Feigning the confidence of a woman who shops at the Red Rooms every day, I open the door and step inside. My nostrils fill with the mingled scents of burned candles and incense. It’s pleasant, but nowhere near as alluring as the man who has now moved on to peruse the leather paddles.
The overhead bell rings, and he turns toward the door.
A rush of nerves hits me all at once. What the hell am I doing? I’m not dressed for a place like this. I’m not ready to meet someone so edgy. I haven’t thought this through.
Our gazes meet, and a jolt of attraction zips down my spine, awakening my libido.
His eyes are a vivid blue with green highlights that contrast with his dark appearance, and they’re accentuated by thick lashes. He has brows even darker than his hair, and a heavy stare that makes my knees tremble.
My heart lifts from its resting-place, propelled by hundreds of manic butterflies. Every instinct tells me to drop my gaze, turn away because looking at him is like taunting a predator.
But I can’t.
His presence is so magnetic, I find myself drifting toward him on thighs that won’t stop trembling, knees that won’t stop wobbling, and a sensation between my legs that gets hotter with each approaching step.
The man’s gaze lingers on my face with an intensity that borders on physical touch. Then it flickers down my pastel pink cardigan and gray maxi skirt.
This is what I have to wear to appease Dad. My outfit covers up every inch of skin otherwise he’ll rant about temptresses, whores, and ungrateful cunts. It’s the kind of outfit that would make me invisible to a man like Mr. Morally Grey.
His gaze reaches my thick leather loafers, travels up my shapeless outfit, and back to my face.
My breath catches. Will he look through the frumpy clothes and see my potential?
His features shutter with a dismissal, and he turns to a display of dressage whips.
The hope fluttering in my chest free falls into my stomach with a painful thud. His rejection burns the back of my throat like acid. I try to swallow down the disappointment, but it returns with a sting of reflux.
The man should have at least been drawn in by my face.
Dad says I look like my mother, a woman I only remember as having pale gray eyes and a dazzling smile. It’s the reason why he never allowed me to wear makeup. My stomach tightens, and I push away the void of loss.
If I can’t get him with my looks, then I’ll have to find another way to capture his attention.
I scan the store, looking for my opportunity, and my gaze catches on to the man at the counter, who gives me a hopeful smile. He’s as tall as Mr. Morally Grey but skinny with prominent eyes, a weak chin, and an Adam’s apple that bobs up and down and around the collar around his neck.
Sauntering up to him, I run a finger over my cardigan’s high collar, and keep my real target in my line of sight. He pays me no attention, but his presence radiates across the store. I’d know his location even with my eyes closed.
“Hi there,” I say, my voice breathy. “What kind of restraints do you have to hold a girl down during the hardest of rides?”
Mr. Morally Grey stills, and my heart does a triple backflip. It’s working.
The assistant flips his long hair. He has that grungy rocker look that my friend Charlotte would find attractive, but I prefer my men clean cut. Clean cut like the man standing in my periphery, who has now turned his body away from the door and to my direction.
I don’t hear the assistant’s response because I’m so consumed by the presence of my potential sugar daddy. When he stops speaking, I drop my gaze to the silver tag on his collar that says NICK.
“Mmmm,” I say, making my voice throaty. “What else have you got, Nick?”
He grins, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “What are you looking for?”
“Preferably a man who’s fully equipped,” I say with a pout, feeling the pressure of Mr. Morally Grey’s stare. His attention gives me enough confidence to add, “After all, a good girl shouldn’t have to buy her own toys.”
“So, you’re a sub?” Nick asks.
A year ago, my brows would have risen at that question. I even might have blushed. But not now. I’ve read so many smutty books that the answer rolls off my tongue like I’m the heroine of my own dark romance.
“The brattiest,” I say with a shrug.
The assistant licks his lips. “I’m a switch, and if you’re looking for—”