Page 17 of Theirs to Desire (Club M: Boxed Set)

FIONA

B efore I know it, it’s Thursday evening. At half-past seven, my eyes are blurry from staring at the computer all day, and my neck is sore. My skirt is rumpled, and my hair looks like a rat’s nest.

Raymond had specific instructions for the way I was to present myself. Adrian had said nothing. He’d just given me an enigmatic look and told me to drop by their offices at eight.

Ever since I saw them in the lobby on Tuesday, I’ve been trying to pretend I’m not nervous. Now that it’s almost time to meet them, I finally admit the truth. I’m not as calm as I’d like to be. My insides are twisted into a knot, part need and part anxiety.

Bondage and punishment, restraint and desire.

I run a comb through my hair. I rummage through my desk drawers until I find a tube of lipstick. It’s fire-engine red. I bought it a month ago on a whim after Samara had given me a lecture about falling into a rut, but I’d never been bold enough to wear it.

Then again, I’m about to walk into the office of two dominants. Compared to that, red lipstick is easy.

I glance at my reflection in the small mirror that hangs on the back of my door. My skin is too pale, and I have far too many freckles, but my eyes are bright, shining with anticipation. My mind might have a thousand reservations about what I’m doing, but my body doesn’t.

Stupid body.

You’re delaying, Fiona.

It’s late. Mrs. Morales is long gone, though she’s left her current knitting project on her desk, some kind of lurid orange concoction that I desperately hope isn’t going to become a baby sweater because no baby deserves this neon horror.

I turn off the lights and lock up, then head down the passageway toward the elevators.

Lockhart I should be better at playing the game. “Sorry, Mr. Payne. I forgot.”