Sasha, a vision in crimson and ivory, lounged on the velvet chaise. At twenty-five, she was a master of her domain, her cascade of red hair a stark, beautiful contrast to the dark, opulent room. Her emerald eyes, sharp as cut glass, watched her new charge practice in the center of the floor. He was a nervous thing, struggling with the simple elegance she demanded. “Higher,” she purred, her voice a silken command that left no room for argument. “Lift your chin. A sissy does not look at her feet; she looks toward the world she intends to captivate.” He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing in the delicate lace collar she’d fastened around his neck. He took a hesitant step, the stiletto heels she’d chosen for him wobbling on the polished marble. The sound was a sharp, nervous click-clack that grated on her refined ears. Sasha rose, the silk of her dressing gown whispering against her skin. She circled him slowly, a predator admiring her prey. She smoothed the lace of his stockings, her touch a brand that made him shudder. “Poise is everything, pet,” she whispered, her breath warm against his ear. “You are not a man crashing through a room. You are a whisper of temptation, a promise of surrender.” With a silver-topped crop, she gave a gentle, corrective tap to the back of his knee, forcing him to improve his posture. He straightened instantly, his body finally finding the line she desired. A flicker of pride, dangerously close to a smile, graced her lips. “Better,” she conceded, her voice laced with satisfaction. She returned to her chaise, crossing her long, pale legs. “Now, walk for me. And this time, make me believe you were made for these heels.”