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How to Discipline Your Vampire(42)

By:Mina Vaughn


            Ding-dong.

            I hated my fucking generic doorbell.

            Who the hell was at my house at three in the afternoon? It was rainy and gross, so it sure wasn’t someone selling Verizon FiOS.

            I hopped up and wiped the caramel ice cream off my top lip and headed to the door. Shit—I hoped it wasn’t one of my principals. Maybe they figured out I’d been avoiding them . . .

            “Mistress,” William whispered as I opened the door.

            And nearly shut it in his face. His hand shot up, faster than possible, and kept me from slamming it.

            “Please, let me in,” he pleaded. “Just hear me out.”

            The Unabomber inside me retreated to her little hermit cave, and I allowed him to step inside. I still seethed at his audacity, but at least I’d let him explain. He was holding a garment bag for some reason.

            “Do you actually think I’d do a scene with you today?” I asked, pointing to the garment bag.

            He shook his head, blue-violet eyes downcast. “No, Mistress, I—”

            “I’m not so sure I want you calling me Mistress,” I hissed. “I’m not sure you deserve it. It’s the weekend, and you have the balls to show up at my house, in the middle of the day, like nothing had happened?” I crossed my arms sternly beneath my breasts, which he wasn’t even noticing. Then again, I was wearing flannel pj’s so they weren’t particularly enticing right then.

            “I came over to invite you out tonight. I’d like to take you to dinner in Boston, and then to my favorite museum,” he said smoothly, picking his head up.

            My mouth fell open, literally. It was like someone had unhinged my jaw and I was utterly gawking at him.

            A date?

            “What?” I asked, eyes narrowed.

            “I’d like to take you out tonight,” he said, still holding the garment bag close to his body.

            I laughed in his face. “First off, who the hell do you think you are asking me out on a date? Don’t you know how this thing works? I make the rules—and I don’t go out to dinner with submissives unless I’m eating off them. Secondly, and you seem to have a good memory so I’m not sure why it’s failing you now, it’s officially the weekend. And that means I don’t do subs, and I don’t change out of my pajamas.” That should shut the book on his argument. I realized, however, that the Unabomber was the one speaking, not me. Truthfully, I kind of wanted to take him up on his offer.

            So did Bizzy.

            “I didn’t forget about your weekend rules when it comes to flannel,” he said, smirking. “That’s why I brought this.”

            William unzipped the garment bag and pulled out a cocktail dress. A couture, adorable, little black flannel cocktail dress.

            “One of my friends is a fashion designer, and I told him what I needed, so he whipped up this little number. I think it fits your weekend-worthy criteria—it’s completely flannel and jersey, and he says it’s comfortable enough to wear to bed. The only problem is,” he said, grinning, “I think you’ll have to change out of your slippers.”

            Could her jaw drop lower? asked gravity. Yes, why, yes it could. I put my hand under my chin and demurely brought it back to my face.

            He walked slowly closer to me, and placed the dress in my immobile hands. “I’ll pick you up around six,” he said softly, spun on one heel, and walked out my door.

            Then I promptly stabbed my Unabomber in the throat and got ready for my hot date.