She didn’t notice men the way Chloe did. When she allowed herself to notice them as sexual beings, it was in the boundaries of The Zone, the BDSM club she frequented. It was a part of her life Chloe and Gen knew nothing about. When she chose her submissive for the night, she focused on his eyes, looking for signs of a need that she could not describe in words. And they recognized her as the Mistress that could fill that need. She never lacked for a partner.
But Tyler she noticed, despite the fact he was not a submissive. He was well acknowledged as one of the most powerful and sought-after Masters at The Zone by the female submissives.
Whenever she was close enough to feel the heat of his energy, which seemed to be whenever they were under the same roof, even at a club as large as The Zone, she felt his dangerous edge. The ruthlessness and resolution moved like an intriguing shadow just beneath the surface. Something in his eyes made her feel she could need him, and he would take care of those needs, of anything she needed.
As she moved out onto the floor, she saw him right away. He wore tan slacks and a perfectly ironed and fitted cream-colored Oxford shirt, open at the throat. His jacket was hooked on the point of the chair, and he wore brown, polished dress shoes, the casual elegance suiting Tea Leaves.
He didn’t blend though. Instead, he looked like an intrigued, benevolent god who walked among men. He emanated difference and yet something so familiar, as if she knew him like the touch of the sun.
She had tried to describe him in her mind before, as if using words would sculpt a definitive closed boundary around him, keeping the essence of him from touching her identity and altering it somehow. Her failure to do so forced her to acknowledge she was captivated by more than his physical attributes. Her body reacted to his presence, the sound of his voice, his scent. There were times she would pass an area at The Zone, catch that scent, and know he had been there only a moment before.
His physical features were nothing to scoff at, however. Dark hair kept cropped smoothly short on his nape and around his ears. Just enough feathering on top to draw attention to the way it scattered carelessly across his high forehead. He was in his forties, so she suspected if he let it grow longer, the peppering of gray would become silver streaks. A tall man, probably six foot five, his shoulders coaxed a woman’s fingertips to trace their breadth. And then those fingertips might tremble off the edge, slide down the curve of hard biceps, linger on a forearm, find themselves captured by a large hand that looked capable and confident of handling something fragile without damaging it, much as he handled the whimsical sample cup now.
In short, he exuded the confidence of a man in the prime of his life, where the physical and mental abilities were at once together, a man who understood what he wanted. And whatever that was, it created a restless force to him that had the ability to reach out and physically touch her whenever they had the slightest proximity to one another, like now.
She’d never had to deal with him out of The Zone. As she crossed the floor, it suddenly felt as if they were all alone. Her heart rate sped up, choking her with its throb of panic.
Stop. It’s bad enough you have this reaction to him. You don’t know why, which makes it irrational. Stupid, even. You invited him here. Remember?
With the expression of the pleasant proprietress firmly in place, she moved toward him, giving him a slight nod to let him know she was on her way, a courtesy. However, she stopped to pay attention to her customers, an unspoken reprimand to him for coming before the closing time she’d specified.
“Mrs. Allen.” The lady she addressed was approaching eighty. It was an age at which Marguerite expected a woman could safely allow one’s looks and appearance to lapse but most of her senior citizen clientele were better put together than women half their age. They came to Tea Leaves wearing silk blouses, suits with a tasteful pin on the lapel and sturdy but stylish shoes. Their nails neatly manicured and legs always, always clad in silky hose, never a run to be