Chapter 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 has blooped with 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 a System Delivery Error fuck 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.
“Now, what way is that to greet me, kitten?” he asks softly.
The sound of his voice sends needy distress signals to my pussy, and I’m already getting wet by the time he steps forward and enters the room.
My pulse is jumping all over the place as I shut the door behind him. “I wasn’t expecting you, that’s all,” I reply. I bristle silently at my defensive tone and look at him.
He’s staring at me with an intensity that scares me a little, so I walk into my bedroom and pick up the matching earrings.
Through the mirror on my dressing table, I see him fill my bedroom doorway.
He’s wearing an expensive black dress shirt, tailored trousers and a matching dinner jacket, and his hair is tamed a little from its usual touch of wildness.
So far, I’ve seen many facets of Mason Sinclair, which keep me enthralled—the mad genius, the sometimes cruel lover, the alpha dominant, the spiritually decayed man who keened his loss and rage in that room in Monte Carlo—but I’ve never seen him as this suave sophisticate.
I don’t know what to do with that, so I just let our gazes connect.
Until even that becomes too much, and I lower my head.
“You were going to invent some bright and brilliant thing. And I was going to work. Wasn’t that the plan?”
“Plans have changed. I’m coming with you tonight.”
I shouldn’t feel this delighted at the thought of his company.
It speaks to an addiction I haven’t entertained since my doomed crush on Leo Brummer.
I’m getting attached and I don’t know how to stop myself.
So I try and play it cool by heading for where I placed my clutch and my tiny leather jacket on the bed earlier.
He takes the jacket from me and helps me shrug it on, before he extracts a box from his back pocket.
My eyes widen when he holds it out to me. “What’s that?”
“The bright and brilliant thing I was working on earlier.”
“Another prototype? For me?” My addiction ratchets up another notch and my hands shake as I take the box from him.
To date, Mason has introduced me to six gadgets that haven’t seen the light of a commercial market.
To say I’m a convert from a staid no-sex-toys girl to a happy-nympho guinea pig is stating it mildly.
Yet another thing that scares the shit out of me.
While I finger the box, I tell myself perhaps I should be a little selfish and call Bethany. I really need clarity here.
“Can I open it later? We need to get going.”
Mason’s eyes narrow, but he nods.
I hurry out of the room and I’m halfway to the elevator by the time he reaches me.
His fierce stare as we head to the top deck burns me alive.
Mason has no compunction when it comes to watching me.
In fact, when it comes to me, he has no compunctions, full stop.
He stares for as long and as hard as he wants to.
And sometimes he takes pleasure in watching me squirm.
I’m at squirming point when the elevator slides open.
I stumble onto the wide, stunning, topmost deck of the IL Indulgence and immediately busy myself with the unnecessary task of ensuring each guest is happy.
My job is that of grand overseer. I have hostesses assigned to each guest and I don’t need to personally check on each one unless there’s a problem. But I do anyway.
When it’s time to board the launch, I feel a hand on the small of my back. I look up into Mason’s set face. He’s not happy. A different sort of panic bolts through me.
I sway against him, and he clamps his arm around me.
We stay pretty much glued together all the way to the private club. He comes with me when I go to check with the manager that the burlesque performance is on schedule. He stays by my side through dinner and the strip show that follows.
“How long is this thing going to last?” His voice is a displeased rumble in my ear as we settle in our seats after watching a nude fire-eater strut her stuff on stage.
“Technically, till two in the morning, but I’ll stay as long as I’m needed.”
He grunts and his jaw clenches.
“Is there a problem, Mason?”
“There will be if that asshole keeps staring at you like that.”
My head swings around and Titus Morton, heir to an energy drinks empire and a known playboy, is staring at me while sliding his hand up and down his girlfriend’s bare arm.
I turn back to Mason. “Is that why you decided to come tonight? Because of Titus?” A delicious tingle starts deep in my belly. I’m momentarily struck dumb when I recognize it as pleasure. I’m ecstatic that Mason is jealous. And possessive.
I’m not sure whether I want to punch some rationality back into my senses or dance in the rain of my new discovery.
“He was a prick when we were in Yale. From the looks of him, he’s only grown into a mega-sized prick,” Mason snarls.
A quick glance at Titus shows the two men eyeing one another with barely repressed animosity.
“I can handle myself, Mason. If that’s the only reason you came, you don’t need to worry.”
The moment the words leave my lips, I flinch.
“You want me to return to the yacht, knowing some asshole is going to be hitting on you?”
“That asshole is one of the guests I’m charged with looking after. It’s my job to make sure he has a good time.”