“I don’t remember it.” She looked down at the bedspread, hoping she hadn’t said anything else.
“Tasha’s your stepmother, isn’t she? Does she know you’re here?”
She gave a halfhearted laugh. No doubt the kidnappers had informed Tasha about what Danielle had to do to save her. “Yes. She knows.”
“Why would you be crying out for her?”
“It was just a nightmare. It doesn’t mean anything.”
“Dreams are the mind’s way of processing events and feelings.” He sat up and took her hand in his. “You know, if anything is wrong, you can tell me. I can help you.”
She closed her eyes to ward off the threatening tears. God, it was so tempting to take him up on his offer. Although she’d gotten some sleep, she was so damned tired of carrying this burden all alone. But if it got back to the kidnapper and she lost Tasha as a result, she’d never forgive herself.
“There’s nothing wrong,” she said. “Thank you for staying and watching me this afternoon, but right now, I’d like to get ready for the club.”
For a moment, she thought he’d call her out on her brisk dismissal. Instead, he planted a chaste kiss on her forehead and slid off her bed. “Get some dinner. You’ll need the strength. You’re on water duty tonight.”
With a wicked smile promising a night filled with sensual surprises, the infuriating man strode out her door. The second he left, she blew out an exasperated breath and jumped off the bed.
Her fevered body and her guilty mind waged war against one another as she attempted to decipher what he could possibly have planned for her tonight in the club. She couldn’t imagine anything sexy about serving cups of water to the members. It didn’t matter what he had planned, as long as they ended the night in his bedroom, so she could drug him and find that box.
After applying some mascara, she threw on a black Lycra minidress, quickly pulled her hair into a ponytail, and checked herself in the mirror. She sighed. She didn’t look half as good as she had when Gracie had made her over, but frankly, she wasn’t going to the dungeon to pick up a Dom. There was only one man she needed to impress and only one man to whom she had to answer. And he didn’t seem to care if she wore makeup at all.
After dinner with the other slave trainees, she went downstairs, eager to learn what Cole had planned for her service.
The dungeon pulsed with energy, a sensual beat of music heightening the erotic atmosphere. She no longer blinked at the sexual acts going on around her, but she wasn't immune to it either. Instead, she became a part of it, a proud cog in the wheel of the club. Her hips swayed as she glided across the floor to serve the members their drinks, and a euphoric sense of belonging placed a lightness in her soul. In only a couple of days, she’d gone from an outsider to an interloper to a . . . slave.
Before she’d experienced it, she would’ve never believed a slave in the BDSM world would mean anything more than a twenty-four/seven sexual object. But she enjoyed serving the members under Cole’s direction. Bringing water to them seemed like such a little thing when he’d assigned her the task earlier tonight, but after two hours, she truly felt as though she belonged here.
Every member she’d served had shown her gratitude for her service, not only in their words of thanks, but in the tone of their voices and the kindness in their eyes. Most of them were Dominants—Masters, Sadists, Tops, and Daddies. She would’ve thought they’d see her as something lesser, but they made her feel worshipped. The exhilaration of pleasing so many people brought her a sense of peace and happiness she hadn’t experienced since before her father had gone to prison.
Wearing the dungeon monitor medallion around his neck, Cole leaned against the wall, his feet crossed at his ankles and his arms folded over his chest. His stance said casual, but the sharpness of his eyes told her he was in tune to everything going on around him. After handing off cups of water to a Domme and her baby girl, Danielle took a moment to observe Cole in his natural habitat.
He always exuded confidence, but here in the dungeon, he reminded her of a lion. Powerful. Graceful. Dangerous. In a room full of alphas, he was the king, and everyone acknowledged it in their subtle mannerisms when they were around him. Gazes lowered. Heads nodded in recognition. Spines straightened. And in turn, he acknowledged them with a smile, a handshake, or a comforting touch on their shoulders.
Tonight, he was dressed in black leather pants and a vest over his bare chest. Her mouth watered as she drank in his six-pack, the muscles of his abdomen rippling with each inhalation, and the triangle of hair between his pecs that thinned into a line and disappeared below his waistband. Her fingers itched to delve into the hair and follow the trail down over those sharp muscles. She’d never found tattoos attractive, but his black tribal armband tattoos sent a delicious shiver down her spine. Her nipples tightened and her pussy moistened at the thought of tracing them with her tongue.