What in the actual fuck…?

Jaxon Mills froze. The woman who’d just pushed through the frosted-glass door that separated the reception area of the Quarter from the main dungeon resembled his biggest investor’s only daughter.

He shook his head. It couldn’t be her.

As far as he knew, Willow Henderson was tucked away at an expensive New York college earning a master’s degree in social work. She sure as hell couldn’t be standing in the middle of one of New Orleans’s most exclusive BDSM clubs.

But holy hell, the resemblance between the two was startling, at least on the surface.

Both were tall and slender. Each time he’d seen her, Willow’s hair had been in a messy bun. She dressed in soft, comfortable jeans, often with artistic rips in the fabric, and tank tops beneath long-sleeved men’s shirts.

She was very different from the woman who paused to watch a submissive receiving a flogging on a nearby Saint Andrew’s cross.

He lowered his sparkling water to the table as he swept his gaze over the look-alike. Her blonde hair was lit by fiery highlights and danced around her shoulders in feminine waves. She wore a black leather crop top with sexy cap sleeves that left her midriff bare. Her asymmetrical skirt was short enough to slam his imagination into dangerous territory. He pictured himself lifting the hem as she grabbed her ankles and took a deep breath before he caressed her then used his bare hand to paint her buttocks a tantalizing shade of pink. It would be even better if she was panting and screaming his name.

The woman took a step forward, perhaps to get a better view of the scene. He glanced around to see if she was with anyone. Prospective members of the Quarter were required to attend with a sponsor on their first three visits. Since she appeared to be alone, it meant she’d been here a number of times.

When the flogging ended, she turned toward the bar area. Aviana, the club’s owner and respected businesswoman, had been persuaded to add one about a year ago when it was pointed out that she could open at lunchtime for members who wished to have a discreet place for business meetings. Serving lunch had been another stroke of genius—and financial gain.

Since most clubs of this nature didn’t serve alcohol, it had taken her some time to establish a policy. Members or guests who imbibed at all had their hand marked with an X, which forbade play for the rest of the evening. And she had a strict two-drink rule for everyone.

The bar area was glassed in, making it much quieter than the dungeon. Jax appreciated having the opportunity to relax with a sub after a scene, providing them both a gradual transition from intensity back to the real world. At times, he’d used the space to negotiate with a new sub. On a couple of occasions, he’d even stopped by to relax after an evening out.