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“I’ll do whatever you want.”
His mouth curved. “Don’t promise things you can’t deliver.”
He indicated the hallway behind him, and the club waiting for them, filled with people and music and all the kinky things Erika could imagine—plus a great many she couldn’t.
“Prove how much you want this,” Dorian ordered her. “Crawl, on your hands and knees, down this hallway and then out into the club proper. Keep going until I tell you to stop. You should be aware, of course, that the tiny little excuse for a skirt you’re wearing will almost certainly flip up on your back as you go. Does that thong cover you well, do you think? Or will everybody who looks at you be able to see exactly how wet and eager you are? With your ripe, juicy pussy right there for everyone to see and touch and comment upon—”
And it was too much. Pony play was outlandish but what he was talking about was a humiliation she could envision all too easily, all those eyes andhimand thedisplaythat was all her and yet not at all in her control...
“Stop,” she managed to gasp out, while her heartbeat nearly bent her in half and that fever in her about took her head off.“Red light.”
“Yes,” Dorian said with far too much grim satisfaction. “Red light. Enough of this game, Erika. It’s time to take you home.”
CHAPTER FOUR
DORIANMAINTAINEDApenthouse in a quietly moneyed neighborhood that seemed far too settled for a man with his predilections. He was so kinky Erika had imagined he would live somewhere desperately cutting edge within walking distance of his club, but instead his penthouse reflected the old money he came from and the fortune or two he’d made himself. His place sprawled across the top of a luxury building that seemed a lot like a five-star hotel, which, once Erika thought about it—once she was capable of thought, that was—made sense for a man like him.
Edgy, yes, but also pedigreed.
He had taken her out of the club with a swiftness that left her off balance. But then, everything he’d done since she’d seen him on that dais left her reeling. He’d reached down and taken her hand in that hallway, pulling her to her feet as if she weighed less than a euro cent coin. And as far as she could tell, he’d been utterly unaware of the way the touch of his hand against hers...stormed through her.
His dark eyes had swept over her, through her, seeing everything with that same uncompromising gaze. Seeing things Erika couldn’t have articulated if her life depended on it. But oh, could she feel it.
He’d pulled her around until she was in front of him, then kept her there with a hand on the nape of her neck as he guided her back to the club proper. It was louder than before, or she was more sensitive to the sounds. The crack of leather against flesh. Moans and screams blending in with the pumping, seductive music.
Erika felt drunk. Wildly intoxicated, spinning and strange, when she was actually far more sober than she usually was in a club. Maybe that was why she did...nothing. She simply let him guide her, shivering a little because he was either really good at it or she was remarkably attuned to every little press of his strong fingers. Both, probably.
She was vaguely aware of him saying something to someone when they left that little hallway, but she didn’t think anything of it. She didn’tthink, really. There was a riot inside her and his hand heavy on her neck, and she was still lit up from what had happened—and what hadn’t happened—between them. He led her through the crowds, past the bar and into a different foyer from the cavernous one she’d entered before. This one was all dark stone and dim lights, and all the things she’d surrendered earlier were waiting for her.
“Put on your shoes,” Dorian ordered her in an undertone, his mouth so close to her ear that she couldfeelthe words.
It didn’t occur to her to disobey. Or even to discuss it with him.
Everything seemed dreamlike, or feverish. Or again, so deeply intoxicating that strands seemed to wrap around each other outside time. What she remembered was not how she bent and slipped her feet into her shoes, but instead that moment when she’d glanced up in the middle of it to find Dorian staring down at her. His face had been set in the same stern lines, but an odd gleam in his eyes made her wonder what tenderness looked like on a man like him.
And more, what she could do to earn it.
His hand settled on the nape of her neck again, and that was what she remembered most of all. The heat and the heaviness. The separation between his thumb and his fingers, and the way his middle finger rested on her pulse as if he was monitoring every last beat of her heart.
She had the strangest thought, as she simply allowed him to guide her out into the Berlin night, that she’d never felt quite so safe in all her life.
Though that thought didn’t make sense. Because whatever she was, it certainly wasn’tsafe. Not with Dorian.
Surely she knew that now.
There was a car ride through the sprawling city outside her window, alive and kicking no matter the hour. The brash, almost punk-rock east gave way to the plump wealth of the west, the history of Berlin—torn apart and sewn back together—rolling out before her. It wasn’t until they arrived at his building, and he led her across a too-bright lobby into an elevator that required he release her to use his key, that she gathered her wits about her enough to remember that she had her own hotel room.
She realized that wasn’t accidental. He’d let go of her, ergo, she could suddenly think straight.
Erika stood across from him as the lift soared upward, knowing she needed to open her mouth. She needed to say something—anything—to break this spell.
But she didn’t.
She told herself it was natural. She was curious, that was all. She wanted to see how a man like Dorian lived. Was it whips and chains in a red room? Or a medieval dungeon in the lounge?
By that measure, the expansive apartment that appeared when the elevator doors lid soundlessly open was a disappointment. If a person wasn’t looking for iron spikes and spanking benches, it was exquisite.
Erika followed him into the great room, blinking as Dorian switched on lights. Then he moved farther into the apartment, seeming to pay her absolutely no mind as she looked around the loft-like space, with dark wood walls and concrete floors. She hugged herself as she stood there, taking in his aesthetic of clean, modern pieces mixed in with the odd, sumptuous rug that would not have been out of place in a sultan’s palace. There was astonishing, confronting art on an otherwise bare wall. Across the room, another wall was taken up with bookshelves that somehow managed to look clean and spare despite the tremendous number of books they held. So many books it seemed possible he actuallyread them, and wasn’t using them as a design element.
