How to Discipline Your Vampire(6)

            Neither did I, especially since I was staring down strike three.

            However, I’m sure if I counted, I’d really be on strike twenty-five. I’ve only had a handful of subs that could stand up to my rigorous demands for more than a month.

            The bell rang and I sipped my drink, preparing for another disgruntled man who couldn’t handle my demands. The last of the night, if my watch was correct.

            Then I saw him.

            An absolutely beautiful specimen was making his way toward my little table.

            I sipped the soda again, careful not to smudge my lipstick. Typically, Dommes were easy to find at mixers—the redder the lipstick, the stricter the rules. Mine was crimson on the border of downright arterial. I had hoped that my selection would weed out the weaklings in the pack. I touched it up just in case it had faded and bent down to put the compact back into my bag. By the time I sat back up, he was in front of me.

            “Hello,” he said sheepishly, eyes downcast.

            This was a good sign. Subs ought to act their place at events like this—unlike that last jackass. Please, please be up to my challenge.

            “Sit,” I said to him, gesturing. His posture was erect, but guarded. This man was very stylish—a corduroy blazer over a graphic tee, paired with perfectly fitted dark jeans. Urban, hip. Thank God no leather—I didn’t care how long I’d been involved in this sort of thing, I would never get into leather. Unless it was required for a scene . . . then it would be acceptable. He folded his hands neatly in his lap, and began the conversation in a surprisingly self-deprecating manner.

            “I have something,” he said, eyes still downcast, “I should tell you before we begin.”

            I leaned forward, ready to berate him for speaking out of turn, and not letting me begin our conversation. The nerve of these guys.

            Then again, this was speed-dating and I didn’t want to waste time with a lecture, so I allowed him to begin.

            “I’ve never been kept by a Domme. I have been advised to tell you in advance a few of my qualities that have been turn-offs. Firstly, I can tolerate any kind of pain.”

            Odd, but not a deal breaker. I did the “go on” gesture, rolling my pointer finger.

            “I flinch at nothing, nor do I bruise or redden. Many women have found this off-putting, if you like that sort of thing.”

            “Um, I’m a substitute teacher. I dish out pain all day. I’m not that kind of Domme,” I explained to him, trying to put him somewhat at ease. His posture relaxed somewhat.

            I probably shouldn’t have disclosed my occupation to this guy, but what was he going to do? Show up at every secondary school in the Seacoast Region wearing assless chaps?

            “I also have very cold hands,” he said, trying to hold back his smirk. “It’s been problematic in nearly every encounter I have had. Here, feel.” I reached out my hands and touched his.

            Freezer burn.

            I recoiled slightly, but caught myself and steadied my hand. I said nothing. His eyes remained downcast.

            He was stunningly handsome, I appraised, examining his face. Strong jaw, straight nose, blue-black tousled hair, and lips full enough to almost be considered feminine.

            Almost.

            “I don’t mind cold hands. I’m from Nevada—I love to feel the cold compared to the heat I grew up in. It’s refreshing,” I said. Oh boy, here comes the hurt, I told myself as I handed him my list of needs and wants. “I do, however, have a very long list of requirements, and I’m afraid I’ve scared everyone off, too. I’m just as used to rejection as you seem to be,” I laughed. Half the local community thought it was great that I was a strong woman who won’t settle for anything less than what I want, and the other half thought I was an insane bitch. “In fact, they call me the Deal Breaker.” He smirked again, a small dimple forming in his chin.