Chapter 2

Ella

It’s in my purse throughout the work day. It’s in my purse as I ride the subway home. Only when I’m safely behind closed doors do I dig it out and dare smooth my hand over the rich golden envelope. Embossed in diamantes is my name: ISABELLA PETIT.

Everything is perfect, just like I imagined that it would be.

You are cordially invited to join us for Thanksgiving Dinner on Mystique Island. Masks will be required at all times during the course of your stay over the weekend. All clothing, food, and accommodations will be provided for you. Welcome to the sexiest event of your life.

If Rainier—Mr. Howell, I correct myself—knew about this, he would certainly blame Rex McKenzie, his partner... and the one who told me about these parties. In spite of the fact that I’m reserved solely for Mr. Howell’s needs, Mr. McKenzie—”Rex,” he’s constantly reminding me to call him—finds reasons to visit my desk every day. And on a day in late September, that reason was to ask if I had ever heard of Mystique Island.

“Of course, you haven’t,” he said, and furnished me with this envelope. He pressed a single finger to his lips, implying that this was our secret.

“What is it?” I asked, inspecting the envelope. I remained seated, and I held the envelope in my lap, now understanding its nature. “I don’t think this is... appropriate.”

“Don’t think,” Rex whispered back. “Just come. This is Mystique Island.” Rex had told me that the island was a favorite getaway of his… and also of Mr. Howell’s.

I knew it was a sex party because I had to get all kinds of screenings and start taking birth control to get clearance, which I learned when I called to RSVP. Let me say that I’m not the kind of girl to do this kind of thing... I’m still a virgin. A workaholic. A nerd.

But I did it. I got all the tests. I started taking the pill. And I RSVP’d.

But not for Rex.

Mr. Howell isn’t the only one who won’t settle for anything less than the best.

He’s the one I want.

And his shitty lie about going to Sandals Jamaica was what tore it for me. There was no way a man like Mr. Howell would be caught dead at a mediocre second-honeymoon destination.

Mr. Howell is... perfection personified. From the black hair that is never out-of-place, always combed into an Ivy League side part, down to his cufflinks, down to his manicured fingertips and muscled body, trained rigorously in everything from boxing to yoga. Mr. Howell is perfection. He only drives luxurious foreign cars. He only wears tailored, designer suits. He would never settle for a resort that brings throngs of middle-class workers onto its beach.

My fingertips hum with adrenaline at the thought of him, so sleek and powerful, like a jaguar made into a man. I’ve been masturbating furiously for weeks now, picturing what a fucking scepter his cock must be, thinking about how the women he beds must always come their brains out before he lets himself go. He’s a workaholic, too. He can’t hide that kindred streak from me. I know his brutal spirit must transfer into the bedroom. So far, I haven’t seen him with any women, though—and I’m glad for that. I would be lime-green Jell-O if I had to see that.

I unfasten all the pins and shake down crimped chestnut hair onto my shoulders. I unbutton my blouse. The constrictive shapewear I always have on makes my cleavage intense but it also makes me look flat. I slip out of my skirt next and then wiggle loose from the airtight slip. My ass and tits bounce into full gear immediately. Every time.

I’m so excited to begin my trip, but there isn’t really much I can pack. The resort will handle my clothes and I’ll be masked the entire time. I can at least pack some different perfumes, though.

I flounce to the bathroom, feeling like a jiggly hourglass. My body has always been out-of-control with its curves, and I never got a moment’s rest before I discovered slim wear. Men would cat-call me no matter where I was or what I was doing. I could be at the doctor’s office with a head cold and someone would ask me to back that ass up.

I gaze at my body in the bathroom mirror. Without the control-top panty hose and the minimizing bra, I’m almost a new woman. I pull off my glasses and shake out my mane, playing with the idea of being someone else this weekend.

The kind of girl who would slip on a mask and attend an anonymous sex party.

I prop a foot up on the sink and let my knee fall a little, exposing my shaven, pink gash in the mirror. I trail my fingers sweetly up and down my smooth trim, licking my lips at the thought of finally letting go.

After Rex gave me the invitation, I thought about it long and hard. He would be there, and he would be looking for me, hopeful that I had submitted to all the tests and gone through with it. Why else make sure that I was invited? What else could an invitation like that possibly say?

But Rex won’t recognize me like this. I can barely recognize myself like this.

It’s an exclusive party, and you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. That was the explanation I received when I called the booking headquarters, before I sent off all my test results. That sealed it for me. I don’t have to do anything I don’t want to do.

And the only thing I want to do is Rainier Howell. I won’t settle for anyone else. There’s no way that any other man will speak to me the way he does. I crave him late into the night. I crave him on a damn near poetic level. The thought of him makes my pussy open up like a flower in the sunlight. He woke me up from a long sexual slumber, but now I am awake.

Wide awake.

My fingers play over my pussy, idle and exploratory. I close my eyes and allow my head to fall back as I imagine Rainier Howell, so gruff and yet polished, so surly and broad, flicking open his cufflinks. Shrugging off his suit jacket. I’ve never seen his bare chest before and I imagine how it must feel so smooth and chiseled beneath a woman’s hands—my hands. And what about his cock? I bet that’s smooth and chiseled, too…

My middle finger finds the tingling nub of my clitoris and works it. I remember bending over his desk today, and how he stood behind me, watching. That was hot. Now we’re back there again and he leans over me this time. I feel his hardness press into my ass. God, he’s always hard when we’re together. I hunch over my own hand and grate up and down, going harder. Faster. His hand binds my skirt up around my thighs as his thick finger slithers between my wet pussy lips. My eyes roll back. I want his fingers grinding on my clit. I want to hear his pants unzip, to feel the hot skin of his iron cock between my thighs... against my wet, waiting pussy. Oh, god, he called me a naughty girl today. He said he could teach me a lesson.

My thighs tremble and I fold down onto the bathroom tile, on hands and knees now, forgetting everything else. Just thinking about Rainier’s palm flashing down onto my ass. Just thinking about Rainier seething and shuddering as he pumps into me. Thinking about how his voice sounds when he comes. How his cum feels. I want him in me bare. I want to ruin my career at Howell & McKenzie. I don’t care. I want him to fill me up and leave me on the desk to dry out again.

The image of his cock getting harder and thicker, harder and thicker until it pops, is what sends me spiraling over the edge. My hips press high into the air and quake with orgasm. My own clear juice tracks down my thighs, desperate to be penetrated. When I think about him, I get so wet that it can ruin my clothes. I’ll wear a panty liner to work just to make sure that I don’t end up with a pussy-shaped wet spot on the back of my skirt.

I climb into the shower and wrench the faucet, filling the stall with hot water and steam. I lay and open my thighs, letting the water clean me off. With a sigh, my head falls back and my muscles loosen. I’d better emotionally prepare myself for the last step between myself and Mystique Island: calling my parents to let them know that I’m missing Thanksgiving dinner. I’ll tell them that I have to.

“Mr. Howell is making me,” I’ll say... and it’ll be true.

Because I can’t go on like this, feeling as if my sex is going to explode any minute. I see the tent his erection is always making in his pants. I see the tantalizing shape of his prick through the fabric. I know that he wants me, even if he doesn’t know it yet. Even if he won’t admit it to himself. And he’s going to have me. No one else on that island will lay a finger on me until after Rainier Howell has his fill, and I have mine.

He’s going to be the first man to ever slide between my lips and break me open. He’s going to be the only one good enough to turn me out.

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