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Rowan rested on her barstool, sipping her tequila. There was a kind of depravity in seeking out a new lover. A desperation in the act of looking that she hated as much as she loved finding him. Bodies drifted by, carried by the colorful strobing lights and rhythmic music.

She preferred dark places like the club because her vibrant red hair didn’t stand out quite so much.

She’d grown up with an unusual set of features that doctors just explained away as a genetic anomaly.

She wore colored contact lenses to avoid startling people with the strange, red color of her irises, but the hair color wasn’t so easy to cover up.

For some reason no dye would stick, but at least that part she could pass off as a fashion statement, and it did catch the attention of potential lovers.

Not that it was difficult to catch their attention, with her unique looks.

Even though most women looked at her like she was some kind of alien creature, the men were barely able to keep their dicks in their pants.

Some nights she’d come to this place just to watch, have a drink, and wonder at the eventual crumbling of the women’s wills against the men who found them.

What woman would let herself give in so completely to a man?

She never would, and neither did she need to.

She’d been drawn to lucrative financial opportunities from an early age, forced to find her own opportunities as an orphan.

Now she enjoyed collecting rare, ancient carvings, a passion that had proved to be the only occupation that really fulfilled her.

She wore one small piece of her collection now—a tiny, red jade medallion with a dragon carved into it.

It was set in gold and hung from a delicate chain around her neck resting just at the base of her throat.

She touched it absently, believing she could feel some power in it, but knowing it was all her imagination.

The only power was in her ability to seduce a man, but the right one had yet to present himself.

She entertained herself watching the club patrons in the meantime.

A couple tumbled into a corner a few yards away and embraced. She watched covertly, entertained that they thought the corner was private even though it clearly wasn’t.

The woman tilted her head back against the wall, inviting the man’s lips to trace down her throat. She wore a tiny little dress that barely covered her. Easy access, Rowan supposed, taking a sip of her drink.

A dark shape sat down at the bar beside her. “A round of drinks says he’ll fuck her right there,” a rough, thickly accented voice said near her ear.

She didn’t look at him, but her skin tingled in a way that let her know he was the one.

Sexual premonition? Maybe. Whatever it was, she never needed much information to know a man was worth her attention.

This one’s voice—the gruff tone and foreign accent—were enough for her to know without even seeing him.

And she smiled at the challenge he’d offered.

“Two shots of tequila says he goes down on her.” She said it without turning back to look at him, though she could feel his presence beside her.

“Oh, darling, that’s cruel. To yourself, I mean. A man never goes down on a woman unless he loves her.”

The small hairs on the back of her neck stood up when he said “darling”.

“That is patently untrue.”

The hot breath of his laugh caressed her shoulder.

She heard him shift closer. Out of the corner of her eye she glimpsed a large, manicured, gold-ringed hand holding a glass.

Ice clinked and the aroma of expensive whiskey hit her nostrils.

She’d bet anything that the shiny watchband secured a Rolex to his wrist. None of it impressed her as much as his presence, so palpable he may as well have already been sinking inside her, right through her little black dress.

“You’re right. I’d go down on you in a heartbeat and I don’t even know your name.”

Jesus, she was turned on just by his voice. She’d forgotten the couple in the corner, though she still kept her eyes fixed on them. Instead, she imagined she was that woman, and the man was her new friend.

The man had the woman turned around now, pressed against the wall, chest-first. His fingers tugged at the hem of her skirt, pushing it up above her hip.

Not even the shadows could conceal the white, round shape of the woman’s ass, a thin strip of dark fabric crossing one hip.

That disappeared with a jerk of the man’s hand.

Rowan felt the touch of a large, warm hand at her hip, a thumb grazing a pattern into the bare skin of her back just above the fabric of her low-cut dress.

His touch was gentle and cool, but left a promise when he removed his hand.

When his hand disappeared, he murmured behind her, “I think you owe me a drink.”

“Wait for it,” she said. Whether it was the way the man in the corner was clutching the woman’s ass, or some particular change in his posture, she had the sense of what he might do next.

She had to restrain a laugh when he sank to his knees and buried his face between the woman’s ass cheeks.

Rowan could imagine the ecstatic sounds coming from the woman’s throat by the way her chest thrust out and her head flew back, mouth open while the man tongued between her legs from behind.

“Did I call it or what?” she asked, turning around to gloat, only to be greeted by an empty barstool.