I’ve been here less than an hour, and I already know I like these people—even when they’re shining a spotlight straight into my soul.

Maybe especially then. I run a store that encourages people to let their underlayers be seen. There’s a reason. I get the feeling that the members of this club would understand my exhibitionist tendencies better than most.

They’re all watching as Eli makes his way over to me, but it’s a supportive kind of staring. A room full of strangers, many of them half dressed, ready to catch us if we need catching. It feels like balm a teenage army brat didn’t know she needed—and gives me my first real clue about why the man walking toward me has made his place here. Because clearly he has. He belongs, and not just up on stage. I’m good at reading people quickly, and Ari has been a fast, efficient tour guide. The man walking toward me is a Dom, even if I have a really hard time reconciling that with the boy I once knew.

He takes a seat beside me on the couch, crowding my space in a way that the last three people sitting there didn’t. My breath gets wavery again, and I firm it up. There are things I need to know before I let him see me shake.

He angles himself on the couch and takes my hand. “So, of all the sex clubs you could have walked into, what made you pick mine?”

Sixteen-year-old Eli wasn’t this bold. That used to be my turf. I’m not sure how I feel about that. “Ari invited me.” I pause. He hasn’t done anything to deserve the sudden snap in my spine. “I own an upscale lingerie boutique. We do a lot of custom designs, and she’s hoping we might develop a line for the club.”

His eyes light up. “You’re Harlan’s source?”

That’s been the standard reaction all night. Instant celebrity status. “I am.”

Eli shakes his head. “I have a card for your store. I’ve been meaning to drop by.”

I don’t want to ask why. Men don’t usually buy lingerie for themselves. “Harlan has apparently been handing out a lot of cards.” I’m glad Eli’s is still in a pocket somewhere. Him walking in the door of my store would have been equally shocking, but it would have been different. I wear different skin on my turf, the less-vulnerable kind. It feels right that he sees me this way first.

He smiles and cups one of my hands in both of his. “So you came to check us out and see if you want to make pretty, kinky underthings?”

It’s time to remind him I’m not sixteen. I give him the same level look I give Mandy when she forgets I’m competent. “I’ve already decided that much. This is a chance to observe my wares in their natural environment.”

The light in his eyes is different this time. More dangerous. “For that, you’d need to pay a visit to the dungeon.”

I laugh and pat his hand. I do still take dares, but I’m more selective now. “Have you forgotten how outrageous theater people can be? Nothing I see on the other side of that door is going to shock me.” Even in high school we were pretty brazen, and my drama tribe happily let Eli hang around simply because he was mine. He might not have done much, but he watched plenty.

He doesn’t seem like a man who watches from the sidelines anymore. He’s recaptured both my hands, and there’s a control there. One that dares me to try patting him again.

I’m tempted, but I’ve learned some things about starting fires since he saw me last. And I’ve learned to appreciate the first small flames, and not to blow on them too fast. “Ari is organizing a focus group for me, but tonight I’m just going to sit here and talk to a few people and keep my eyes open.” I smile. “And listen to a band that’s pretty fancy for a sex club.”

His grin could melt every pair of panties I sell. “We like fancy here.”

They like everything here. The fashion in this place runs from naked to grunge to high-end boudoir, which is going to delight my designers to no end. Eli’s chosen look is elegant and understated. The suit he’s wearing wouldn’t look out of place in any of the best restaurants in town. I stroke the sleeve, appreciating the cut and the fabric. “You like fancy.”

He shrugs. “I lived in Europe for a while and got used to dressing the role of dashing classical musician out on the town.”

There are stories there, and I want to hear all of them. I like who he’s become, and I want to know how he got there.

He lets go of my hands and runs his palms down my arms. “I’ll be playing for a while longer, but I’d like to walk you home. Will you stay?”

He doesn’t even know where my home is. That opens up something tender and a little bit sore inside me. He knew everything about me once. “Sure.”

He nods at the woman behind the bar, who is currently giving the band’s other guitar player a kiss that looks like it’s seconds away from going molten. “Meghan usually has something tasty she can serve up. Ask for something that isn’t pink.”

There’s a story there, too—one that’s amusing several people within earshot.

I’ll ask Meghan. It will give me something to do while I wait for a walk that’s either going to chase away the last vestiges of history wreaking havoc in my belly—or start forming them into something new.