Chapter 11
Of all the places she expected the álvarez mission to take her, the front steps of Devil’s Pointe hadn’t made the list.
She’d changed twice. All right… four times. And she still wasn’t sure she’d chosen correctly.
Rhys had said only practice, which was spectacularly unhelpful when the club’s fashion ranged from elegant to sheer lingerie to things she couldn’t think about without blushing.
Eventually, she settled on a simple black slip dress—clingy, low-back, mid-thigh hem—and heels that made her long legs seem even longer.
On the drive over, her thoughts kept circling back to the team meeting earlier.
They’d hammered out the details, including aliases. He, of course, was Lucien Blackwood, international art collector and dealer, known for his rare taste and even rarer indulgences. She was Camille Hart, his obedient and well-trained “muse.”
Wardrobe would be handled for her, revealing but classy, and always to her owner’s taste. She and Rhys had backstories to memorize and protocols to rehearse. Leland and Mateo were cast as Blackwood’s private security. Their assignment: to be quietly observant, intimidating, and lethal if needed.
A message from álvarez’s assistant had arrived mid-planning:
The arrangements for your stay are complete. A private villa with Pacific and rainforest views, Mr. álvarez thinks you will enjoy. Discretion is assured. A driver will be waiting for you at the airstrip. Safe travels.
Gaby could still feel the flutter in her stomach. A villa. With Rhys. Alone. The ocean, the humidity, the heat between them.
Her thoughts drifted where they shouldn’t. To Rhys’s voice when it dropped low and discreet, to the way he’d taken command of her body and her focus, shutting out everything else. To the memory of him inside her, lingering like an indelible mark she couldn’t erase.
Stop, Gaby. Focus. Remember your priorities.
A couple entered the club ahead of her, letting out a blast of cool air. Goose bumps prickled along her arms. She’d arrived early, but if she didn’t rein in her wayward thoughts and go inside, she’d be late.
“You can do this,” she whispered, smoothing her damp palms on her dress. She inhaled once and stepped through the doors.
The club’s atmosphere hit instantly. Sultry music rolled through the space, underscored by voices dipping low and intimate. From deeper inside came the steady rhythm of a flogger. Frenetic, forbidden energy crackled in the air. She felt alive and suspected it wasn’t the club at all.
“Gaby.”
She jumped and turned.
Rhys leaned against the archway leading to the back of the house. In his usual black-on-black, arms crossed, one ankle braced over the other, he looked relaxed, self-assured, entirely in his element.
“I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said quietly. “I called your name twice.”
“My mind was elsewhere. Sorry.”
“Sorry, master,” he corrected, pushing away from the wall as he approached her. “You may as well get used to it from the start.”
Heat crept up her neck. “Sorry… master,” she repeated, the word awkward on her tongue, and unsettling in how right it felt.
The approval in his eyes was subtle, but unmistakable. “Are you all right?”
“Yes. Of course,” she said too quickly.
It was a blatant lie, and he didn’t let it pass. “Now try the truth.”
“I’m nervous,” she admitted.
“Which is why you’re here. To get used to my presence and my commands.”
She nodded, not trusting her voice.
“I’ve secured one of the theme rooms. Dev pulled a few strings.”
He took her arm and led her through the house to the crowded back hallway. A guttural male shout echoed through the open playroom doors. Gaby flinched despite herself.
Rhys noticed. “Breathe,” he said softly.
On the other side of the corridor, he opened a door marked Reserved.
The room was dark until he flipped a switch.
Wall sconces illuminated stone-textured walls.
A velvet chair sat like a throne in the corner.
Hooks and cables hung from the ceiling. She’d heard talk of the rigging room but had never been inside.
Gaby swallowed, her mouth dry. “What are we practicing in here?”
Rhys closed the door as he replied, “Presentation.”
“Like a trick pony,” she muttered.
He nudged up her chin. “Sarcasm shows disrespect, which would earn Camille punishment. Shall we begin there?”
“No, master. I’ll mind my tongue.”
“Good girl,” he murmured, running a finger along her jaw. “The role I’ve settled on is a master who disciplines promptly but rewards obedience. We’ll need to show both to be convincing.”
Her gaze snagged on the large window open to the hallway. Curious members were already gathering.
Rhys noticed where her attention had wandered. “Those remain open. álvarez isn’t the type to host anything small or vanilla. You’ll need to be prepared for an audience.”
A tremor ran through her before she could stop it.
Rhys saw and stepped closer, his hand sliding down her arm in a slow, steadying stroke. “I’ll be right there with you,” he murmured, the quiet certainty in his voice settling under her skin.
“Thank you.”
“We’re a team on this op, Gaby,” he assured her. “Ready to continue?”
“Yes, master.”
“Very nice.” He left her side and moved to stand in front of the gilt-and-velvet chair. Then he pointed at the floor. “Come here, Camille.”
The alias centered her, reminding her this was a role she played. She crossed the room, each step a rehearsal for the deception ahead.
“First rule. You obey the moment I speak. No hesitation.”
“Yes, master.”
“Second rule. Eyes lowered unless I give permission.”
She lowered her lashes at once.
He circled her slowly, fingers brushing her arm and hip. Even through fabric, she felt branded by his touch.
“Third,” he murmured near her ear, “you do not flinch when I touch you.” He stepped back. “Remove your clothing.”
This wasn’t unexpected, and he’d seen her before. But her hands still trembled as she obeyed.
When she stood nearly naked, he added, “The panties go too.”
She pushed them down and stood silent, unflinching somehow, as he circled her once again.
This time, he paused behind her.
“I don’t recall you having this,” Rhys murmured, tracing the blue butterfly on her shoulder.
“After Enzo, we were at a dead end,” she explained. “I got it to feel connected to Natalie. Same design, different color. It’s silly.”
He paused so long the silence grew heavy. She almost turned, but then his shirt brushed her back as he moved closer. “I don’t think it’s silly. You’re sisters. You’ll be connected again when we get her back.”
Emotion tightened her throat. “I’ve never thanked you—”
“No need.” His voice returned to cool command. “What we need is practice.”
Rhys moved in front of her and took a seat on the master’s throne. No sense pretending it was anything else. He looked up at her, posture self-possessed, effortlessly in command, dominance as natural to him as breath, making it easy to follow him.
She reconsidered at his next order.
“Kneel at my feet.”
Her brain resisted the indignity, especially naked, but she reined it in and lowered herself onto the hard, stone floor between his gleaming black shoes. Close but not touching, she could feel his body heat in the cool room.
“Hands behind you.”
She interlaced her fingers at the small of her back, head bowed.
“Better. But you’re thinking too loudly.”
Gaby looked up, startled. “I’m what?”
“You hesitate. Camille doesn’t. For this to work, your performance must be flawless.” He stroked his thumb along her lower lip. She didn’t dare breathe. “You belong to Blackwood. Your entire world revolves around him. You exist for his pleasure.”
“You’ve done this before.” The observation slipped out in her nervousness.
“I’ve been a dominant in the lifestyle for nearly two decades. The master/slave dynamic isn’t for me. Control and willing submission? Very much so. Lucien Blackwood is as much a role for me as Camille is for you.”
This seemed like a good time to discuss a concern. “What if álvarez, or one of his guests, asks to, um, use me?”
“We should be prepared to field offers. But the answer is no,” he said flatly. “I’ll make it clear I’m a selfish bastard and don’t share what’s mine.”
Relief washed through her.
“You’ve been worried about that?” he asked.
“It crossed my mind. I’ve seen that happen at the club.”
“With the consent of all partners, Gaby.”
“Muses don’t get to consent.”
“True. But you can trust me to protect you.”
She nodded.
“Now, show me you understand the rules.”
Unsure, she hesitated. “Show you how?”
He leaned back, studying her. “Questioning, now? Add that to eye contact without permission, and you’re not starting off very well.”
She drew a slow breath, lowered her eyes, and let her shoulders soften. “How may I serve you, master?” she said, carefully.
“Better. Remain here.”
Through her lashes, she watched as he crossed the room to a wall of implements with leather straps, paddles, and crops hanging from hooks. Her insides quivered as he selected a round paddle and tested its weight.
“Stand, Camille,” he ordered as he returned.
She rose on shaky legs then he motioned for her to turn. As she slowly revolved, his free hand grazed her hip and each bare cheek.
He murmured something, almost inaudible, lovely maybe? But she couldn’t be sure, and he said nothing else, as he took a seat on the throne and patted his thigh.
When she angled to perch on his lap, he redirected her, firmly guiding her facedown. She teetered awkwardly and reached for the floor. He steadied her, one hand splayed across her lower back. The other traced her thighs, moving up and over the curves of her ass.
“You hesitated and questioned me. There is a price to pay for disobedience.”
A crack resounded through the sparsely filled room as his palm met her bare skin.
She gasped in shock. It didn’t hurt so much as it tingled.
Another strike landed, measured and deliberate.