. I drop the napkin in my lap to hide my tenting jeans.
    “Oh, I can do drinks!” She leaps from the table with excitement. Pulling a chilled bottle of Bollinger