Not an empty bar stool in sight. Suppressing a groan, Andrea Eriksson shifted her weight to the other foot and wiggled her cramped toes. Whatever demon invented stiletto-heeled boots should roast in hell.
Then again, some people would probably think the Tampa b**m club was hell. A trickle of sweat ran down her back under the biker jacket. It was definitely hot enough for hell.
She should have stayed home, taken a long bubble bath with music, turned on some Enya, and enjoyed her cozy apartment. Her haven, far away from the slums, and rented with her own money.
But no. She wanted to be here at this downtown b**m club. Kind of. Unfortunately, she'd already walked through the place twice, checking out the possible Doms. Only two had that ultimately confident look of authentic Doms, and both
