“I’m dying,” pants Nate, sliding into the booth opposite me. He grabs a stiff drink coaster and fans his flushed face. His pale hair curls damply against his temples.

I smile. “You look radiant.”

He grins. “There are so many hotties here tonight. It’s too bad you’re not single—don’t give me that look, you know what I mean. We both know why you skedaddled when that sexy-as-fuck guy started rubbing on you.”

I open my mouth, then close it. It’s no use arguing that Cross isn’t my boyfriend. Whether I like it or not, our arrangement is monogamous. Isn’t it?

“Hey, Nate? Cross made it clear I wasn’t allowed to see or be with anyone else, but do you think he’s, um… shit, we didn’t actually discuss exclusivity on his end.”

He laughs. “Word on the street is he’s off the market, but that might be because we all saw him go caveman when that other bartender touched you. Just ask him.”

I down the remains of my Jack and Coke. “Yeah, right.”

Nate’s gaze roams the club. “What does it take to get drink service in this—” His voice chokes off, then resumes with a laugh. “Speaking of your booty’s boss, he’s up in VIP. You should text… oh, shit.”

My head jerks up so fast a muscle in my back protests. Following Nate’s line of sight, I look up at the second-story balcony opposite us. A large booth of men and women is front and center, with a bird’s-eye view of the club below. The scene almost looks staged—a perfect tableau of The Rich and Beautiful. The table’s surface is covered in drinks, both empty and full, and the visible faces are laughing or engaged in animated conversations.

No one is flushed and sweaty from dancing. No one’s hair is a lank rat’s nest, and no one’s makeup has worn off over the hours. And that’s just the women—the men are suave, polished, each possessing that singular air that comes from money and big cocks.

Cross sits in the middle with his arms stretched across the back of the booth. The women on either side of him are close. Too close. They’re talking to each other while Cross chats with someone a few seats down. As I watch, one of the women reaches out—ostensibly to grab a drink—and rubs herself all over his chest. He doesn’t move, just glances down with a smile and a wink.

A wink.

“London, calm down. You don’t know what he’s doing. Cross isn’t the type to go behind your back.” When I don’t say anything, his voice gets louder and higher. “Well, this is a fucked-up bit of synchronicity, huh? Since we were just talking about it. Kinda funny, right? What a perfect opportunity for you to—”

“Shut up, Nate,” I say without heat. Dragging my gaze away from VIP, I bare my teeth. “It’s all good. He’s not my boyfriend. We’re not emotionally involved or anything.”

“That’s a scary smile you have going on there,” Steph says as she slides in beside me. She wipes her glistening face with a cocktail napkin, belatedly noticing Nate’s furiously shaking head. “What? What’s going on?”

“Nothing!” I chirp. “I’m going to dance. Who wants to come?”

Nate jerks forward in panic. “No! Are you nuts? He might see you!”

“Who?” asks Steph, utterly confused.

“Mr. Cross,” growls Nate, and Steph gasps.

I laugh carelessly. “Come on! Our arrangement begins and ends when we’re actively together. He isn’t my Dom when I’m working or when I’m at home. He doesn’t control my life. And clearly I don’t have any sway over what he does with his free time, either!”

I sound like a maniac, angry while grinning like a loon. My gaze swings between my friends, both wide-eyed and visibly freaked out. I’m an actor in a B-movie with no handle on my motivation. I’m jealous, I’m giddy, I’m… relieved? There’s no time to process the clash of emotions inside me—my animal brain is screaming for me to do something.

Nate says, “Please, London—”

Steph interrupts, “This is some juicy drama. I’m in!” Before Nate can protest, she grabs my hand and hauls me from the booth.

Steph charges across the club, onto the crowded dance floor, and straight to the middle of the madness. Her fierce energy and copious tattoos ensure us safe passage. Some people even jump out of her way. I’m laughing hysterically by the time she’s asserted control over a space big enough for us both to let loose.

This close to the DJ and sound system, the bass vibrates in my bones. Rihanna is singing over a mixed track, her velvet voice and the heady beat making movement mandatory. Swept up by the distraction, I embrace my body’s demand.

Before two tracks have passed, my skin and hair are damp again and I’m having the time of my life. When male arms come around my waist, I don’t immediately jerk away. From the wicked grin on Steph’s face, he’s good-looking. All I know is he smells good. And more importantly, he doesn’t smell like Dominic Cross.

My mystery partner and I move together, though I’m careful to keep space between my ass and his crotch. No point in letting him think this is going anywhere, like to his apartment. But in all other respects, I flirt with my body, uninhibited and without care.

“You are too sexy,” a deep voice whispers in my ear.

I make a face at Steph, who laughs. “Thanks!” I say and decide it’s time to end this pointless game. But when I start to pull away, he drags me flush against him.

A thick, strong hand closes around my throat, fingers digging deep. Sparkling tendrils of fear move through me. We’re not dancing anymore, but in the chaos and crazy lights, no one notices anything amiss. His grip tightens, cutting off my air. My head swims. My knees lock. I’m frozen, unable to do more than gasp Steph’s name. By chance or luck, she looks over in that moment. She’s instantly charging toward us.

“Hey, asshole!” she shouts. “Let her go!”

Warm breath bathes my ear. “I have a message for you, Mrs. Kirkland. You haven’t been forgotten. The Old Man says hello.”

His fingers vanish, as does his body. Steph grabs me, arm tight around my waist as she spins around. “Where did he go? Shit, let’s get out of here.”

I nod, my hand curled protectively around my throbbing neck. Steph guides me off the dance floor. Away from the screaming crowd and press of bodies, I gulp in cooler air.

“I’m so sorry, London. I didn’t see what was going on. Are you okay? Did he hurt you?”

From behind me comes a chilling, familiar voice. “Did he, kitten? Because I seem to remember that being my job.”

Steph whispers, “Oh, fuck.”