This is a good thing, I remind myself.

It means I’m feeling something.

And the only thing I can give credence to for this breakthrough is @elencosti89.

I don’t even know her name, but I know she’s broken something open.

I lean on my hip, pulling my cell out of my pocket. Within moments, I have the fantasy app open and I’m sending her a message before I can talk myself out of it.

I’m disappointed not to spend time with you tonight. Let’s meet again, at your convenience. I’ll gladly pay your entrance fee into the club for the pleasure of your company.

Setting the phone on the bedside table, I wonder if she’s still at her friend’s birthday party or if she’s made her way home yet. I wonder where she lives and what she does for a living. I never even thought to ask, even though the polite thing would have been to engage in conversation after she’d asked what I did.

Pushing up from the bed, I suppress the groan that wants to bubble out from the pain in my leg. It would be so easy to succumb to narcotic pain meds to help ease the burden. Instead, I’m using old-fashioned perseverance in my therapy and workout regimens, the dull support of a cane, and a gratefulness the ache in my leg takes my mind off other things.

I limp over to the guest bathroom, then strip out of my clothes. It takes me no more than five minutes to take a hot shower and brush my teeth.

When I make my way back into the guest room where I sleep, the phone draws my gaze. I can see there’s a notification on the icon of the fantasy app.

I plop down on the edge of the bed, the damp towel I’d wrapped around my waist gaping and exposing the fourteen-inch scar running along my outer left thigh. The scar itself looks like someone gouged out a chunk of muscle in the shape of a thin triangle about three inches in width at the widest point. My hand rubs at the scar, feeling the hardware underneath the reddened, puckered skin where I have plates and screws holding my femur together.

My other hand shakes slightly as I pick up my phone, then use my thumb to tap on the app. I maneuver to the messaging system, and my heart lurches when I see the response is from @elencosti89.

Tomorrow night? 11pm?

The weird sensation of my lips curving upward startles me a moment, but then I’m typing back.

Perfect. Meet you in the lobby.

CHAPTER 6

Elena

In all the times I have been to The Wicked Horse, I have never met someone in the first-floor lobby. Even though an evening at the club pretty much guarantees a fuck, there’s still work to be put in to meet and match up with someone who can fulfill the desired fantasies. That means socializing and talking beforehand.

Tonight, it’s not necessary, which makes it feel a little bit like an arranged date. I hate to think of it that way since nothing about tonight resembles a traditional date. We’re certainly not going to be having extended conversation while trying to get to know each other. Let’s face it… we know all we need to at this point.

We are well matched in our sexual chemistry and needs.

The Wicked Horse sits on the forty-sixth floor of the Onyx Casino in downtown Vegas. There is a private elevator that runs from the first-floor lobby straight up to the sex club and I stand near it waiting for my “date” to arrive.

So weird to even think of him as a date. I don’t even know his name. Only that he’s a neurosurgeon. I suppose I could address him as “doctor,” but that seems weird.

Admittedly, I am beyond excited and nervous at the same time. I honestly did not think I would hear from the man again. There was something about the way he’d left Jorie’s party last night that clearly stated he wasn’t interested. Sure, he tried to hook up with me, but because it wasn’t on his exact terms, he’d moved on. I’d been disappointed, but I didn’t think he felt much of anything about our ships passing in the night.

I glance at my watch, my entire body buzzing with anticipation. It almost feels like I’ve been roofied. Not that I would know what it felt like, but I can suspect since I feel overly primed to have this man fuck me again.

Inside my small purse, my phone chimes with a text. The handbag is a simple black silk number that matches the black dress I’m wearing. It’s sexy but also elegant, which is the expected dress code for The Wicked Horse.

I reach in and nab my phone, flipping to the text screen to see what Jorie wrote.

I am officially three days late on my period.

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