The corridor opened into a vast, dimly lit space that made my pulse kick up. The air was thick with the scent of sandalwood, sweat, leather, the musk of arousal, all in one. My guide’s fingers curled around my wrist, pulling me forward as my eyes adjusted to the scene unfolding before me.

A woman was sprawled across a velvet chaise, her wrists bound above her head with silk ropes, her back arched as another woman—masked in black lace—traced a feather along the inside of her thigh. The bound woman gasped, her hips jerking upward, begging for more. Nearby, a man knelt between a woman’s legs, his tongue working in slow strokes while onlookers murmured approval. Another couple was pressed against a mirrored wall, the man’s hand fisted in the woman’s hair as she moaned, her fingers digging into his shoulders.

I swallowed hard. My cock twitched from the sheer rawness of it all.

"My God," I breathed.

The woman beside me chuckled, her thumb brushing over my knuckles. "Impressive, isn’t it?"

"A sex club," I muttered, though that didn’t begin to cover it. This wasn’t some seedy backroom. It was decadent, the kind of place where fantasies were crafted.

She leaned in, her lips grazing the shell of my ear. "Not just a sex club." Her voice was a purr. "This is Zentharis. A place for those who crave more than just fucking."

My gaze flicked to a man tied to a St. Andrew’s cross, his chest heaving as a woman in a latex dress dragged a flogger down his spine. He groaned, his cock straining against his leather pants.

"And what exactly is more?" I asked, though I already knew. The air hummed with it. The thrill of control, of surrender.

She didn’t answer. Instead, she tugged me deeper into the lounge, past the voyeuristic crowds, toward a section partitioned by heavy velvet curtains. The energy here was darker. The music was even lower, and the lighting more intimate, casting long shadows over the scenes playing out in the semi-private alcoves.

Then I saw her.

A woman in a black corset, the lace hugging her waist exactly, her hips encased in leather panties that left little to the imagination. A mask obscured her face, but her confident and commanding posture drew my eye. She stood over a bound woman, her fingers tangled in the submissive’s hair as she guided the other’s mouth onto her thigh.

My breath hitched.

The corseted woman’s free hand trailed down her own body, her nails scraping over the leather between her legs before she pressed two fingers against the bound woman’s lips.

"Open," she ordered, her voice low and velvety.

The submissive obeyed, her tongue darting out to lick the offered fingers. A shudder ran through me. My cock was iron now, straining against my slacks.

I felt the corseted woman smirk even through the mask, and then she slid those glistening fingers into the submissive’s mouth, fucking her throat in shallow thrusts. The bound woman gagged, her eyes watering, but she didn’t pull away. She took it.

A groan tore from my throat.

Beside me, my guide let out a light chuckle. "She’s something, isn’t she?"

I couldn’t look away. The corseted woman released the submissive’s hair, then traced her nails down the other woman’s chest, over her stomach, before dipping beneath the waistband of her panties. The submissive whimpered, her hips lifting off the bench.

"She’s been with us over a year," my guide murmured. "Learned the ropes quickly. Though she’s still... selective."

I dragged my gaze from the scene long enough to glance at her. "Selective how?"

"She only plays with women." Her lips curved into a slight frown. "Most of the regulars would kill for a night with her. One even offered me a hundred grand under the table." She tilted her head. "But she has rules. Very specific rules."

I swallowed. "Like what?"

"Like no touching unless she says so." My guide’s fingers tightened around my wrist. "Like only dominating someone she trusts implicitly." She paused.

My eyes snapped back to the corseted woman just as she pulled her hand free of the submissive’s panties, her fingers slick. She brought them to her own lips, tasting the other woman before leaning down to kiss her possessively.

Fuck.

I imagined Lena like that—bound, trembling, her lips parted as I fed her my cock. The thought made my head spin. I could almost taste her, feel the heat of her cunt clenching around me, her nails digging into my skin as I—

"Have you ever been to a place like this?"

The voice snapped me back. I blinked, realizing I’d been staring, my jaw clenched so tight it ached.

"No," I admitted with a rough voice.

She hummed, her thumb tracing circles on the inside of my wrist. "Do you like it?"

Yes. Fuck, yes. But I didn’t say that. Instead, I watched as the corseted woman straightened, her fingers trailing over the submissive’s collarbone before she stepped back, leaving the other woman panting.

The crowd around them erupted in an appreciative clap. The corseted woman bowed her head slightly, then reached up to unhook her mask.

My breath stalled as the mask fell away. For a single, heart-stopping second, the world narrowed to her.

Lena. My Lena.

Her dark hair was swept up, her lips parted, still glistening from the kiss. She looked fucking edible—flushed, powerful, her brown eyes scanning the crowd with a smirk that promised sin.

Then her gaze landed on me... and she froze.