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Shara twirled a lock of her dark hair and stared across the spacious penthouse living room at her Dom. Naked and spreading her legs, she leant back on their black leather sofa and waited for him to notice her. To say hello and smile. To give her that look, the one that told her she was his world and he'd left work behind.
He'd swept in minutes ago, long black hair streaming behind him, and dumped his briefcase on the walnut sideboard that housed alcohol and crystal glasses, napkins and their best silver cutlery. He'd seemed preoccupied, acting as though she wasn't even there. That stung a little. Hadn't she been eagerly anticipating his arrival? Hadn't she been glancing at the clock, seeing only a minute or two had passed since she'd last checked? Hadn't her heart been hammering, her pulse racing, her mind conjuring images of how their evening would go? Yes, she'd experienced a pang of hurt, of regret that, despite their talking to one another via computer for the best part of the day, his mood had changed rapidly since they'd last had contact.
Something had happened in between. Someone or something had upset him.
She could only hope he still wanted to play. Still wanted her.
He appeared lost, leaning his folded forearms on the top of the armchair like that, gazing into space somewhere in the vicinity of the large mirror hanging above the roaring fireplace. She wondered what he was seeing, what he was thinking, and whether she could erase it, make it all vanish so he never had to go through a moment's hurt for the rest of his life. People thought because they had money they had no worries, but they didn't know a damn thing. Life still went on for them much as it did for those who earned less, except their cash could solve the minor issues or remove boredom by allowing them to disappear on their boat for the day or dine out. He'd had a hard morning at the office, she knew that much, preparing for a meeting later in the afternoon, and all the money in the world wouldn't take that tired, strained look from his face. Only she could do that by preoccupying him, or listening to what was on his mind and suggesting ways to solve issues.
I want to hold you, John.
She couldn't, though. She'd have to wait as she'd been instructed, until he pulled himself back to the present.
His hair fell forward off his shoulders, partially obscuring his features, the rise of his cheek and the tip of his nose the only things she could see. The light from the chandelier caught his hair, giving that dark sheet a silver glimmer. She longed to touch it, to sift her fingers through the softness then fist it tight, forcing him to look at her, to acknowledge that she'd been waiting for him like this for an hour. To let him know if they needed to abandon their plans that was all right. It would be a letdown, considering she'd worked herself up into a state of frenzied excitement as he'd told her to do, but she was prepared to forgo play tonight if that was what he needed.