And last, there was the very not insignificant fact that she had Olivier in a playroom on Saturday.
She felt her face get soft at that thought, a coil of anticipation in her belly, both highly welcome reactions.
It had only been a day and her mind had wandered to him repeatedly, and with each time she had that same exact response.
Highly welcome.
She dismissed the email with a clap of screen to keyboard and looked to her phone, still scratching Cleo, who’d hunkered down, eyes closed, purr loud, claws coming out to knead Amélie’s thigh.
More play in the near future? Mira had asked.
That garnered another soft look because, yes, there would be.
And early indications screamed it would be scrumptious.
Saturday evening, she texted back.
Marvelous, my lovely, Mirabelle returned.
Absolutely, Amélie agreed.
She waited for more, even watched her screen, her heart feeling oddly suspended as she did.
It took time, time enough for Amélie to lean forward and take hold of her wine, have a sip, locate the remote that fired up the fireplace and wonder where she’d left the book she’d been reading, thinking about a contented night in for a change with wine, fire, book, and Cleo (and Stasia, if she’d deign to make an appearance).
In her life, she had a number of nights in … alone.
The change would be the “contented” part.
With Olivier to look forward to, that adjective could now be added.
This was also, obviously, highly welcome.
The text finally came and Amélie looked right to it.
Book club at yours?
That made her mouth turn down in a frown for this was not the text she expected, or more aptly, wished to receive.
She’d been waiting for word about what had (or had not) happened with Trey.
And yet there was no word.
Amélie wanted to ask her friend if the subject had been broached after their session last night. If Trey had asked Mirabelle out. Or if, perhaps, Mira brought it up.
What she did not want to do was ask her friend if the subject had been broached if it indeed had and this back-and-forth over texts was a brave face Mira was putting on to hide it had not gone well. For if it had, she would lead with that, not questions about Olivier.
Therefore she did not ask.
She replied, Yes, darling.
Good. And hey, have you heard from Evangeline?
This also set Amélie’s mouth turning down, for she had not.
Evangeline, a fellow Mistress, but more, a close friend, had had the unspeakable happen to her. And unbelievably, the event had occurred at the Honey—the first of its kind, to Amélie’s knowledge.
Aryas had lost his mind when it had happened and still carried guilt it was arguable, in Amélie’s opinion, he should carry.
However it was so much guilt, he refused to speak of it. But there were times, with her relationship with Ary, her skills as a Domme, Amélie saw it show.
She said nothing, also knowing Aryas was doing what he could with Evangeline to see to her healing and not doing this simply to assuage his guilt.
Not surprisingly, Evangeline had taken a break from the scene.
Disturbingly, this was lasting a good long while.
Too long.
Worse, she’d nearly disappeared and not just from the club. Cursory returns of texts. No-show at parties and bad excuses not to make lunch or dinner plans.
Something needed to be done.
It was just that Amélie, unusually, didn’t know what that something was. She’d tried gentle, at first. She’d tried firm. She’d even tried (carefully) insistent.
Evangeline was immune.
Or, knowing her friend, stubborn.
And if someone refused to heal, even a friend who cared deeply had to understand when the time came to leave them to that.
The only thing Amélie knew was that now was not yet that time.
No, Mira. I’ll ask her to the next club meeting and urge her strongly to come, she texted in return.
Excellent. I will too. Right, heading for the bath. Talk soon.
Good night, Mira, Amélie finished it.
She took a deep breath before another long sip of wine, listening to Cleopatra’s purring, giving her scratches down the length of her spine to her kitty-booty.
She did this sending her message to the fates that they’d take care of Mirabelle.
And Evangeline.
Careful to keep Cleo comfortable, instead of going to find her book, she shoved the laptop out of her way and curled her legs under her, now looking about space that was her space and had been for some years.
She was into minimalism, clean lines, modernism, with occasional statement pieces or flashes of color.
Throughout her large home, there were a lot of silvers, blacks, and grays.
There was also the phenomenal fireplace in front of her.
And the masterpiece of colorful glass art that was the chandelier that took over the full ceiling of her foyer.
Further, the five-foot-tall, four-foot-wide curvaceous, faceless goddess structure at the northwestern corner of the back deck—the goddess sitting on unseen calves, the sculpture starting at knees, leading to the juncture of the pubis and wide, rounded hips, back up, globular breasts, eyeless face looking straight on, arms raised up in curlicues.
A magnificent piece of beauty and power and femininity.
As she examined environs that were so familiar to her, she barely saw them anymore, suddenly, she saw them with new eyes.
New eyes wondering what Olivier would make of all of this. If she were to have him there, if he would like it, feel at home, share in her tastes.