The Widower (18+) | [Complete]

Ten

Augustine, for lack of a better term, had me fucked up.

Shocked was too light a term for what I was feeling. I was shaken—lost between disbelief and thrill. I stared at myself in the mirror for an hour when I woke up, trying to figure out if I had actually seen him or if I had projected my contempt for him onto a random stranger. 

He was definitely dominant—both professionally and sexually—but what I saw last night threw me for a loop. A dominant-masochist wasn't the most uncommon occurrence, but it was rare to see a true dom pay to be topped by a dominatrix. If he was a switch—if he truly preferred to sadistically top and masochistically bottom the way I did . . . I was in for some real trouble. 

In my stupor, I barely managed to get out of bed and dressed in time for my date. My stockings and heels looked odd with the fitted jersey dress I packed, but I didn't have the energy to care.

Colin drove me again in the Rolls, which made the situation that much more awkward. We arrived and I suddenly felt nervous when I saw the romantic-looking spot with string lights over the chic, outdoor seating, live music playing in the background. It was definitely not what I had expected.

He helped me out of the car, and as he did, a man approached us. "Are you Aubrey?"

"Yes. Hi," I greeted him. He gave me a coy smile and I instantly knew he was a sub.

"Want to go inside?"

"Yeah, definitely."

. . .

Dinner started off nice enough. The wine was delicious, though it could have come from a prison toilet and I'd still drink it all the same. As I drank it as slow as I was willing to do, he held the conversation well, asking me the usual questions about myself, my hometown, and my college.

He was handsome enough—biracial like me, but less ambiguous with his tight 4a curls and dark brown eyes. I got what Crystal thought she was doing for me, but this wasn't it. Squirrely was the best way to describe him. His eyes darted around when he spoke, he always looked down when he laughed. That was where things started to fall apart.

As time passed, more and more about him started to bother me. He chewed with his mouth open. He didn't match his wine with his food. His laugh made me cringe—a high-pitched feminine sounding giggle that was unexpected from someone with his voice. When my patience began to run thin, I stared at him, waiting for his eyes to stop bouncing around the room as he told another pointless story of how he became the uninteresting person he was.

I could get off to beating the squirrely out of him. 

I stroked a finger over the back of his hand. After his story failed to wrap up, I grabbed it. His eyes finally looked into mine. "Tell me how long you've been into . . . what we're into."

His cheeks gained a tint of rosiness. "Two years now. My last girlfriend introduced me," he said. "Once I tried it, I couldn't go back."

"Same," I agreed in sentiment. I was far from new to this game.

"You're a . . ." he leaned in to whisper. "You're a top, right?"

"I can be if that's what you'd like."

His brows furrowed in confusion. "What does that mean?"

"I'm a switch, technically. I play both roles well and enjoy them equally."

He stared at me for a little too long. "Oh."

I knew exactly what that meant—the same thing it always did. Doms were usually the worst about it, laughing at the term switch, treating it as a condition I needed to be trained to give up. I enjoyed letting them try, but it was never going to work.