One night. No names. No expectations. That was the deal.
Club Crimson’s annual Hot Mountain Nights event is the one weekend the club opens its doors to vetted newcomers. Tourists. Curious locals. People who want to dip a toe into the deep end without drowning.
I’m not a newcomer. I’m a dominant who hasn’t scened in over a year because the last time I trusted someone with my control, she used it as a weapon. I’m here tonight because my brothers dragged me out, and I figured I’d have one whiskey at the bar and leave.
Then she walks in.
Not scared. Not performing. Just standing there in a red dress that fits her body like it was sewn directly onto her skin, scanning the room the way a woman does when she knows exactly what she wants and is deciding if anything here is worth her time.
Her eyes land on me. She doesn’t look away.
She’s a summer visitor. Here for a month. Leaving at the end of it. No strings, no complications, no reason for either of us to pretend this is anything more than heat and proximity and the kind of chemistry that makes rational people do reckless things.
I should let her walk past me.
Instead I pull out the chair next to mine and say, "Sit."
She sits. And the look she gives me rewrites every rule I made about keeping my distance.
