Most didn’t put off the right vibe, or left her lukewarm. Subs at her club back home in Atlanta had told her it was like dating. You had to try on a few Doms, see what worked, what didn’t. You couldn’t keep holding out for the perfect one, the one that would take command of her senses from the very first second. You had to work at it.
So she’d tried harder, with fairly disastrous consequences. The Doms close to what she wanted were rife with those who could take it too far. Not because they were bad men, but because what she wanted was a lot like Goldilocks—rough, but not too rough. Her wants and needs were a moving target. She’d know it was right when it felt right. She couldn’t describe it. She wanted to be completely taken over, but she resisted it at the same time. While she knew that was unreasonable, it didn’t make it any less true.
Well, this was the freaking best fetish club ever, from what she’d heard. She had nothing to lose tonight. Because she’d chosen to come alone, no one knew her. What happened here would stay here, so she should stop skulking and do something, right? So—deep breath. She’d let her inhibitions go and . . . retreat while she still had a scrap of personal dignity.
C’mon, Dana. Get your shit together.
Her eyes went back to the soldier. When his hair grew out, did the sun lighten that wheat color? His eyes, thanks to the angle of the club lighting, showed storm-cloud gray, which might could become steel, like the line of his jaw. He was on the end, probably not only because he was trained to be readily mobile, but because he had the widest shoulders and longest legs. Not one of her absolute requirements for a good Dom, but man, it sure added to the fantasy. The white shirt he wore with his jeans had to be tailored for those shoulders. As Maria had said, all of them reeked of money. And a man who sat like that had to be an officer. But she wasn’t after the boy’s cash. Just one night of his time. If she ever got up the courage to leave the corner.
“Are you having a good time?”
She started out of her mental struggle to find herself facing another tall and powerful man. He had dark, close-cropped hair and intense amber eyes that fairly screamed Dominant, causing a shiver to run over her skin. She could tell he noticed, but he remained smooth, professional. “I’m Tyler Winterman, one of the owners here. I wanted to make sure we were treating you right.”
“Yes, sir.” Only hours with a drill sergeant made Sergeant Dana Smith manage not to stutter the response. The “sir” was an instinctive deference to his status here that he seemed to take as his due, which everything about him said he should.
“Good.” He ran a light, reassuring hand down her arm. “You look beautiful. A fortunate person should be very happy to meet you tonight. Would you like an introduction to someone?”
“I . . . um. Well, he might not . . . I don’t know him.” Her gaze flickered, a brief flash.
Still, Tyler shifted and determined exactly whom she’d been looking at.
“Hmm. Why don’t I leave it in his hands, then? You chose well, Dana. Let us know if you need anything.”
He moved onward, leaving her gaping like a trout because he’d known her name. That surprise didn’t keep her from noting he had a fine, fine walk. Slacks fitted right, shirt tucked in, thank you, Jesus. As a rep of the female gender, she was obligated to watch that tight ass, the predatory grace of a sex-on-Gucci-soles prowl.
Stopping at one booth, he stroked a proprietary hand over the moonlight-colored hair of a tall blue-eyed woman there. From the way her gaze warmed, whatever he said to her was obviously intimate. The amber eyes flamed in response. Giving a lock of her hair a tug, he moved away. Straight toward the table where Dana’s blond soldier was sitting.
“Oh, no, don’t. Don’t you dare . . .” She stood, mesmerized, as he put a hand on her guy’s shoulder, spoke low to him. If every man at that table turned around and stared at her, she was going to respond as if a grenade was hurled in her proximity. She’d dive behind the bar.
The blond stilled, glancing up at Tyler. Then he shifted his gaze right to her.
In those few milliseconds, Dana turned over thoughts of whether to meet his eyes, not meet his eyes. Smile, not smile. Oh, crap. This was what she always did. Worried about what she should or shouldn’t do, when all she wanted was to be completely swept away, where no choices were hers, except the one where she needed to say good night at the end of the incredible experience and head back to her real life. Even if she found her fucking romance novel, she had no delusions that it could be more than a one-night-only engagement.
This guy was perfect, because he had nothing in common with her—white, wealthy, likely an officer—but there was that irresistible vibe coming off of him. Drawing her like a bug to a zapper, which meant she might get disastrously burned. She wasn’t complaining— I promise, Grams—but nothing in her life had been a fairy tale. Was it too much to ask for one solitary night that was like one?
She got her answer when his eyes locked with hers. While she knew she was standing by the bar, people moving past her, music vibrating the floor beneath her feet, dim light strobing, it all disappeared. She’d had that spark of sexual connection with Masters before. It was always thrilling, a toe-curling, delicious shot of anticipation. But this . . .
Her breath went short, and she suddenly wanted nothing more than to be near him. It was scary as hell. And yet she stood stock-still, like some dumbass golden-haired princess, waiting to see if the prince would take command, bring her out of stasis into full, vibrant life.
“There’s someone worth your attention at your two o’clock.” When Tyler Winterman, part-owner of The Zone, put his hand on Peter’s shoulder, bent, and murmured that statement into his ear, Peter blinked. There’d been plenty of available women hovering since they arrived, and of course Ben had hinted they had someone special lined up for him. While Peter was down with that, he knew Tyler wouldn’t draw his attention to just anyone. So he looked. And the second glass of Macallan he’d been lifting to his lips stopped halfway there.
Holy shit.
For a second, he thought he was looking at Ben’s special arrangement, but because Ben knew Peter’s tastes, he wouldn’t have arranged for this girl. Not unless he’d reached ass deep inside of Peter and pulled out some unconscious dream he hadn’t realized he had.
All the attributes that Peter usually sought weren’t obvious in this one. In fact, she wasn’t anything like the women who usually attracted his attention. Yet here he was, unable to look away.
She was a black woman, for one thing. While the beauty of dark skin had teased his gaze before, he’d never felt pulled toward it as he did now. He had the taste of toffee on his tongue, making it easy to imagine her skin tasting like a complementary caramel, or a swirling chocolate. Or perhaps something spicy, exotic.
He liked his women tall and well endowed, with tits that he could fuck with his cock, lubricated with his pre-come. Or watch the curves move with generous abandon while he fucked her from behind, in front of a wide, well-lit mirror. This woman was petite, with an athlete’s lean, hard muscle. The elegant slimness of her bearing made him wonder if there was Ethiopian in her background. She had a proud slope to her high forehead, the suggestion of sculpted cheekbones and a precise chin, though the rest was hidden beneath a mask. When light strobed over her face, he saw the mask was deep purple and green with dangles of amethyst and emerald beads framing the delicate jaw.
A simple, short sheath covered her body, the black fabric translucent, fluttering as she breathed. Despite the fabric and dim light, he could tell her breasts were a small but pretty set, the curves likely a good fit for his hands. She wore a jeweled harness that included nipple clamps, such that he could imagine those stimulated peaks pressing into his palms. A chain ran between the clamps, down to a navel glittering with a temporary catch bead that hooked another delicate chain low on her hips, traveling around to the back. The scrap of dark thong made her look almost naked until he took a closer look, and lingered in that tempting shadowy area.
When he eventually raised his gaze, he took it to her neck. All available subs wore a collar of some form, with an attached ring so that a Master might leash and claim them for the night, if both parties were willing. Hers was a high-neck ring collar, triple stacked, with a single steel diamond-shaped loop on it for the attachment.
As she waited, obviously knowing she was being evaluated, her eyes glittered behind the mask. Her lips parted. Slowly, she pivoted on one high heel. The five-inch stilettos made him bare his teeth in a feral smile at her clever attempt to add to her height. As she turned to face the wall, light shimmered across skin dusted with glitter powder. The sheath had an open back, draping down so he saw the delicate waist chain dropped a single teardrop pearl in the tender dimple of her tight, round ass. But it was what was tattooed across the small of her back, as precisely curved and sweet as a porcelain teapot, that got him to his feet. “Guys, I really appreciate the girl you got me, but there’s been a change of plans.” As he moved across the room, he couldn’t take his eyes from it. The boldness of the tat was too masculine for her feminine frame, but it showed well against her copper skin in the club’s dim light. A twisted American flag, held in an eagle’s talons, with a script beneath it.
Your freedom, my life. Armed services ink.
When he reached her, he stepped in close. He could say it was because the music was loud, but he wanted to be damn sure that signal was for him. Keeping her cheek pressed to the wall, she left her lashes lowered in that shy invitation. As he moved in, she shifted her legs apart. Offering to be evaluated further. Peter suppressed a growl.
She had short, close-cropped hair, and that high ring collar went from the base of her neck to the point of her skull. It limited her head’s mobility, requiring an upright posture and dependence on a Master’s direction. That, and the automatic spread of her toned, lean legs, which tilted up her delectable backside, confirmed she was an extreme player, firing his blood further.
Peter knew a woman gave up a piece of her soul every time she gave her body. Usually he let them decide how much of a piece to give, because his desires ran toward the more hard-core, the ones who had it deeper in their nature than just adding kink to their lives.