Sasha, twenty-five and a vision of command, surveyed the club. Her red hair was a burning crown, and her body—a masterpiece of broad hips and thick thighs—was a throne built of flesh and confidence. She was done wondering. Tonight was for tasting. Her eyes landed on her: a petite, dark-haired thing nursing a gin and tonic, looking beautifully lost. Sasha moved, the parting crowd an unconscious tribute to her power. She stopped before the girl, whose eyes widened. Sasha didn’t speak, simply curled a finger, beckoning. The command was silent, absolute. The girl obeyed, following her into a shadowed, velvet-lined alcove away from the thumping bass. Here, Sasha cupped her jaw, her thumb stroking the soft skin. She had fantasized about this moment, the softness of another woman. Now, she would claim it. She leaned in, her fall of red hair sealing them in their own world. The first press of lips was a question. The girl’s lips were impossibly soft, parting with a gentle sigh. Sasha deepened the kiss, a low groan rumbling in her chest. It wasn’t just nice; it was a revelation. A key turning in a lock she hadn’t known was there. The taste of wine and something uniquely feminine bloomed on her tongue. Fire licked through Sasha’s veins. She tightened her grip in the girl’s hair, tilting her head to deepen the conquest. The soft, willing yielding beneath her touch sent a jolt of pure, unadulterated power straight to her core. This was it. This was the fantasy made real, and she, Sasha, its newly crowned queen.