Read the first book in the Filthy Rich Billionaires trilogy by USA TODAY bestselling author Caitlin Crews!

“Here, now and until I say otherwise…the only thing you have to worry about is doing exactly what I tell you to do.”

Socialite Erika Vanderberg has been planning for this night for months. Years. All so she can finally gain entrance to Berlin’s most exclusive sex club. Erika is here for one person: Dorian Alexander, her brother’s best friend and her secret childhood crush. Only, now her childish crush has been replaced by something hungry, raw and oh-so-wickedly adult. And the moment Erika sees Dorian—his dark eyes intent and focused, that hard body—everything comes crashing into place.

Yes, she’s submissive. And yes, she desperately wants to surrender to Dorian over and over again. Oh yes, please.

But Erika has spent her life pretending to be a spoiled little socialite who pushes everyone away. Submitting to this delicious man and all his heady power won’t change who she is—will it? After one taste, there is already a dark hunger between them…one that threatens to unleash who Erika really is.

Harlequin DARE publishes sexy romances featuring powerful alpha heroes and bold, fearless heroines exploring their deepest fantasies.

Four new Harlequin DARE titles are available each month, wherever ebooks are sold!

USA TODAY bestselling and RITA® Award–nominated author CAITLIN CREWS loves writing romance. She teaches her favorite romance novels in creative-writing classes at places like UCLA Extension’s prestigious Writers’ Program, where she finally gets to utilize the MA and PhD in English literature she received from the University of York in England. She currently lives in the Pacific Northwest with her very own hero and too many pets. Visit her at caitlincrews.com.

Also by Caitlin Crews

The Billionaires Club

The Risk

Hotel Temptation

Unleashed

Undone

Untamed

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

Teach Me

Caitlin Crews

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-09931-8

TEACH ME

© 2020 Caitlin Crews

Published in Great Britain 2019

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

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Version: 2020-03-02

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Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

About the Publisher

CHAPTER ONE

SHE WAS IN.

Finally.

Erika Vanderburg tried to breathe as elation and anticipation coursed through her in equal measure, as if in time to the deep thump of the music that wound its way around and through the crowd and seemed to rest against her clavicle. Like a heavy hand.

The notion made her warm. Maybe too warm.

Concentrate, she ordered herself.

She’d worked too hard to get in the door to waste her one chance…fluttering.

No one could simply walk into the infamous Walfreiheit Club, though many tried. The line of hopefuls stretched for acres on its once-a-month semipublic exhibition nights, like tonight. Some waited outside every night and never got in. And though Berlin was a city filled with sex clubs to suit any mood or experimental phase—or all of the above, all at once—Walfreiheit was its most exclusive.

Erika had been trying to get in the door for going on six months now. She would fly in the night before, then spend the day treating her jet lag at the Hotel Adlon Kempinski Berlin, her favorite hotel in the city. She liked to take her time selecting an outfit from the high-end shops on Friedrichstrasse before relaxing in the hotel’s five-star spa. The routine was familiar now, and got her ready for a long night of waiting in line with the rest of the hopefuls outside the converted old building in East Berlin. All of them trying to look appropriate, whatever that meant when the place in question was an upscale bondage club. And when the opportunity to enter was entirely at the whim of whoever was at the door.

She had been reminding herself—sternly—that there was a point to all this, despite the annoyance of being denied entry month after month, when one of the terrifyingly calm and formidably solid bouncers had pointed straight at her. Erika had frozen solid.

“You,” he’d said in German, then shook his head at the dark-haired woman next to Erika who surged forward. “The blonde.”

Erika had been certain that he’d shake his head at her when she moved toward the door, but he didn’t. He opened the rope and waved her through. It was on her to somehow…not fall apart with sheer giddiness as she was actually let in.

The Walfreiheit Club specialized in kink. Specifically BDSM, though it was whispered that definitions were kept loose to better serve the imaginations and desires of its exclusive clientele. Members played as they liked within the walls, and membership was never automatic. No amount of money could buy someone a place if the other members didn’t vote them in. Unanimously. There were always stories about this or that celebrity or tycoon trying to buy his way in, only to be summarily denied, because the club did as the club liked. Always.

In the same vein, on exhibition nights, the men on the door made their selections from the vast line outside according to their fancy. Selected hopefuls were brought inside to the large, cavernous foyer where Mistress Olga waited, dressed in full fetish gear—though what was actually terrifying about her was the arch amusement she wore on her distractingly beautiful face.

Erika had not been prepared for Mistress Olga. She wasn’t sure a person could be prepared, especially because the bouncers outside were only collecting a group of potentials for the mistress to sort through. Which she did.

With brutal precision.

The tiny yet ferocious woman reputed to be the most sought-after Domme in Berlin threw out most of the people who’d waited in that foyer with Erika at a glance. She sauntered down the line, flicking a finger to dismiss each person she didn’t like. She nodded at a stunningly pretty-looking man. She studied a woman with a bowed head, then murmured an assent. By the time she’d reached Erika, she’d gotten rid of most of the people who’d been let in. And she stood there, magnificent in her spike-heeled boots that stopped midthigh, training her very cool, assessing look all over Erika until Erika rather thought she might scream. Or otherwise embarrass herself beyond repair.

She would never know how she managed to just…stand there.

“You will do,” Mistress Olga pronounced, in crisp German.

Erika had been ushered into a smaller foyer, this one in all black. She and the other two selected were met by another woman, this one clearly not a Domme. Or so Erika assumed from the way she bowed her head to Mistress Olga. The three of them were made to fill out extensive paperwork, were given bright yellow wristbands that they were warned sternly not to take off, and were then treated to a long list of the club’s rules and regulations.

The truth was Erika would have agreed to absolutely anything to get inside.

She’d played around with various outfits for months. How did a person broadcast the necessary submissiveness required in a place that took its sexual roles very seriously while also making sure to advertise to one specific person exactly what he’d been missing all these years? She’d fiddled with different attempts to hit that sweet spot every month. Tonight she wore a strappy little top that cupped her breasts and lifted them up, but left most of her shoulders and her midriff bare. And a tiny little skirt that flirted with the bottom curve of her ass. The only other thing she wore was a thong that peeked up over the waistband of her skirt.

It wasn’t her most subtle outfit. But what was subtle about sexual escapades that started with a frank negotiation of terms, needs, expectations, desires and limits? Erika had decided to fully embrace what she was walking into.

Though that had seemed more like a power move before she was actually doing it.

“All right,” she muttered to herself beneath her breath as the huge doors were opened and the three lucky selections were led through into the wall of noise and simmering dark. “You need to settle down.”

The main floor of the club was big, soaring up from the open space where most of the crowd was gathered to a second-floor gallery that offered views of the action down below. And, the club submissives had told them, private playrooms. Not that a person sporting a bright yellow guest wristband would be allowed up there.

There was a bar against one wall, though that, too, was subject to strict rules. No more than two drinks for anyone who wanted to play, no exceptions, and no drinks for yellow wristbands at all. Alcohol is a privilege of membership, they’d been told. There were a number of small, private seating areas tucked into nooks along the dark walls, and then a wider, more open collection of sofas and tables and comfortable-looking chairs, which Erika assumed were as much for aftercare as for socializing. She’d read all about it.

There was a dance floor, and there were people out there working off their energy and anticipation—or maybe that was just her—to the seething, brooding electronic music that filled the space. And made everything feel edgier. Cut through with danger.

But beyond that, Erika knew thanks to the hand-drawn map they’d been shown up front, lay the dungeon. Here there be dungeons, someone had written in bold letters and they’d all laughed on cue—and had all sounded equally nervous, to her ears.

She pulled in a breath now, then let it out in a rush. Because she knew without a doubt that the dungeon was where she would find him.

And she would finally be able to set her plan in motion.

There were butterflies in her belly as she began to make her way through the crowd, her gaze skimming over couples in leather and latex or jeans, submissives in various chains and collars or merely kneeling at their dominants’ feet. She took an extra moment to admire two buff, beautiful men on the end of their top’s leash wearing bridles and jaunty tails.

She skirted the edge of the dance floor, her feet bare against the hardwood. It felt strange to be barefoot in a club, but it was deliberate. Submissives are encouraged to go barefoot, they’d been told at the desk, where they’d surrendered their phones, wallets, coats and bags, as well as their shoes.

Erika would have worn clown shoes if asked, and had thought it was a silly request meant to make the club more mysterious—but now she got it. The wood beneath her feet felt silky and warm. It was one more sensation to add to the mix. The heat of so many bodies in one space. The cool prickle of air moving over the flesh she’d left uncovered. She could feel her pulse pick up as she wove her way through the crowd, carefully keeping her gaze averted from anyone she passed.

Especially if they had that particular look about them, too calm and too direct, that she knew meant they were dominants.

Erika was wearing the costume of a submissive, and she’d experimented a little with the whole power-exchange thing, but she intended to explore it further with only one very specific person. Starting tonight.

It had taken her six months to get in the door tonight, but she’d spent years working her way here, one way or another. She’d danced nearly naked beneath the desert sky one summer, then experimented in the red-light district out there in Black Rock City. That had been illuminating, if dusty, and it had spearheaded her own little journey. She’d followed her libido wherever it took her, aware that there was a restlessness in her but never sure quite how to address it. She’d tried partying. She’d tried spiritual retreats. She’d done yoga in Santa Monica and she’d surfed in Bali. She’d hiked and she’d communed and still, that restlessness had dogged her.

That had been true since she’d dropped out of university after her second year, but Erika had felt an enormous sense of relief when she’d packed up her things and left Oxford behind. She’d felt less sanguine about her choices when her officious, tight-assed older brother, Conrad—in his role as head of the family that he’d assumed after their father had died, which Erika felt he’d taken to a little too readily and far too sternly—had cut off her financial support.

“I’m not supporting you while you waste your life,” he’d said after he’d summoned her to his palatial home in Paris.

She’d rolled her eyes. “I’m actually getting a life, Conrad.”

“Get it with a job, then,” he’d retorted.

And could not be swayed, epic asshole that he was.

Erika had gone right out and found herself a job in a dive bar in New Orleans, because she was sure that would gall her uppity brother, and she’d had every intention of paying her own way to make her own fun. But then her dramatic, theatrically self-involved mother had swept in and restored Erika’s access to the family money, because the only thing Chriszette Vanderburg feared was not having strings to pull on to control her offspring.

At first, Erika had resisted, because she didn’t want to answer to anyone. Especially not a member of her family. But Chriszette had implored her and Erika had given in because Chriszette was difficult to ignore and harder still to deny, and that was how she’d ended up acting like a paid companion when her mother was between torrid love affairs. And having to find new ways to ask for money without ever being so crass and vulgar as to ask for it the rest of the time.

But what she’d really missed in that time was not Conrad, who could shove his tough love up his own ass as far as Erika was concerned. She didn’t care if he treated her like a walking disaster, because really, he always had. What she missed was the occasional access to Dorian.

She shuddered a little, involuntarily, as that name—his name—rolled through her the way it always did.

Dorian Alexander was her older brother’s best friend, stretching back to their boarding school days. They had been thrown together at age eight and had been fast friends from the start. She had heard Conrad refer to Dorian as his brother.

But he was not Erika’s brother.

The last time she’d seen Dorian, it had been at the family charity ball his shipping magnate grandfather threw each year in Athens. Erika had gone with her mother, who liked to order her daughter to serve as her date at such things when she didn’t have a lover on hand. And yes, if she was honest, Erika had accompanied her mother to an event she could have talked her way out of for the distinct, petty pleasure of flaunting herself in front of her brother.

Conrad had been icily civil. Though Erika had seen that telltale muscle going wild in his jaw and had smugly enjoyed the satisfaction of shooting him an unmistakable middle finger simply by turning up and not begging him to reconsider.

Dorian had not followed Conrad’s lead. He had been distinctly uncivil when Erika had chirped a greeting his way, and her stomach had knotted up with a strange heat when he’d stared at her. Unsmiling.

“Why don’t you dance with me?” Erika had asked him, feeling reckless and daring. Where Conrad was infinitely disapproving and always annoyed by Erika’s existence, Dorian had always been…stern. But there was something about the particular intensity of that sternness and the frank way he looked at her—at everything—that had always made Erika feel…silly.

That night she’d decided to lean into the silliness. And besides, she’d been wearing a sparkly dress that bared most of her back and hinted at her ass. Okay, more than hinted. She’d wondered how long he’d stay stern if he had his hands on her.

“I don’t dance with little brats in the middle of temper tantrums,” Dorian had said. Calmly.

And she’d never understood how he could do that. How he could look at her in a certain way, usually while saying obnoxious things to her, and it only made her want to giggle. Or maybe melt. Or worse, both, while the knotted heat inside her seemed to thump its way lower the longer he looked at her.

“That sounds like Conrad-sourced propaganda,” she’d said, laughing.

Because she was afraid that if she didn’t laugh, she’d do something far more embarrassing.

Dorian did not laugh. He was a tall, extraordinarily well built man. That had been true when he was in high school and Erika had seen him on the odd holiday he’d spent with Conrad’s family instead of his own. But time clearly loved him. He looked as if he was chiseled from stone, his lean muscle honed to perfection. His dark hair was closely cropped, yet somehow gave the impression he’d only moments before run his fingers through it. His eyes were a cool coffee brown, excruciatingly intense. Powerful. His cheekbones were so high they made Erika think of arias.

And his mouth was always set in that firm line. She’d spent a lot of time staring at it over the years, so she knew its every slight quirk and the raw sensuality that seemed to brood its way out of him no matter how stern he looked at any given moment.

But the look he gave her at that ball in Athens was pitiless.

“Is it propaganda or simple truth that you flounced out of university and refused to return?” he asked coolly.

“I wouldn’t call it flouncing.”

She expected him to launch into a screed on the importance of education. Or to discuss the firsts he and Conrad had received when they’d gone up, because of course they had. She’d wanted him to, really, because surely if he was horrendously boring and too much like Conrad she’d stop feeling so lit up when she saw him.

Dorian was not the only person around who disliked Erika, well she knew. But he was the only one whose dislike she felt so keenly. And the only one whose dislike did not result in her immediate indifference.

But Dorian did not wax rhapsodic about the dubious charms of an Oxbridge degree as expected. “Your brother has far more patience with willful disobedience than I would,” he’d said instead.

“I’m not sure I would consider cutting off his only sister very patient,” Erika had replied, not sure why she felt flushed. With a surprising wallop of what couldn’t be shame, surely. And something else she hadn’t wanted to name. “But I suppose your mileage may vary.”

“I don’t negotiate disobedience,” Dorian had said in that same quiet, intense way. His gaze was fierce and disapproving and, worse, made her shiver. “I punish it.”

Erika hadn’t known what had come over her then. It was part of that flush that seemed to deepen by the moment. Red and everywhere and what was happening to her?

She’d tilted her head to one side. “How would you punish me?”

Dorian hadn’t smiled. If anything, he’d looked more forbidding. And harder, somehow, though he didn’t move or shift as far as she could see. Erika had felt herself go a little weak, even as she’d felt herself get wet and needy between her legs.

Right there in a fancy dress, in a room where her mother and brother also stood.

And that restless thing in her…settled. Into a kind of expectant stillness she’d never felt before in her life.

“I generally start with a spanking,” he’d said very distinctly. “And not the kind you’d think was fun, Erika. The kind that would encourage you to change your behavior.”

“Or what?” she managed to ask, though her voice was barely above a whisper.

His eyes had gleamed. And she could swear there was something like a curve to his hard mouth. “Or I would be even more disappointed with you than I already am.”

And it was at that moment that a great many things about her older brother’s best friend came together for Erika. With the force of a blow—or, perhaps, that spanking.

Dorian had sauntered away as if nothing had happened. As if Erika was breathing normally and wasn’t the least bit overheated and reeling. The genteel crowd had swallowed up that gorgeous body of his, dressed in black tie that somehow managed to suggest that he was from another time.

Her blood had thudded inside her, making her heart feel heavy and her head light. And the sense that he’d spanked her without putting a hand on her only seemed to grow, turning into an ache. An ache that spread, then went deep.

All the whispers that followed in Dorian’s wake made a different kind of sense suddenly. The very specific way certain women looked at him, as if they knew a secret about him. Erika had always thought it was simply because he was so powerful, with all that Alexander family money augmented by the tech company he’d gone and started himself after university. Apparently feeling that where there was one fortune, there might as well be two.

And when she began looking specifically for rumors about Dorian Alexander in darker, more shadowy places… Well. That was when she’d really found him. And it hadn’t taken a whole lot of digging to learn that Dorian was famous for a great many things in the wider, more civilized world, but when it came to sex he was a king of a whole different sort.

In fact, they called him Master.

Her schoolgirl crush flipped inside out and turned into something far more edgy.

Particularly because, the more she thought about Dorian and spanking—and Dorian spanking her, for that matter—all her vague fantasies and all her sexual explorations seemed to spark into something new. And much, much hotter.

She’d experimented with light bondage and a few tame scenes in clubs in New York. London. Lisbon. She’d spent a particularly hot and steamy winter down under in Melbourne, playing top and bottom games with some new friends. And anytime it got to be too much, playing dominance games with tops who were never quite what she wanted, she thought of Dorian.

Master Dorian, as he was known. Master Dorian, who had used to scene quite a bit in the clubs—especially in Berlin, at the Walfreiheit—but did so less and less these days. Master Dorian, who was a legend and a favorite fantasy of pretty much every submissive she met.

Master Dorian, who had nothing to prove, had never given a submissive his collar and was the only thing Erika could take from her brother that he would miss.

He’d had no use for her as a supposedly spoiled rotten socialite, sure. But would he feel differently about her as a submissive?

It was time to find out.

She felt her pulse pick up when she saw the displays as she made her way into the dungeon. A pretty girl strapped to a table while her Domme applied all manner of wicked-looking clamps to her, murmuring encouragement as she shuddered and squirmed. In the next room, a Dom was working his submissive into a series of intricate and beautiful shibari knots, as if she was an installation piece, there with her ass in the air and her face to the floor. One scene bled into the next. Threesomes. Fireplay. Suspension. One erotic fantasy brought to life after another.

But the biggest throng of onlookers had flocked to the biggest space, toward the back, and Erika headed in that direction. Even though she felt something shiver over her, like foreboding.

Because she knew what she would see. They’d all heard the whispers out there in line, that Master Dorian was picking up his whip tonight for the first time in ages. That he was putting on a show.

But God help her, she wasn’t prepared.

Dorian stood on a raised dais, facing a Saint Andrew’s Cross. A woman was strapped to it, straining against her bonds, moving her head back and forth in erotic distress. That alone made Erika’s belly quiver.

But Dorian took her breath away.

He looked darker and more dangerous than she remembered him, dressed in dark trousers, boots and a black T-shirt that managed to hug that remarkable chest of his like an obsessed lover. Every single one of the muscles she’d marveled at when he was clad in black tie was on display. And more, like his mouthwatering expanse of sheer abdominal fitness.

And it was hard not to appreciate his glorious corded arms as he wielded that lethal, deliciously terrifying whip.

Erika’s mouth went dry. She felt her eyes go glassy, but she couldn’t look away. She felt rooted to the spot as surely as if it was her up there on the cross, writhing, tears wetting her own cheeks while cuffs kept her exactly where he wanted her.

Meanwhile, Dorian made the whip dance.

He was murmuring in a low voice and the woman responded, and it took Erika some time to understand that he was telling her exactly where each strike would land. Then he waited as she writhed, moaned.

But each time she quivered. Then said distinctly, “Yes, Master Dorian. Please.”

Yes, Master Dorian. Please.

The words jolted through Erika like a live wire. Like the kiss of that terrible whip, landing precisely where he said it would.

He was controlled, precise. Beautiful and terrible, like an angel. He moved like a furious dancer, a dark and mighty cloud, and Erika thought the whole crowd was as breathless and undone as she was.

And for the first time since that party in Athens, Erika thought to ask herself what in the hell she was thinking.

All her little sex games were just that. Games. But Dorian was very plainly the real thing. She’d been charging up a gentle slope and calling it a mountain, and it was only now that she understood the enormity of her error. She wanted to poke at her brother, not…this. A whip and a crowd and that hungry, greedy thing she could feel turn over inside her and bare its fangs.

She didn’t want that. Erika felt exposed, even though she stood with everyone else, and knew no one was looking at her. Still, she felt vibrant with embarrassment and panic. Most of all she felt deeply, remarkably silly. Foolish.

The brat he’d called her, and more.

She needed to leave. Now. Before she made an even bigger fool of herself.

But she couldn’t seem to tear herself away. The scene on the dais went on. The whip licked over the submissive on the stage, bringing her closer and closer to that brutally perfect end that Erika could feel all over her. Her own nipples were hard. She was much too wet. She wanted to squirm but she didn’t dare move. Or she couldn’t move.

And then, finally, he asked and was answered with a sob. But a yes, Master Dorian, please, all the same. Dorian shot out his arm. The whip cracked.

Then landed with merciless precision on the submissive’s exposed clit.

The girl on the cross screamed, her body shaking wildly as she arched into a climax, her body like a bow against the cross. Out there in the dark of the audience, rooted to the floor and still bright red with the realization that she shouldn’t have come here at all, Erika felt her own body clench and tremble, as if she was on the same slippery edge.

That was when Dorian stopped. He looked out toward the crowd and the murmurs of appreciation. He looked as if he might smile.

But then he saw her.

She felt the impact of those fierce, intense eyes. She saw the flare of recognition.

And without a single hand upon her—without anything but that outraged gaze of his—Erika felt herself catapult straight over that edge.

Hard.

CHAPTER TWO

HIS BEST FRIEND’S little sister was coming right there on the floor of his club.

That it was impossible—that she shouldn’t be in the club, or dressed like that, or witness to his particular enthusiasms without his knowledge or approval—didn’t change the fact that it was happening. Right there before Dorian Alexander’s astonished eyes.

Her climax rolled over her, and he could see entirely too many things about little Erika Vanderburg, then, that he understood in a flash he would never be able to unsee.

Her plump, high breasts and her hard and proud nipples that poked out from behind the top she wore, begging for his mouth. Or better yet, his clamps. Her exposed abdomen, a sensuous display of softly toned female flesh that quivered with the force of her orgasm. And low on her hips, so low he could see her thong poke up above the waistband, she wore a skirt so tiny it hardly deserved the name, making him think that if she shivered that much more he might actually catch a glimpse of her pussy, too.

The mental image he’d carried around forever of little Erika, maybe age ten, with pigtails he wasn’t sure she’d ever actually worn, went up in smoke.

His gaze shot back up to find hers. Her eyes were heavy-lidded and flooded with arousal. And something else the dominant in him was delighted to see looked a whole lot like the kind of panic that made a good scene sing.

Dorian had been reasonably aroused throughout his whipping demonstration, because he loved what a whip could do to a trembling, beautifully bound woman who let it kiss her and carry her off into bliss. He didn’t understand anyone who claimed they didn’t.

But looking at Erika—and that ferocious orgasm that still held her in its grip—he was suddenly as ragingly turned-on as if instead of a demonstration he’d been deep in a scene he expected to end in his own release.

That’s Conrad’s little sister, something in him protested, but his body didn’t seem to care. His body saw only a lovely submissive, flushed and wide-eyed and panting—just the way he liked them—and all she’d been doing was watching him whip someone else.

Dorian couldn’t permit himself to focus on that, so he focused instead on what he was supposed to be doing on that dais in the first place. Which was demonstrating one of his hobbies for the assembled club members and tourists here on one of the club’s exhibition nights. Only a split second had passed, he was sure of it, despite the fact that to him it felt like a lifetime or two—but it was still a loss of focus.

It didn’t matter how long it was. His lapse of attention galled him. He was no novice, for God’s sake.

He moved over to the cross, murmuring to Angelica as he released her from her cuffs, soothing her as they both waited for her permanent dom to climb up to the dais and take charge of her aftercare. Dorian had to make himself focus the way he should have been already, because what was important here was caring for Angelica, not a bratty little sub—

Sister, he snapped at himself. Bratty little sister. Of his best friend. A man who was more family than friend, as a matter of fact, and who Dorian knew would be distinctly unamused at the idea that his wild-child baby sister knew a club like Walfreiheit existed. He didn’t want to think about Conrad’s reaction to the news that she was going around climaxing in public and, worse still, because of Dorian.

When Angelica was off the cross and in her dominant’s care, Dorian’s responsibilities to her were finished. He handled his equipment and packed it away, then straightened. He turned slowly, not entirely convinced that Erika hadn’t been a figment of his imagination. Though why he would conjure up such a maddening little brat he spent very little time thinking about unless she was right there in front of him, he had no idea. He searched the crowd, half expecting to find no trace of her. He would find a blonde sub who reminded him of Erika instead, and the good news was, he would know exactly what to do with her. He would tie her up, make her scream and cry and come, and exorcise this strange demon he hadn’t known lurked about inside him.

But Erika was right where he’d left her. The actual Erika Vanderburg, his best friend’s little sister, in the disturbingly succulent flesh. She stood stock-still on the hardwood floor, gaping at the stage.

At him.

When their eyes met again, Dorian could feel the temperature rise, then sizzle.

He told himself it was sheer outrage.

Her eyes widened. Dorian lifted an arrogant brow in reply. It was usually sufficient to make submissive knees bend. Hers appeared to tremble, which sent a kind of shock straight through him. And even up on the dais he could see the gulp of air she took in.

He wasn’t surprised when she turned around and dived through the crowd as if she actually believed she could run away from him. Here in this club that in some seasons had operated as his second home. He wasn’t surprised, but still, the fact she was trying to escape him made something in him, dark and hungry…wake up.

Then focus. On her.

Intently.

He jumped down to the floor, following her through the crowd. He was aware that the people parted before him to let him through, the way they always did. He was vaguely cognizant of the usual congratulations and sultry little come-ons from the hopeful unattached submissives who followed him around in packs on nights like this, but he was focused on his quarry. He stalked her through the crowd, feeling a kick of satisfaction as she looked around wildly—then turned deeper into the dungeons rather than out toward the bar.

He followed, nodding at his friends as he passed. He was in clear pursuit of Erika, and he didn’t have to say a word to explain himself. Master Dorian stalked no submissives when they all flocked to him, and here he was, going after this one.

She might as well have worn his name around her neck.

A not-unpleasant thought.

Which really should have horrified him.

It did, he assured himself. Of course it did. No matter why she’d come here.

Though the notion that she might have come tonight to play with others filled him with a hollow sort of heat that took him a moment or two to realize wasn’t simply temper.

It was deeper. Richer.

He recognized his own rare possessiveness—and should have turned around right then and there.

But he didn’t.

She was walking faster, very nearly running while doing her best not to look as if she was doing any such thing. Dorian followed, taking the opportunity to control his breath. To settle himself down. To make sure that he was in complete control of himself, as he always fought to be, no matter what Erika Vanderburg was doing here or that bright fire that burned in him and seemed to spell out her name.

Erika made another mistake, cutting toward what he imagined she thought was a hallway. And it was, but Dorian knew the far door was locked on a night like this, when nonmembers roamed the premises and didn’t have permission to wander all the different areas of the Walfreiheit Club as they pleased.

He slowed down, checking in with his control again and trying to separate the dominant in him from her older brother’s best friend—no matter his cock’s take on the matter. By the time he made it to the mouth of the narrow hall that usually functioned as a shortcut to the club’s offices, Erika was already turned back around, clearly having realized there was no escape.

Then she saw him.

She jolted as if he’d used his whip on her, which, predictably, made him imagine doing exactly that—though that was a privilege she would have to earn.

No, he reminded himself. Not her. Not Conrad’s little sister.

Dorian followed her into the hallway, casually blocking any possible exit. The hall was narrow and not exactly brightly lit—but not so dim he couldn’t see that her eyes were wide. And he wasn’t sure how he’d never noticed before that they were a particular shade of blue that reminded him of his grandfather’s island nestled out there in the Aegean Sea.

He couldn’t say he cared much for the comparison now.

He stopped when he was a foot or so away from her. He folded his arms over his chest, widened his stance and waited.

And Erika quivered. He could see the pulse in her neck, banging out exactly the sort of rhythm he liked best. She shifted her weight from foot to foot, betraying her anxiety. He had made a study of the female body in various degrees of erotic distress and he could read her easily. And still, she pulled out that careless, reckless smile of hers that she had to know always put Conrad’s teeth on edge.

It reminded him, as nothing else could, what an eternal pain in the ass she was and always had been.

“Oh,” she said carelessly, as if this was a chance meeting at some desperately boring society event. Some overdressed, overstuffed ball or other. “Hi, Dorian.”

He knew distantly how he ought to feel about this. Unamused, certainly. Even annoyed, because this was a complication he hadn’t foreseen and Dorian liked surprises only when he could control their outcome. Which was to say, he didn’t like surprises. His childhood had cured him of that. He should have been thinking through how best to break the news to Conrad—and, of course, how quickly he could bundle Erika out of the club, into some decent clothes, and then dispatch her back to wherever it was she had come from. He knew that was what Conrad would have wanted.

He knew how he should feel, but instead, the things that beat in him were all too familiar…for very different reasons. She looked flushed and ready, her feet bare and her skin exposed, her pretty breasts thrust toward him while she fought to catch her breath. She looked like a brand-new submissive in the grip of the frenzy that often made them adorably reckless. She looked good enough to eat.

And Dorian might have found himself jaded and restless of late—wondering if it was time to stop playing and start thinking about settling down into the life his grandfather wanted for him, and wanted to see before he died—but a pretty blonde submissive with that particular hot awe in her eyes and a slight tremble to her lips…

Well. He wasn’t dead yet.

“Try again,” he suggested softly.

She shifted from foot to foot again, and it took every bit of his considerable willpower to keep his hands to himself. But Dorian was anything but newly minted. He knew very well the power in simply…waiting. Expectantly.

He studied her as he did, wondering how it was he’d never paid such close attention to Conrad’s little sister before…

But even as he thought that, he knew that wasn’t true. He’d certainly seen her when she’d turned up in a backless gown at his grandfather’s charity ball in Athens one year, enlivening an otherwise staid and boring gala. There had been that split second when he hadn’t known who she was, but he’d wrestled that under control. And done nothing more than chastise her a little.

He certainly hadn’t let her get him hard.

The Conrad’s-little-sister part, of course, had always governed his reactions to her, as well it should. He had to be ten years older than her. But when had she become this lush? With all that smooth, apparently blemish-free skin that made his mouth water as he considered how best to leave his mark—

No. She’s Conrad little sister. She might as well be yours.

But that thought didn’t really land. It certainly didn’t impress his cock.

Because he could remember that dress much too distinctly. Erika had worn it for the precise purpose of rendering her brother apoplectic, that much was clear. Dorian remembered murmuring something soothing to his friend, likely about the established brattiness of younger sisters—not that he had any personal experience in that area. Then he’d glanced over and found his eyes drawn to the mouthwatering line of a beautiful woman’s graceful back, bared entirely by a dress that flirted with the curve of her ass.

He could remember it in stark, unwavering detail. Even now, years later.

Maybe he’d seen Erika all along.

That night it had taken one second, maybe less, before he realized he was looking at precisely the dress that had his friend in fits. One second before he’d understood he was looking at Erika. He’d sternly reminded himself that Erika was ever and only a brat. Ungrateful, immature. Forever embroiled in her juvenile attempts to poke at Conrad. Pigtails. Freckles. Stuck in amber at ten years old.

That was how he knew her. It was the only way he knew her.

But now his cock was heavy, she was in his club, and he couldn’t pretend he hadn’t eyed her then exactly the same way he did now. Like a dessert he couldn’t wait to get his teeth in.

A sweet little bite he wanted to taste. Over and over again.

Some men saw a pretty thing and wanted to lock it away in a tower somewhere. Dorian, on the other hand, wanted to mess it up. But only if she begged.

He almost had to adjust himself.

“This is so funny,” she was saying, brazening her way through this in a way he almost had to admire. She squared her shoulders and held his gaze boldly, as if she was up to any challenge he might put to her. Which he doubted very much. “What a surprise to run into you, of all people. I’m in town for the weekend. One of my friends was talking about his favorite clubs a month or so ago and I couldn’t resist checking them all out. There’s one in Singapore that—”

“Do not lie to me, please.” His voice sliced across hers and stopped her dead. “You’re well aware I live in Berlin.”

She dared to roll her eyes at him, and Dorian’s brows rose in sheer astonishment. He couldn’t recall the last time a submissive in this club—or anywhere else, for that matter—had presumed to treat him with such blatant disrespect. They were usually far too intimidated. He should have been furious. He was. But even so, that spark in him bloomed into a hotter, darker fire.

“It’s a big city, Dorian,” she declared, lifting the stubborn chin that anchored her heart-shaped face—and he really should not have been noticing things like that about her. “I had no idea that if I wanted to find you, which I didn’t, all I had to do was poke my head into the nearest den of iniquity.”

“No one pokes their head into Walfreiheit. You had to wait in line. You had to be dressed appropriately, yet evocatively. And then you have to make it past Mistress Olga, who has an unerring eye for posers and too-casual visitors. Would you like to try telling the truth?” Her lips parted, and he enjoyed watching her cast around for an answer. And enjoyed it even more when she didn’t. “My mistake, Erika. I assumed this must be some kind of social call. That you’d come here to seek me out specifically.”

“Of course not.” But the pulse in her neck told him otherwise. Interesting. “Why would I? I already know that you’re Team Conrad. I prefer to avoid his minions whenever possible.” Again, that reckless smile. “You know how it is.”

He understood she was trying to provoke him. And she was—only not in the way she likely imagined.

“How fortunate, then, that you should run into a familiar face,” he said quietly. “In the midst of your heretofore unknown exploration of power exchanges in all their glory. I had no idea you were hiding a thirst for submission beneath your fluffy, spoiled exterior.”

Her eyes widened further. She started to say something, but it came out as a breath instead. He liked it. Poor little submissive girl. So afraid of what she wanted.

Dorian needed to remind himself that she wasn’t just another new submissive. She was Conrad’s baby sister. And this couldn’t happen.

But he didn’t walk away.

“Well,” she said nervously. “I mean, I can’t say that I wanted to see a familiar face here. Nobody wants to see a familiar face when they’re watching a grown man whip a naked woman until she…”

Her voice petered out. Dorian only watched her, keeping his expression just this side of a scowl until she flushed again.

“Until she came,” he supplied. “And so did you.” He smiled faintly when her throat worked, but no sound came forth. “If this is not a specific social call, that means you are here to play like anyone else. And I regret to inform you that you have already shown me entirely too much disrespect.”

“What are you talking about? You’re the one who followed me down a dark hallway to loom over me and frown dramatically. Maybe you should be concerned about respecting me.”

Dorian studied her, unsmiling. “This is primarily a BDSM club and you present as a sexual submissive. Do you know what that means?”

“Of course I know what it means.”

“Is that an incorrect label for you? The girls at the door are usually much better at teasing out our visitors’ secret wants and needs. Surely they told you that the pink wristband you’re wearing announces your preferences to all and sundry.”

She scowled down at the wristband in question and tugged at it. It sat next to the yellow wristband that announced she was here only for the night, which was why she had no bright blue wristbands, one for each alcoholic beverage patrons were allowed if they wanted to participate in any play.

“I can’t hear you,” he prompted her. “Is that the wrong wristband?”

“This club is obsessed with labels. You know that, don’t you?”

“Indeed it is. Let’s be clear that you as a person can be as complicated and contradictory as you please outside these doors. In here, however, everything is boiled down to its essence. What you want. What you need. And what you are prepared to negotiate to get it.”

Her rebellious chin lifted. “Plus neon wristbands.”

“If you are certain a label cannot contain you, perhaps you had better ask yourself if that’s the truth. Are you so terribly complex? Or are you terrified that if you took the trouble to look inside yourself you would find that at heart, where it matters, you are remarkably simple after all?”

She jerked at that as if he’d slapped her. And he wondered if she knew how dark her eyes got, telling him secrets he doubted she wanted to share.

“The only thing you know about me is who I’m related to,” she threw at him, as if he’d mounted a vicious personal attack. He filed that away. “So maybe you should take the opportunity to ask yourself why you’re such an egregious asshole to a person you hardly know.”

Dorian smiled. “Is it clear to you that I am a dominant, Erika? And was that clear from the moment you saw me here tonight?”

“Yes,” she snapped. “But I…”

“Kneel.”

Dorian was in absolutely no doubt of his own power. He enjoyed playing with the wielding of it. And he might have been thrown by the sight of Erika Vanderburg dressed like a submissive wet dream, but he didn’t think it was a coincidence that she was in Walfreiheit. He didn’t believe she was on a club tour and had accidentally happened on him here.

Couple that with her complaints about “labels” and he had no particular reason to think that she was submissive, either.

Or more accurately, he knew she was a submissive. He could see it every time she looked at him. That longing to yield, but only to a worthy dominant force. To pit herself against his will and chase her own surrender into all the places polite society feared to tread. What he didn’t know was whether or not she would allow herself to play with that need in her, or if she was the sort of person who preferred to pretend she never entertained any dark fantasies there in the privacy of her mind.

There was only one way to find out.

“What did you…?” she managed to get out while goose bumps marched down her arms and told him more truths.

“Do you need me to repeat myself?”

He watched, more fascinated than he wanted to admit, as she waged an internal battle. He could see it. Ordinarily he would have no trouble admitting he was fascinated and hard, but this was different. Because while watching a woman fight to do the very thing they both wanted—when she was as aroused by the notion as she was afraid of it—was one of life’s greatest pleasures, in his experience, this was Erika.

He didn’t know if she would do it.

Or what would happen if she did.

Dorian kept his expression impassive as he watched her struggle there before him. Her pretty face broadcast every last one of her emotions, making it easy to watch her cycle through defiance, longing, fear and a bright flash of straightforward need.

He didn’t help her. He only waited, wondering how exactly she would handle this if she was not, in fact, as submissive as he thought she was.

“Did you say…kneel?”

She sounded almost hopeful. As if he might change his mind.

“You do not have to do anything you don’t want to do, Erika,” he told her, his voice low and his gaze hard. “Safe, sane and consensual aren’t simply words we throw around for fun. But I should warn you, this is not a club where submissives balk at something as simple as kneeling to show respect. You can negotiate high protocol with whatever Dom you like, but they will all expect you to kneel. You might as well practice, don’t you think?” He waited a moment while she breathed a bit too hard. “If submission is what you want.”

“I just… I mean, I only…” Her eyes were slicked over with panic, but he could see the way she kept dancing from toe to toe. Dorian knew this dance. He knew that if he reached between her legs he would find her wet and hot. Better to let her dance it out. “I mean, maybe…”

“Is it our personal connection that has you so flustered?” he asked. Pitilessly. “Would you prefer I summon one of the other masters?”

She appeared to like that even less.

Which he could admit he liked a great deal more.

“I guess… I guess I thought there would be more of a buildup. This feels a lot like going from first to fourth gear in about twelve seconds, doesn’t it?”

“Erika.” Her name made her shiver, then still. “If this isn’t what you want, I will escort you to the bar. You can have as many nonalcoholic drinks as you like, perhaps dance to the music, and feel exhilarated that you were this close to so much edgy deviance. We always expect a certain number of tourists on nights like this. There’s no shame in it. But you need to tell me what you want.”

“I want…”

“If you don’t know how to say it, you can start the conversation very simply.” He tilted his head, indicating the ground beneath her feet. “Simply kneel.”

She moved her hands to her belly, as if her stomach was knotting up. Or fluttering. Or any other of the lovely, delicious reactions she could have been having.

She shot a glance behind him, almost wistfully. But Dorian didn’t move.

And in that moment, when she pulled her gaze back to his and her cheeks got even redder, Dorian had to ask himself what it was he wanted. Did he want her to kneel? Or did he want her to break, flip out and prove that she had come here only on one of her bratty excursions calculated to irritate Conrad more?

It was more than a little confronting that he didn’t quite know the answer.

Liar, something in him whispered. You know what you want.

As if she heard, Erika blew out a breath.

And then, as Dorian watched, his best friend’s little sister sank to her knees on the floor before him, tilted up her face and surrendered.

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