“Excuse me, I think you dropped this.”

The man turned around. So he understood English at least. Good start. Laurel held up the black wool scarf she had just unwound from her own neck. She’d followed the man to his hotel a few blocks from the club. The finest hotel in the area, she noted, as he’d nodded to the doorman who impassively opened the large glass doors for him.

She’d nodded to the doorman as well, saying in German, “Cold as a witch’s tit, eh?” The man had done a slight double take and then grinned broadly as she sailed past him, her eye still on the broad back covered in a fine camelhair coat.

As he turned around she now noted his eyes, a dark, rich chocolate brown—unusual in a person with such blond hair. She felt his appraising gaze as his eyes quickly swept her. He smiled and said, “No, uh, sorry. I have my scarf.” He touched a tan scarf at his neck that perfectly matched his coat.

“Well then, guess I’ve got me a scarf,” Laurel grinned, draping it over her neck. She stuck out her hand and said, “Laurel Jordan, pleased to meet you.”

He automatically took her hand, shaking it firmly. “Jonathan Goldman.” They stood smiling at one another for a moment as she waited. After a beat he said, “Uh, would you like to go into the bar and have a drink, perhaps? Are you staying here?”

Bingo.
|
“I’d love to,” Laurel assented as if it were a brilliant idea, and one she never would have thought of on her own. She didn’t add that no, she would never drop four hundred dollars a night for a room, no matter how posh the hotel. “I’m staying with friends,” she said airily.

They settled themselves at the bar. Jonathan ordered another gin and tonic, Laurel asked for Cabernet. As they sipped their drinks Jonathan said, “So you’re American. What brings you to Germany?”

“The tail end of a few months of bumming around the continent. I’m going to give it another try back in New York. I have an idea for a club there, and a few friends with too much money for their own good willing to invest in it. I’ve already found the location and I have a partner too.”

“You’re from the city? I live in Manhattan. Work for a real estate development firm. Just finished closing a deal here with a German firm that wants to do business in the States. Small world.”

“It is. No matter where I go, I run into people from New York.” Though I don’t always follow them from strip clubs, she thought, inwardly grinning.
“So what’s this idea of yours for a club?”

Laurel took a drink of her wine and said, “A BDSM club. But not some dump in the basement of a clothing boutique or a warehouse, like most of them. Not a poser club for wannabe players dressing up in leather and pretending they have a clue. No, this would be something different—a full dungeon, professional Doms, paid membership. Very upscale.”

Jonathan’s eyes widened and he raised his eyebrows. “BDSM! Sadomasochism, whips and chains, all that stuff?”

Laurel laughed at the surprise in his voice. “Uh, yeah. You’ve heard of it?” Her tone was sardonic.

“Well sure, yeah. Cat woman in latex and stilettos wielding a whip over a little naked bald guy who’s licking her boot?”

Laurel laughed. “Oh stop. Surely you’re not that naïve. Even if you are American.”
Jonathan colored slightly and took a long drink of his gin and tonic. “So what would make your club different from the usual black walls, porn videos, fat girls in leather corsets and miserable lonely men in trench coats?”

“Sounds like you’ve been to a few of the clubs, huh, Jonathan?” She grinned, dimples appearing in each cheek as she watched him blush.

“Well, uh, you know. Passing through…”

“Passing through? So you have no fantasies of your own personal slave girl? Of having her meet you naked at the door each night, a whip in her mouth, forehead touching the floor, ass in the air?”

“Jesus,” Jonathan said. “No! I mean, I respect women.”

“So? What’s that got to do with what moves you sexually? With what turns you on?”

“Well, I mean, it’s just, I would never, you know, hurt a woman. Degrade her.”
“There’s nothing degrading about consensual submission,” Laurel said softly, putting her hand lightly over his. Jonathan didn’t pull away, instead narrowing his eyes as he regarded her.

Laurel wondered if he liked what he saw. She knew she was good-looking with dark wavy hair that fell in soft waves, large green eyes and fine, clear skin. Even at twenty-seven she barely needed and rarely used makeup. Her body was long and lean, the muscles a result of hard work and hard play. The idea of joining a gym to work out made her laugh—why pay to jump up and down and lift things? Why not just get out there and plant a garden or climb a mountain? Do something useful or do something fun. Life was too short to spend time sweating in a mirrored room with a bunch of overweight women jumping in place to bad disco music.

He wasn’t exactly falling over himself for her as so many guys did, but she liked that. He didn’t send off that desperate vibe that was so unappealing in a man. He seemed confident, if a little guarded about his sexual predilections. But maybe he was just being careful on her account—not wanting to shock her with his sadistic fantasies. If he even had them! Maybe Greta had been right and he was actually a sub! Watching the girl onstage with his hand over his cock, but in his mind’s eye it was himself on that stage. God, maybe he was gay too! A gay sub—terrific.

She smiled ruefully at the conversation in her head. “You have the most adorable dimples,” Jonathan said suddenly. He still hadn’t pulled his hand from beneath hers. Okay, not gay.

“And you have gorgeous teeth,” she responded. “I was always a sucker for good teeth.” They grinned at each other for a few seconds and Jonathan withdrew his hand. He gestured toward the waitress for another round.

“So when are you heading back to the States?” Laurel asked casually.

“Well, tomorrow actually.”

“Tomorrow! Doesn’t give us much time to get to know each other, huh?” She watched him, and could almost see the wheels spinning in his head as he calculated his ticket times and weighed the risks and possibilities. He looked at his watch. It was already near midnight.

He had taken off his coat and suit jacket, and now unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt. The tie had probably come off after he’d closed the deal with the Germans. She noted the fine linen of his shirt and the gold cufflinks at his sleeves. As he opened the shirt a little she couldn’t help but admire his thick neck, not muscle-bound, but strong and masculine. She liked a big man—someone who could give her a good fight when she wrestled him, but who would always win.

She felt her pussy moisten and tingle as he smiled again, fine, square white teeth against tan skin. When he smiled his face creased up, smile lines at the corners of his eyes and his mouth. He looked like a man who smiled often.

She licked her lips, her eyes on his, waiting. Either he’d invite her up to his room now or he’d stand up, say how tired he was and how he hoped they’d meet again soon. She found she was eagerly hoping for the former.