“You look beautiful tonight,” he says a little breathlessly. I can tell he’s already uncomfortable standing here, towering over me. I can see it in the way his eyes can’t settle and the way his throat works.
“Thank you,” is all I say in reply.
“Can I get you anything, Mistress? Anything to make you more comfortable?”
My gaze floats down to the bubbles in my flute. Why aren’t my thoughts in the right place? “I don’t know if I’ll be good company tonight, pup. I think I’d rather watch than play.” I don’t ask if that’s okay with him. I don’t have to.
“Oh.” The look on his face could kill me if I was in love with him, but that’s not how we operate. Nonetheless, guilt finds me.
I offer alternative Dommes for him. “Princess Porsche and Mistress Noir are both here.”
Victor finds each of them and lets out a slow breath before smiling. “I know.”
“Tell you what, pup. I’m going to have a seat and watch my fill tonight. If you’d like to join me, the floor at my feet will be open for you.”
Besotted with the invitation, he gleefully kneels once I sit. My legs are crossed, one foot bobbing in the air slightly, and I know the shiny black leather taunts him. He lays his head in my lap, and I know he’s dreaming of the way my heel would feel against his chest.
Despite all of my distractions—my pup’s soft hair that I’ve been running my fingers through for hours, and his quiet, appreciative sighs... the women I watch in front of me, one writhing in pleasure so deep she’s sobbing through her twentieth consecutive orgasm, the other looking like she’s not even half way done with her little pet—despite it all, I can’t stop thinking1 about Jonah Johanssen.
We pull out of the driveway of the mansion, and Amber knows. She doesn’t even look at me first—just eases the car onto the road, one hand on the wheel, the other drumming against it. “Huh.”
I brace myself. “What?”
“You left a sex party, and somehow”—she gestures vaguelyin my direction—“you look exactly the same as when we arrived.”
“I… did other things.”
My sister hums. “Your hair is untouched. Your lipstick is intact. And I don’t see a single drop of sweat.” She gasps, because she lives for dramatics. “Oh my God, you didn’t eventry.”
“I resent that,” I mutter, staring out the window. “I tried very hard to mind my own business.”
She laughs—a chaotic, delighted sound that usually means I’m about to regret my life choices. “Something is wrong.”
The car fills with silence.
“Spill.”
I sigh and sink lower in my seat. “I don’t wanna.”
“Real mature. It wasn’t a request.”
Streetlights flash past and I give in, because resisting Amber is a losing battle. I close my eyes and admit the most inconvenient truth. “I have…ughhh… feelings… for Jonah.”
Amber full-body cackles. “You like Jonah!”
“I do notlikehim,” I snap. “I am experiencing an unfortunate emotional response.”
“That’s liking. That’s capital L liking.”
“Please keep your eyes on the road. I don’t want my tombstone to read, ‘Died because her sister discovered a crush.’”
She wipes at her eyes, still grinning. “This is amazing. You left without hooking up. You probably didn’t even flirt.”
“I panicked.”
“It means you liiiiike him. You really liiiiike him,” she taunts.
“Shut up.”
