She pulled him through the herd of admirers toward an open wrought-iron elevator shaft at the other side of the floor. Guarding the elevator was a man roughly the size of a house wearing chaps and a spiked dog collar. Nora transferred her riding crop from her right hand to her left, and with her free right hand delivered a slap so fierce to the man’s face that Zach winced.

Zach moved forward ready to take the brunt of the man’s retaliation, but he merely smiled, bowed to Nora and stepped aside.

Nora stepped into the elevator and Zach followed.

“What the hell was that?” Zach demanded, referring to the slap.

“The password,” she called back.

No doors closed on the lift as it started to rise. Zach huddled near the back wall for safety, but Nora stood at the very edge and blew a kiss to the howling, cheering crowd below.

The elevator brought them three stories up to an old world bar. Tables of black lacquer sat everywhere and at the center of each pale yellow candles burned and dripped wax over the shiny surfaces. Behind the bar hung a huge mirror and every sort of alcohol one could conceive of. The din of the crowd was still audible but distinctly subdued. A portion of the bar opened like a balcony. Zach could see the chaos still raging below.

Nora brought him to a table near the center of the bar. She stood by her chair and waited. Seconds later a dark-eyed, well-muscled young man wearing low-slung leather pants came up behind Nora and pulled her chair out for her.

“Have a seat, mistress,” he said. “If it pleases you.”

Nora laughed and turned in her chair to face him. He knelt at her feet and waited with a smile.

“Griffin Randolfe Fiske,” she said in delighted recognition. She put the tip of her riding crop under his chin and forced him to meet her eyes. “What the hell are you doing down there, you dirty Dom?”

“Just seeing how the other half grovels,” Griffin said, running his hand through his near-black hair. Even on the floor on his knees, it was obvious to Zach Nora’s friend was no submissive.

Zach guessed Nora’s friend was in his mid-twenties. Handsome and tan with armband tattoos around both biceps, Griffin appeared to be a close friend of Nora’s—very close.

“Who’d you piss off this time?” Nora flicked the little silver tag hanging off his collar.

“The usual.”

Nora shook her head.

“You know Søren has the right to revoke your key, Griff,” she warned, casually twirling the riding crop in her nimble fingers.

“Yes, but you like me so he won’t.”

Nora gave him a sidelong glare with a smile underneath.

“I don’t like you. I tolerate you.”

“Yeah, you tolerated my brains out in Miami two months ago.”

Nora scoffed. “I was feeling unusually tolerant that day.”