“Whoa there, where do you think you’re going?”

Except for his height—easily six and a half feet—the speaker is the antithesis of a regular doorman. He’s so thin I immediately want to take him to Al’s for a burger. Long, pale hair falls to either side of a face so angelic I just stare at him with wide eyes.

Behind him is another door, this one covered in padded leather secured by evenly spaced rivets. It looks sumptuous and dangerous, and I want badly to see what’s behind it.

“Are you deaf?”

Blinking, I meet the man’s eyes. In the crimson lightning, I can’t tell what color they are.

“What do I have to do to get in?”

He barks a laugh, eyeing me up and down. “Honey, in that dress you’ll be eaten alive in twenty seconds. Run along now and find a sandbox to play in.”

My eyes narrow in annoyance. “I’m not leaving.”

“Trust me, you’re better off. A piece like you will send the Doms into a tizzy.”

My mind supplies me with an image of a snarling pack of animals fighting over my carcass. Fear ricochets up my spine even as irritation straightens it.

“I’m not a sub,” I snap.

He laughs loudly. “The hell you aren’t. Besides, we’re invitation only and you’re not on the list.”

Defeat presses closer, sagging my shoulders. I should have known better. I should have known that where Liam went, I wouldn’t be able to follow.

“You actually look kind of familiar. Have you been invited before?”

I have a split second to make the decision. But it’s not a hard one.

“Yes. My name is Alexis Sharpe.”

I’m pretty sure if there were normal lighting in the room, I’d see the blood drain from his face. As it is, his throat bobs as he swallows hard.

“Alexis, of course,” he said breathlessly. “Please forgive me. Your, um, hair is a bit darker and I, uh—”

“Whatever,” I say, waving off more stumbling words. “Are you going to let me in or what?”

“Yes, yes, I’m sorry.” He moves from the door, opening it with flourish. “Enjoy your evening at Crossroads.”

I step past him, straight into another world.

* * *

All the times I’ve envisioned what the inside of a BDSM club looks like, I never imagined what’s in front of me. All the stereotypes are turned on their heads. The space is open, modern, and bright, with whitewashed brick walls and discreet pendant lighting.

A gleaming bar takes up the right side, a thick crowd clustered before it. Ahead of me and to the left are various seating areas. Couches and ottomans, rugs and pillows, tables and chairs, all in the same color scheme of white, silver, and muted gold. The only spot in the entire club unoccupied is a sunken circle in the center, just visible through packed tables.

I look up, and up, and see that over the central pit hangs a heavy iron frame, and suspended from it are various leather contraptions. The sight of it makes my neck crawl. The publicness of it. The awareness that it’s used and enjoyed before a crowd.

People mill around me, chatting and laughing. They occupy tables and lounge on pillows. If I didn’t know what I was looking at, I might not notice the signs. But I do.

Collars. A discreet gag. A few blindfolds. Men kneeling beside the chairs of women. Women at the feet of men. Small gestures, challenging glances. A current of passion and play.

No nakedness. Not yet.

But the night is young.

As I scan the crowds looking for Liam, I’m also relieved to see that I don’t stick out in my simple black dress. There’s a wide variety of styles present, from jeans and tank tops, to a woman wearing a bodysuit of bright red patent leather, to a man in a tux.

I’m working up the nerve to move when a voice behind me purrs, “My, my, what do we have here?”

A piece like you will send the Doms into a tizzy.

Bracing myself, I turn around. I recognize the speaker as one of the women I saw walking inside. She’s tall and curvaceous, her dark skin gleaming. Beside her stands the collared man, his head still bowed. A leash now connects to the metal d-ring at the front. The Domme holds the end, swishing the fringed edge across her cleavage.

Heavy-lidded dark eyes appraise me head to toe. “Whose pet are you?” she asks in a sultry whisper.

My mind stumbles through variables. If I tell her no one, I’m opening myself up to God knows what kind of attention. And I already know she won’t bite if I tell her I’m not a sub. For one, I have no control over my expression right now, which is borderline freaked-the-fuck-out.

The man looks up at me, then ducks his head again. There was no fear in his wide blue eyes, but they held a warning nonetheless. Don’t pick the wrong answer.

Saying a prayer for luck, I tell her, “I’m looking for Liam Rourke.”

The Domme’s eyes widen. Then she laughs like I told her the joke of the century. “Aren’t they all, dollface?” she asks, still chuckling.

The lights around the club dim. The Domme steps close to me, close enough that I can smell the cloying vanilla and cinnamon of her skin.

“If you want Liam Rourke, all you have to do is turn around.”