Chapter 11
KEELY
I’m not going. I’m not going. Hell, I am so not going.
Fuck yeah.
I’ve not only flipped the bird at Mason’s insane never-gonna-happen noon deadline, I’ve managed to stay put in my suite for another hour.
Extremely pleased with myself, and sure he’s finally got the message through his brilliant, but obviously thick, skull that I don’t intend to participate in, or be, any form of a sexual puppet to his skewed proclivities, I grab my purse containing my tablet and work stuff and head for the door.
I’m a little irritated that I’ve had to shift my morning appointments to interview two Michelin-star chefs, but there was no way I was going to board the IL Indulgence before noon and give Mason Sinclair the impression that I was there for him.
One of the chefs expressed a touch of diva annoyance, but not enough to cancel.
Making a mental note to keep an eye out for further drama from that particular chef, I cross the gold inlaid, marble-floored atrium of the hotel and emerge into brilliant sunshine.
I breathe deep and let the warmth wash over me. I’m ready for a new day.
The sleepless night, which I’ve just spent kicking myself for losing control and allowing Mason to spank me— spank me, for fuck’s sake! —in full view of the hostess, is something I’m not going to dwell on.
I’ve never been into kinky in the bedroom.
I don’t even possess a vibrator or dildo.
I’ve never seen the point of artificial gadgets when a cock and a man who knows how to use it well is all I’ve needed.
As the previous owner of a sex yacht and hardcore inventor of gadgets, Mason is clearly into myriad forms of sex, including BDSM.
His masterful demeanor and the way he soothed me after the spanking make me suspect he’ll be extremely good at it. If that were my thing.
Which it’s not.
Another flush of humiliation crawls up my spine at how utterly I let him control me, and I push the feeling away.
He caught me with my guard down, and I was foolish enough to underestimate the power of the insane attraction between us before he spanked me.
Since I don’t intend to place myself in a position where either of those things will affect me, I’m good.
Last night is behind me.
From here on in, my job is the center of my focus.
I quicken my stride down the hill toward the marina.
In the resplendent sunlight, the yacht looks even more stunning, but now that I know who it belonged to in its previous life, my enjoyment is a little soured.
My heartbeat quickens as I step into the launch and greet the pilot.
All too soon, we’re at the yacht. I make sure my sunglasses are in place as I step onto the deck and return the greeting of one of the many bodyguards employed to keep nosy intruders and paparazzi away.
Reading the signs so I don’t get lost, I make my way along the various hallways.
I arrive at the restaurant on the second-floor deck where I’m to meet the two chefs.
I tell myself I’m relieved when I don’t run into anyone resembling Mason.
The time passes quickly as I sample the dozens of dishes we’ll be providing the guests.
As suspected, the chef who threw a mini tantrum at my revised schedule turns into a diva and even before he sets down his first course in front of me, I’ve decided to go with the other chef.
But I’m a professional, so I sit through his presentation and smile my thanks when he’s done.
“Great, I’ll let you know my decision by tomorrow evening.”
Arnaud Delacroix huffs. “I fly back to the States tomorrow morning. I only came because Monsieur Sinclair requested me personally as a favor. If I’d known I was to participate in this… this amateur competition, I would’ve declined his request.”
Irritation pulses through me, and I surge from the dining table where the tasting took place. “Let me get this straight. Mason asked you to come?”
His eyes slide over me, and I catch his leer as he answers, “Yes, as I said. I run one of the best restaurants in Paris and New York. I do not audition for little schoolgirls.”
“Excuse me?”
A second slide of his gaze lingers at my breasts this time and my skin crawls. Sexist pig . “Mademoiselle, I have nothing against you personally?—”
“From where I’m standing, I seriously doubt that, but go on,” I quip, and I don’t give a shit when his lips purse at the interruption.
“ But my time is precious,” he continues. “I arrived at six this morning to prepare for the tasting. You moved the time at the last minute. I have accommodated you. But I don’t intend to hang around while you twiddle your thumbs about a decision that shouldn’t even be yours to make.”
I swallow the ball of anger rising into my throat.
“First of all, I’m glad you rose to the occasion of the time change.
If you’re going to be a chef on this boat—and that is looking mighty precarious at the moment—you need to know that you’ll be called to cater for clients’ needs at all hours.
For the two weeks you’ll be on this yacht, your time won’t be your own.
So if that’s an issue for you, then by all means, feel free to leave.
Secondly, and listen up because this is important.
I’m no fucking schoolgirl. I’ve earned my right to be here, just as you’ve earned the right to call yourself a chef.
And lastly, Mason Sinclair isn’t in charge of hiring staff for this project.
I am. I don’t give a damn what he promised you.
If you want the gig, I’ll consider you and you’ll hear from me tomorrow .
If you don’t, I’m sure one of the bodyguards can make sure you find your way back to the airport. ”
His face tightens as I speak and he erupts into a flood of French, which I’m sure is as disparaging to women as his English was a moment ago.
When he reels to a stop, I raise my eyebrow. “Sorry, was that a yes or a no?”
“Where is Sinclair? I will speak to him and him alone!”
I wave him toward the door. “Of course, but nothing he says will change what I’ve told you. Goodbye, Monsieur Delacroix.”
He sniffs like a startled bull and strides out.
The moment the door slams behind him, my breath shudders out and I look down to see my hands shaking.
What the fuck is wrong with men?
What the fuck is wrong with Mason Sinclair?
My mind zeroes on the person responsible for these tumultuous feelings cascading through me. I toss the pen I’m holding onto the table and stride toward the door.
Whether he likes it or not, Mason Sinclair is about to get another piece of my mind, even if I have to interrupt a testosterone-bonding ceremony between him and Delacroix.
I reach the lower deck and pick a random hallway. As I pass one of the sleek square portholes, I see Delacroix getting onto one of the launches, his face still set in angry lines. I allow myself a smile before resuming my search for Mason.
After several hallways and peering into numerous adult entertainment rooms, I take the stairs to the next deck below. Again, the rooms are empty save for one where the construction crew is working. I’m beginning to think I was wrong in assuming Mason was on board when I spot one of the bodyguards.
I assume he’s just patrolling the deck, but once I approach the farthest point in the aft section where the spank room is located, I realize he’s blocking the door.
He glances at me and an uneasy look flicks across his face. “Hi, Miss Benson.”
He can’t be older than twenty-one or twenty-two, but he’s built like a Sherman tank and looks like he can take down a brick wall with one kick.
“Hi, have you seen Mr. Sinclair?” I ask.
His neck reddens a little. “Umm, yes.” He thumbs the door behind him. “He’s in there.”
I resent the small quiver of excitement that tingles through my belly. “Thanks,” I say, and step toward the door, expecting him to move out of the way. He stays cross-armed and shakes his head.
“Sorry, Miss Benson. Mr. Sinclair left strict instructions not to be disturbed under any circumstances. It’s why I said no to the chef when he wanted to see him, too.” His face is now flushed bright red and another feeling crawls through my belly, a feeling that tastes suspiciously like jealousy.
I stare hard at the black door. “And what exactly is Mr. Sinclair doing in there?” I ask through clenched teeth, even though I don’t need a crystal ball to divine the answer.
“I… umm, not sure… exactly.”
I turn my glare from the door to the guard. “What’s your name?”
“Umm… Daniel, Miss Benson.”
“Daniel, do me a favor and step aside, please.”
He swallows, and I watch him weigh the consequences of refusing my request for a few seconds before he steps aside.
“Thanks. And you don’t need to stick arou—” We both freeze as a loud whoosh sounds through the door, followed by a long, ragged, feminine moan.
The memory of Mason’s hand on my ass slams into my brain, and my hand is turning the handle to the door before another thought forms in my head.
I stumble into the room and exhale in shock at the sight before me.
There isn’t just one, but two women with Mason.
He has his back to me and his upper half is bare and dripping with sweat.
The redhead next to him is naked save for the tiniest red thong I’ve ever seen, and her eyes flick to me as she rakes her nails down Mason’s back before sliding her fingers into the backside of the tight, black leather pants he’s wearing.
Mason doesn’t react to her touch, most likely because his attention is riveted on the other woman in the room.
My eyes swing to the woman—an Asian beauty with small breasts and a breathtaking face—and see the stark hunger and arousal in her expression.
She’s completely naked and standing on the platform with the three sides I asked him about during my tour the day before.
It looks no different than yesterday from what I can see.
The middle partition is still covered in that curious shiny black surface and the two sides that would provide privacy are standing open.
I return my gaze to the woman and see she’s fully immersed in the long whip in Mason’s hand. She whimpers when he lifts his free hand to her face and brushes back her jet-black hair. His knuckles caress her cheek, her jaw, the side of her neck.
Her eyes remain downcast on the whip the whole time, but her scarlet lips part. “Please, Master. Again.”
“No, wait for it,” he replies, his voice a ruthless blade, but it also holds a promise of rich reward. The whip twitches in his hand and her breath shivers.
“Master, please… I want to come.” Her nipples turn to hard points as she whispers the words, and her whole body quivers as Mason traces a finger down to her belly button and circles the delicate hole.
“Is that disobedience I hear?” he asks softly, his voice bleeding power and menace.
She shakes her head immediately. “No, Master.”
“So you’ll come when I say and not before?”
Her body quivers. “Yes, Master.”
“Open your legs,” he instructs.
He flicks the whip and her eyes dart after the movement, anticipation almost eating her alive. When he brings it back to rest against his thigh, she lets out a broken moan.
Mason’s hand leaves her face and he presses a button on the apparatus his sex slave is leaning against.
My gaze drops to her stomach and thighs, and I see bright red welts crisscrossing her skin. My stomach roils, but the nausea I expect never surfaces. I should be sickened by the sight of such brutal treatment, by the sight of a woman who’s obviously being debased.
But instead, a hum rolls through my body as my eyes stay on the lazy curl of Mason’s wrist as he jerks the whip. The woman also shows no signs of distress. Just… pleasure.
He presses a button on the structure and the shiny surface comes alive. It vibrates against his slave’s back, then she sinks back as the material swallows her halfway. Her eyes widen in wonder, and she gasps at whatever sensation she’s experiencing.
Mason presses another button and arm-like protrusions rise from the sides and curve over her body. One moves over her breasts and torso and the other slides along her thigh. The arms flow with a beauty that’s hypnotic to watch.
“Oh!” Her face contorts in bliss and her breath pants out. Mason watches her for a moment before he raises the whip and brings it down between her legs.
She gasps out another moan, and her whole body shakes with the effort it takes to keep her orgasm from erupting. Her eyelashes flutter wildly and her mouth wobbles with the need to beg.
I can’t be here.
I need to leave, turn away from the visceral sight.
But my feet won’t move. I watch a tear slip from one eye and drip down her cheek as Mason flicks the whip again.
I want to scream at him to stop. To give her the release she needs. At the same time, acrid jealousy pours through my stomach at the pleasure she’s receiving under Mason’s hands.