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A creak, and then the door opens a crack. I can make out… a mask? I flinch back.
“Brin,” Sawyer whispers.
And then the door swings open, revealing a… a mannequin. A doll woman. What the fuck is this? She doesn’t look like Brinlee—and yet underneath the paint on her face, it is her.
Red lips, bright pink cheeks, black lashes like sails over her eyes. Her hair is puffy and sprayed with glitter. Her dress is a sort of black corset with a red tutu, her legs wrapped in black stockings with red ribbons and her feet in red high-heeled sandals.
It does something to me—and yet, when I lust after women, which is almost never, I prefer them natural. That hourglass figure, though, her full tits pushed up, her legs, the pouty mouth, they seem to communicate directly with my dick and balls, giving the message to harden and throb.
She gazes at us, her mouth falling open, a paleness coming to her face. “Sawyer… what are you doing here? What are you all doing here?”
“Hi, princess.” Roman sweeps a stupid bow.
“How did you find me here?”
“You mentioned the place,” Sawyer says, a sheepish smile on his face. “Can we come in?”
She chews on her lower lip, getting red lipstick on her teeth. It’s cute. It’s sexy.
It annoys me.
“It’s a little cramped,” she says, “but sure, come on in. I don’t know why you’re here, but I have twenty minutes before show time.”
She steps back, and Sawyer enters the room, followed by the rest of us.
“Why are you dressed like that? Is it Halloween already?” I mutter, waltzing inside, pretending I’m not stiffer than the pole on the stage outside.
Her dark gaze turns to me. A defiant expression enters her eyes. “This is my dance costume. I’m a Baby Doll. Gotta play the role.”
“Figures.” I stop, afraid to bump into furniture, irritated and knowing I’m being an ass.
She was right, the place is cramped. Chairs, a dressing table with a lit mirror, costumes hanging on every surface, shoes stashed under the chairs. Hats, boas, whips—whoa—and all sorts of theater props litter the room.
“Nice digs.” Roman walks around, having no problems navigating the tight quarters, the smug ass. He moves like a dancer, like a cat, touching a thing here, a thing there, never disturbing anything. “Common dressing room for all of you?”
“Yeah.” She puts her hands on her waist. My God, she does look like a doll. It’s disturbing. In a good way. Is it a good way? Fuck, I don’t know, though my dick continues to think it is.
“The Alpha Cat, huh?” Archer, like me, doesn’t seem confident he can move without smashing up the place, so he has stayed by the door, parking his hip against the dressing table.
She shrugs. “You have the Alpha Bet, we have the Alpha Cat.”
Sawyer is staring at her. I think his jaw is slack. He’s hard, too, I notice with some amusement. But he’s also confused, judging by the frown. “Brin…”
“Okay, guys.” She huffs, turning to look at each one of us. “What are you doing here?”
Sawyer flinches. Poor guy, he’s such a goner for her. “I was… worried.”
“About me?”
“Duh,” I mutter. “No, he was worried about his dog, but here we are.”
“Cat,” Sawyer says.
“What?”
“I don’t have a dog. I have a cat. Get your facts straight.”
A snort escapes me. “Still pissed about me rearranging your books, huh?”
