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I kiss her bruised mouth without disconnecting our gazes.

So I see when her wide-eyed stare whisper-screams:What did you do?

And I see my reply in her eyes:I just fucked your shredded soul.

22

KEELY

Our arrival in Palma de Mallorca saves me from further examining the depths to which I’ve sunk and the happy little freak I’ve become. For the last two days, I’ve barely left Mason’s suite. I’ve been fucked in so many ways and so many times that I struggle to think of a time when an orgasm wasn’t lurking at the back of my consciousness, ready to plough through me at the touch of Mason’s hand. My cunt is Pavlov’s Dog and Mason my tuning fork. He sets me off with a look across a room, a quirk of his eyebrow, his clever fingers dancing over a keyboard while he writes some insane code I have no hope of following.

I call him “sir” freely, with no inhibition or hesitation. The power I derive from seeing the effect that the address has on him is mind-boggling. The power he derives from having me claim him as my master staggers me.

I scoffed when he promised me I’d fall at his feet and stay there willingly. He proved me wrong in less than a day, and for the first time in my life, I’m happy to concede total defeat and hoist my white flag of surrender proudly.

After what I’ve been through, I promised myself never to lower my guard or myself to a level of debasement. Little did I know that I’d find the most intense release and the most fulfilling sexual power on my knees.

There’s also a feeling of vulnerability about possible addiction to a way of life I didn’t contemplate this time last month. Mason Sinclair overwhelms me. He dominates me, takes me out of my mind like the best drug, and I crave him more with each order I follow, each bite of his nails in my hips, each plunge of his perfect cock that makes me forget my real life.

The moment distance is thrust upon me, however, the floodgates of fear and dread part, and I’m back in the bar, staring at my phone, reading that third email, instead of Mason’s dirtier texts.

This one also came with a picture.

In the middle of the underground from somewhere in the Hollywood Hills, a black chair stood under a spotlight. White ropes dangled from it with careless artistry and sinister implications.

Someone has a record of what happened to me in that underground room in the east wing of the Los Angeles mansion six years ago. Someone who’s bided their time until now.

For what purpose? Blackmail?

Since we set sail from Monaco, my phone hasbloopedwith two further anonymous emails. The fourth and fifth pictures only show different angles of the same chair.

By now I’m in no doubt further emails will arrive. In my feeble attempt not to remain a victim, I responded with a ‘Who are you, and what the fuck do you want?’ after the third email.

My answer was aSystem Delivery Errorfuck you in return.

If their aim is to torment me, they’re succeeding. I’m torn between being supremely pissed off and cowering in a corner in a ball of shit and piss. Somewhere in the middle ground is Mason, and the pit of cheerful depravity I’ve hurled myself into.

In eight days, when I’m back in New York, I’ll deal with this thing.

I dress in a black and white block dress and platform heels in preparation for taking the guests to their first venue of the evening.

Salamanca is Mallorca’s most exclusive private club, and six of the guests are booked into the VIP rooms from eight till two in the morning. So far Mason has declined interacting with any Indigo Lounge sessions and a part of me is relieved. Enduring him 24/7, especially when I’m overcome with the need to blurt out my rigid fear, is wearing me down a little. Immersing myself in work, I hope, will bring the clarity I need.

If that fails, there’s always Bethany. I smile a little at the thought of my best friend.

My feverishly-preparing-for-her-wedding best friend.

That slight feeling of resentment I first experienced in Montauk returns, and I feel like a little shit.

Blanking my mind, I’m tugging a brush through my newly washed and curled hair when knuckles rap on my suite door. I check my watch.

There’s still half an hour before the three launches arrive to ferry the guests to the marina, and pre-departure cocktails don’t start for another fifteen minutes.

I pick up my chandelier necklace and secure it as I walk to the door. My hand stills at my throat when I see Mason framed in the doorway.

“Mason? What are you doing here?”

We agreed to see each other when I returned from escorting the guests. As far as I’m aware, he planned to work on another top-secret invention in the room he secured within the bowels of the ship.