that we meet now, on the last night.” Rolf’s smiled had just a hint of wickedness to it. That smile might have lulled her into thinking he was harmless, if not for the cunning she saw lurking in his sky-blue eyes.
“I agree, and am flattered, but I’m waiting for someone.” She gestured to her own nearly naked body as if to point out that she wasn’t wandering around in the nude of her own volition.
“I saw, but thought perhaps you two had parted ways.” His gaze dipped briefly to her bare throat, and there was the hint of a question in his words.
She wasn’t wearing a collar and was alone, so his inquiries were valid.
“I’m waiting for him to return.” She smiled politely and wondered if Alexander had sent Rolf over as some sort of test. It didn’t seem like something Alexander would do.
How would you know? You know his net worth, what kind of wine he likes, and which bank he prefers to use for hiding large chunks of his wealth from various governments. Last night proved that what you know about Alexander the CEO, doesn’t mean you know Alexander the Dom.
“Ah, then there’s still a chance for me,” Rolf said. “Next month.”
By the time next month’s Orchid Club event took place, Alena Moore would have quietly relinquished her membership. The Moore name was one she used often, more of an alternate identity than a false one, but she would avoid it for a while, depending on how the rest of the job went.
And doing that meant she’d never see Alexander again.
Damn it, and damn him for walking away, giving her time to think.
“It would certainly be a privilege.” Alena smiled and gave Rolf a little wink, though inside she was tying herself in knots.
She’d hoped to be done with this internal war. Hoped that once the scene started, there wouldn’t be time or space for her to worry about anything except submitting to him.
Rolf plucked his beverage from the tray.
“Skoal,” Rolf said, raising his glass.
Alena glanced at the champagne she’d refused. She wanted to take the glass and swallow those sweet bubbles.
No, what she wanted was a shot of something stronger, something that would give her a buzz, making it easier to ignore the things she didn’t want to think about.
Rolf caught her looking and grabbed the glass, extending it to her once again.
She accepted the flute, murmuring “Skoal” and nodding to Rolf before taking a sip.
She only barely managed not to shotgun the two hundred dollar a glass beverage like a heathen.
To distract herself, she looked around again, searching for Alexander. How long had Alexander been gone? It felt like an hour. It had probably been no more than fifteen minutes, but going to get his kit—which was what she assumed he’d left for—wouldn’t take more than ten minutes.
No sign of Alexander.
There were more people here now—the club had started to fill up. She glanced at Rolf, who was still standing near her, though he wasn’t being threatening. He seemed almost…protective?
Rolf’s attention was on a set of two couples gathered around a cocktail table. He raised his glass and nodded to someone in the group of four. “Solomon.”
A dark-haired man whose most noticeable feature was a scar on one cheek, raised his glass. The lovely woman at his side turned too, nodding at Rolf. She wore an intricate, inlaid metal collar.
The other couple also glanced over. The woman had Latin coloring and features, and wore a multi-strand collar, while the man at her side, who had equally dark hair and looked Middle Eastern, projected an easy air of command that indicated status and wealth.
They exchanged nods with Rolf, and Alena suddenly felt awkward and out of her depth.
Looking at the other women, both clearly submissives given their collars, made her feel less-than. Less worthy, less beautiful. They wore lingerie—a classic corset and bandage skirt for Solomon-with-a-scar’s companion.
The body con little-black-dress the other woman wore was unremarkable at first glance. With the second look, the details were apparent—the dress was made entirely of leather and elastic straps carefully laid and woven together. Gold ring accents and matching leather cuffs completed the look. Alena would have bet money that dress was a Bordelle, which meant it had cost well over a thousand dollars.
Alena’s discarded silver gown, which she’d tailored herself—“bespoke” a far more elegant while also technically accurate term than “homemade”—now seemed cheap.
Alena’s stomach clenched. She hated feeling poor. Hated feeling like an imposter even more.
She was better than