Chapter 37
BIX
Acouple hours later, Slayer and I pass the pool as we walk back to our suite in our bathrobes, relaxed from our delicious massage.
Though we’re considerably underdressed for the poolside fashion scene, I can’t say I mind.
Out of the corner of my eye, I swear I see Valentina catching some sun on a lounge chair. At the yacht party, she seemed too busy socializing to dream of leaving early.
I glance at Slayer, glad that if he did see her, he’s pretending not to notice.
“My masseuse was better than yours,” I tease, glancing at him from beneath my lashes. “You must have heard all my exclamations of pleasure since you were in the next massage bed.”
“Mine was far better. Got all the kinks out of my neck,” he says, wrapping his arm loosely around my shoulder.
As we walk, I breathe in the scent of the oil the therapists used on us—something woodsy, seductive.
When Slayer opens the door upstairs, I can tell housekeeping has been in. Everything’s pristine.
A fresh ice bucket glows on the bar beneath shelves of premium liquor. Five different Champagnes gleam like prizes in a trophy case.
“You said you were a bartender. How about dazzling me with an exotic cocktail?” I ask Slayer. “This ice is too good to waste.”
As I turn to face him, I’m struck anew by how gorgeous he looks—his dark hair still damp, white robe fitted in just the right way.
“Not after that sauna and massage,” he says. “You’re too lightheaded to handle it.”
“Watching out for my safety now, Slayer?”
He shoots me a look. “I’m always watching out for your safety, Bix.” He selects one of the Champagne bottles and rests it on the ice.
“Oh, I almost forgot,” I say, spotting the white box from the pastry shop. “I circled back to get the goodies I admired in that window. Let’s gorge.”
As I reach into the shopping bag, I feel something plush and warm. Oscar, the turtle. “Hey, you,” I say softly, putting him on the center of the table in lieu of flowers.
I rummage through the service drawer near the bar and find plates and cutlery. Perfect. Then I arrange the luscious desserts and snap a few pictures.
As lovely as the pastries look on my phone, it’s Oscar who takes center stage.
“Well, look who's here," Slayer says, picking up Oscar by his plush shell.
“He saw me at the bakery shop and begged me to take him home.”
"Oscar has a habit of doing that. Likes to snoop on humans in their natural habitat." Slayer gives Oscar a tap on the head as he puts him back on the table.
We settle in to enjoy our dessert. After a few moments, I sense Slayer watching me as I crack the white chocolate shell of my treat with a fork, revealing a luscious white mousse inside.
Oh my God. I dig a little deeper and practically orgasm just looking at the tropical gelée at the center. I bring it to my lips.
Slayer digs into his chocolate dessert.
“How is it?”
He looks down and shrugs. “Good.”
“Ah, so that’s how it’s gonna be. No pressure to finish it. I’m perfectly capable of polishing it off myself,” I say.
“A tiny thing like you?”
“When it comes to dessert, there’s never enough.”
I keep eating, now feeling a little self-conscious about the way he’s watching me. “Just kidding when I said I’d eat your dessert. I’m not that greedy.”
He pushes the plate toward me. “Have at it. I enjoy watching you savor something delicious.”
The double entendre is not lost on me. My cheeks flush, and I feel a burst of happiness at his words.
Here's a man who enjoys watching me with my dessert. And not just a man—an incredibly gorgeous rock star every woman wants.
“You’re my kind of guy,” I say, lifting the fork again.
As I relish my treat, I notice Slayer focused on Oscar. “What’s with you?” I tease. “Some plush turtle obsession?”
“No, it’s not that,” he says, getting up from the table and returning with his guitar. When he sits down, he strums tentatively.
“What are you doing?”
Slayer doesn’t answer. Instead, his fingers glide over the strings, slow and steady. “I’m just thinking about this morning on the hillside. Seeing Oscar. Watching him cross the road, adapting to whatever comes his way.”
“Even if it’s a couple of Saint-Tropez tourists bearing croissants?”
“Especially that,” he says, grinning up at me before continuing to work out the melody of a song.
After a moment, he sings.
I put down my fork, watching with quiet amazement. I shouldn’t be surprised at how quickly he put together the rhythm and melody of the song. Nor the words.
I do it myself all the time.
But Slayer has a different process. And though the words he sings sound simple, the concept behind them is not.
Then his phone buzzes. The song stops abruptly as he pauses to take a look. “Sorry, it’s Rafe. I need to take this,” he says. He walks out to the terrace and closes the sliding door behind him.
As I clear the plates from the table, I think about Slayer’s turtle song, the words he used to describe what we experienced. He wasn’t just singing about a turtle.
The song seemed to reflect a view on life he’s just now discovering.
And I'm discovering a new view on life, too. Not because of Oscar. But because of Slayer. Living with him these past two days. Seeing the private man vs. the public figure.
Seeing the small things that inspire his music.
Like Oscar.
After straightening up the suite, I notice his bedroom door is open. Attracted by the spicy scent of incense wafting out, I step inside.
Our rooms are identical, but mine’s spotless. I’ve organized all my things in drawers and closets.
Slayer, despite his private nature, has laid out a few objects on the dresser. Odd items. A black mirror with markings I don’t recognize. Another ancient-looking book with pungent leather binding. A wooden box with Asian characters carved into the lid.
I open it. Inside are colorful scarves and ropes and bands.
Curious. They’re not for braiding hair, unless he’s got a five-year-old girl aesthetic. What gives?
I turn my attention to the book. Oh my God.
The first image shocks me. A naked man pushes a nude woman on a swing. Her arms are tied behind her, her legs bound and spread, exposing her glistening pussy. Ropes trace her body like a second skin.
I turn the page and gasp again. In this one, his cock is completely inside her. She hangs suspended, tangled in silk and tension.
Oh my God, oh my God.
I know I should stop, but I can’t. I’m dying to see what’s on the next page.
But I freeze when I hear Slayer’s voice.
“Looks like I caught you snooping. Again,” he says quietly.
When I turn, his arms are crossed. I can feel myself turning pink with guilt.
To my surprise, he laughs. That’s new. Different from when he caught me looking at the books in his alcove at home.
“Come here,” he says, motioning me toward the bed. “And bring the book.”
I do what he says, still curious.
“Have you seen pictures like this before?”
I shake my head as he turns the pages slowly, stopping now and then to explain a position or technique.
“How did you get into this?”
“It’s a long story. Private.”
The pause. That word—and all the weight he gives it—makes me want to ask more. But I know that’s the opposite of his intention. So I respect his boundaries.
Slayer turns more pages, and I ask more questions.
“Why are all the knots different? Why are the ropes tied around their bodies in so many ways?”
“That’s why Shibari is an art form,” he says. “There are special ropes, special knots.”
“Who’s your dealer?” I ask and then wince. “I mean, how do you source your material?”
We both laugh. The tension breaks just slightly, but my pulse is still elevated. I don’t know if it’s from what I’ve seen or the way he’s handling me.
“Look, I’m sorry you found this,” he finally says. “I wasn’t prepared to explain it to you.”
“But I’m so curious. Does it give you pleasure?”
He answers without hesitation. “Yes.”
“And what about the person you’re with? Does it give your partner pleasure too?”
“If it didn’t, I wouldn’t do it,” he says simply. “I wouldn’t engage in the activity.”
“So you do it with some women and not others?”
He goes quiet.
I can see I’m brushing against the dark edges of things—past lovers, maybe past wives—so I hold my tongue on pushing further.
As he continues flipping pages, I realize I’m getting excited. It starts as a smoldering awareness, a tightening in my core, but it blooms fast—my tongue flicking over my lips, my nipples hardening under my robe.
The images are visual poetry. Bodies suspended. Wrapped into stillness. The suggestion of so much trust.
And it’s not the illustrations alone—this current of energy started in the steam room, when Slayer’s mouth touched mine, and it deepened during the massage, the way his presence surrounded me like heat.
Now I’m fully aware of every inch of my skin.
He stops turning pages. For a moment, we’re just sitting, the book open between us. The room is lit in soft amber. The incense still rising into the air somewhere behind me.
I dare to glance at him. His jaw. His hands. The drape of his robe.
I’m torn. Half of me wants to see what’s on the next page. The other half wants to climb onto his lap and kiss him until something breaks.
I set the book gently aside.
We look at each other.
There’s no teasing now, no humor. But his eyes are locked on mine like he’s deciding which part of me he’s going to devour first.
“Would you like to try?” he asks in a low tone.
If I say no, he’ll accept it.
And then probably kick me out, saying he has work to do.
We’ll play out the weekend the way we’ve agreed—smiling nice for the camera and pretending we’re in love. Then next week, we’ll be back to our regular, independent lives.
If I say yes, perhaps I open the door to something new and exciting. Though the odds are my life will still eventually return to its normal, pre-Slayer experience.
He’s a legendary rock star, I tell myself. Of course he’ll continue his wild ways once our album-launch weekend comes to an end. But then I’ll have this experience, this memory.