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.

"So, you . . . You like to top sometimes but not always?"

Oh, lord. "It depends on the situation, really. I prefer a balance between both, but that won't affect what we do tonight."

He looked at me with wide eyes. "Tonight?"

"Yes. That's why we're having dinner together, right?" I looked at him with confusion, trying to figure out what I had done. "Did I say something wrong?"

He smiled and let out another annoying giggle. "No, of course not." He checked his watch. "Dammit, I just remembered I have early rounds tomorrow morning. I should really get going." 

I watched as he called for the check and reached for his wallet. "Right now?"

"Yes. Sorry." He sat a few bills onto the check. "I'll call you?"

An early appointment. The top excuse in the first date playlist. "Sure," I agreed with his lie. 

He pressed a kiss to my cheek—my cheek—and left. I watched him walk away and then chugged the rest of my glass of wine. 

Why did this keep happening? At what point did I become the one kicked out of bed and left alone in the restaurant? 

The waiter came by to collect the check and I stopped her. "May I have another glass?"

"Of course."

"You know what? Make that a bottle."

She grinned. "The date didn't so go well, I see."

The date was the least of my problems.

. . .

Sitting in the corner of the patio alone, I drowned my sorrows while I waited for Colin to pick me up. I watched as the couples cast glances of pity my way. Oh, fuck them. Pitying me while they're the ones having almost zero sex and are stuck with some asshole who doesn't even respect them enough to . . . My train of thought stopped when I realized I was talking about myself.

Two college-aged guys sat at the end of a long table nearby, watching to see when I'd be drunk enough to approach. Little did they know, I was already two drinks past that point. I clinked my teeth against the edge of my glass while they smiled at me. Why are they not coming over? Is it because I'm hot? Or, do I look like one of those biological-clock ticking women who show up on a first date and say they want marriage and a baby—in that order—within the next eighteen months? I pondered that for too long. Nah, I'm hot. 

My phone buzzed and it was my ride. I laid down more cash than I thought was enough, then stood to leave. 

I quickly realized that I was very intoxicated—five inches of heels making for quite the challenge. I staggered out of the restaurant and found Colin waiting by the entrance. He helped me over to the car and opened the door for me. 

When I plopped down in the seat, only then did I realize I wasn't alone.

The widower sat next to me, tapping away on his phone. The bright light shone on his handsome, yet apathetic face, and immediately, I could think of nothing but last night. I hadn't planned on seeing him so soon after my discovery, but I was too intoxicated to hold my tongue.

"Hi, Augie," I slurred, calling him the nickname Crystal often used. At least I had the wherewithal to not call him Mont-Money.

He looked at me sideways. "Ms. Nielson. Get a bit pissed tonight, did we?"

Drunk me didn't realize pissed meant drunk. "You have no fucking idea how mad I am. No . . . fucking idea." 

"Were you this drunk on your date?"

"Psh, no. He 'remembered' he had an 'early appointment tomorrow' and left," I said with air quotes. "I drank afterward to numb the ache of my poor, empty vagina."

He laughed, most likely at my expense but I was too far gone to realize it.

"Even if I had been, I'm still hot. Admit it." He laughed more as I leaned in closer to him. "I mean, you fucked me. I have to be kind of hot, right?" I asked him.

"Jesus Christ." He pressed the button to roll up the partition and glared at me. "Aubrey," he scolded. 

"Oh, I forgot we were supposed to forget it happened." He looked back to his phone and started typing again.

He had no idea how much his indifference made me want to choke him. More than that, he had no idea I knew how much we'd both enjoy that scenario. The thought made drunk me very horny. 

I scooted closer to him and leaned against the back of the seat near his shoulder. I lifted to hem of my dress to show off my stocking, but he didn't take notice. "Does it count as remembering if I tell you I want it again?"

He sighed but never stopped typing on his phone. "Yes."

I hummed my discontent. "I really don't like you, Augustine. But, I do like your penis and I really want it inside me tonight." I stroked my finger in little circles on his chest. "I'll let you choose where."

He stared at his screen emotionlessly. "You're drunk."

"And you have a dirty, little secret."

"Oh, do I?"

"Mm-hmm."

Staring at him, the blue strobe of the streetlights through the window washed over him, his lips casting a curved shadow against the scruff on his chin, his sharp nose perfect in profile, the light reflecting off the gray streaks in his otherwise dark hair. His visage mesmerized me the same way he did that night. 

He continued to ignore me, the way he always did, the way that drove me crazy. Now, I knew it was all part of his game. I laughed at him for thinking I didn't know how to play it better.

My fingers unfastened the next button of his shirt opening it to the middle of his pecs. He didn't flinch a bit, nor did he look my way. "Why do you hate me, Augie?" I asked.

"I don't hate you, Ms. Nielson."

"Then why didn't you like fucking me?"

He looked up with a grimace. "It's not that I didn't enjoy sleeping with you," he answered. "It's that I don't feel the need to sleep with you again."

Fuuuuck him, I slurred even in my mind. "Fuck. You," I spat. "I let you fuck me raw, let you debase me only to fuck me vanilla—but if you think I'm not worth fucking again, you're a fucking idiot." He chuckled, but I was tired of playing around.

I lifted myself up and swung my leg over his lap to straddle him, interrupting his text message. He watched my hips as they lowered onto him, a look of annoyance on his face.

"You think you don't want to fuck me again because I'm just another simple, predictable submissive. But you've got me all wrong," I slurred. When he glared, I ran my fingers into his hair and yanked his head back. His eyes widened as he looked up at me. "You act like a big, mean dom, but I know what you really are."

"And what's that?" he challenged. 

I placed my other hand at his throat and tightened my grip on his hair. He stared me down while my lips hovered a half-breath away from his. "You're a switch," I whispered with a smile. "Just like me."

He stared at me, his expression unchanged but his silence giving me all the answers I needed.

I released my hold on him, then dragged my nails down his strong, exposed chest. Closing the small space between us, I kissed him.

His hands gripped my hips as I ground against his lap. He continued to hide his desire for what I was offering, barely returning my impassioned gestures, but never pushing me away either.

He turned his head to break the kiss. "You're drunk, Ms. Nielson," he said again.

"And you're—" The car lurched and a wave of nausea hit me like a punch in the stomach. "Oh, God."

I reached for the window control and Augustine pressed it down for me. I slid from his lap and retched through the window onto the street below. 

Sexy, Aubrey. 

_____

A/N: Don't drink and . . . do anything. Just don't drink, bye.

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