THE BILLIONAIRE'S LOVER

1 | IN WHICH SHE BECAME SICK.

The guard finished looking at the papers and handed them off to another man before saying, 'I'll take your jacket, sir. And miss? Please leave your shoes, and your coat with me now.'

'My shoes?' After a glance at the guy to see if he was serious—he was—Malora slipped off her orange block heels.

The guard patiently kept his hand outstretched until she handed over her orange coat too. 'Thank you, miss. Well, folks, have a pleasant evening.' Smiling, the guard pointed them toward a door on the right wall.

Wait a minute. Malora frowned at her bare feet, then looked at the man. 'Excuse me, but why is Mr. Gold allowed to keep his shoes on?'

The guard blinked. 'Did I make a mistake? Which one of you is the Dom or Domme?'

'I am.' Damian gave her a disgusted look. 'Just be quiet, Malora. Don't talk at all.'

She bit back her first response—and the second—and settled for a nod.

What the Shrek mean by 'Dom'? Surely, it's not what I am thinking, right?

Before they reached the door, Damian yanked her to his side, his fingers digging into her skin. 'There will be  Doms here and subs. Remember you're with me. Don't talk to anyone else. Don't look at anyone else.'

'Got it. Now let go of me.' With an exasperated sigh, she pried his hand from her arm, then followed him.

Malora stifled a gasp at the sight that greeted her as they stepped through the door. The walls were covered with museum quality paintings. She gazed up with awe at the cherubs and Madonna-like women looking down at her. They were so beautiful that Malora wanted a closer look, but Damian was guiding her firmly by the elbow towards another door. They walked through the entry, and into a huge room crowded with people. Her eyes widened as she looked around.

This place must take up the entire first floor of the house. A circular bar of darkly polished wood ruled the center of the room. Wrought iron sconces cast flickering light over tables and chairs, couches and coffee tables. Plants created small secluded areas. The right corner of the room had a dance floor where music pulsed with a throbbing beat. Farther down, parts of the wall were more brightly lit, but she couldn't see past the crowd to make out why. Her steps slowed as she realized the club members were attired in extremely provocative clothing, from skintight leathers and latex to corsets to—oh my—one woman was bare from the waist up. A long chain dangled from. . .clamps on her nipples.

What in the world? Wincing, Malora glanced up at her boss. 'Uh, right. Exactly what kind of place is this?'

Over the music and murmur of voices, a woman's voice suddenly wailed in unmistakable orgasm. Heat flared in Malora's face.

Amusement glinted Damian's dark eyes. 'It's a private club, and tonight is bondage night.'

He tightened his grip around her elbow and led her deeper into the room close to a large palm plant. With his back to the room occupants he said, 'I don't like fucking inert bodies so no more drink for you tonight.'

Malora's eyes widened. Still the champagne must have already gone to her head for she felt inordinately courageous. She was ready to talk terms with him. 'Right, you don't want inert bodies. What do you want, Damian?'

From the camel's lips came cold breath. 'Have you read Fifty Shades Of Grey?'

Almost all the other girls at the agency have read the book and Malora had been present while they have raved about it, but she had been confused by its popularity. Did women really have a secret desire to be owned by a powerful man? Could it be love when a man wants to tie you up and flog you raw?  When Malora mentioned it to her sister, she'd smiled and astutely remarked, 'The Western woman sneered at the woman in the purdah and now she dons a dog collar and worships at the same altar.'