lifting her from his lap to drop her in a heap on the ground before him, a reminder that he was still in charge, would always be in charge, leaving the cushioned throne for the first time that night to mount her from behind, his tired feet forgotten. There was a birch switch beside the raised dais, and he took it up, admiring the red outline of his hand on the girl’s peaches-and-cream skin. She would redden beautifully. Yes, she could leave the club draped in his fur, a mark of ownership that would protect her delicate skin from the cold.
