Quinn Blackwood doesn’t tell me exactly what I owe him. And I’m too chicken to ask. I leave his office in a deeper daze than ever before and lock myself in the bathroom as soon as I get a chance. For the first time in my life, the temptation to masturbate is borne out of frenzied frustration rather than the adolescent curiosity that briefly gripped me before Mom died and my life went to shit.

I sit on the close-lidded toilet, rest my head against the cool tile, and, eyes closed, drift my fingers over my palm where he touched me.

I shudder, and the ball of fire between my legs threatens to rage out of control.

God.

My body is being prepped to fuck another man starting next week, and yet, I’m lusting after Quinn with a need that is beyond insane.

His face slides into my mind’s eye and a moan slips free. Slowly, I open my legs and slide my hand underneath my panties. The force of need nearly sends me shooting off the toilet seat the moment my finger touches my engorged clit. Gasping, I glide my hand lower, to my blazing center. I’m hotter than a furnace and wet enough to feel my slickness on the inside of my thigh.

Getting myself off will be as easy and satisfying as jumping off a cliff. But a part of me resists. An innate knowledge that it won’t be as satisfying as I imagine prevents me from succumbing to the need. I resort to massaging the outer lips of my pussy while trying to breathe through the terrible hunger tearing me apart. My brain finally relents and transmits the message to my cunt. Hunger recedes far enough for me to tear my eyes open, adjust my clothes and stumble out of the stall.

The rest of the afternoon passes without incident, and I make it back to Hell’s Kitchen in one still-dazed piece.

At seven, Bruce, my fitness trainer, returns to put me through another ninety minutes of hell. When he leaves, I strip and take a shower, luxuriating in the endless hot water and thankful that I’m too exhausted to tend to the dull ache still throbbing between my legs.

I dress in a brand new set of lounge pants and top, and I’m on my way to the kitchen when the doorbell goes.

Before alarm takes full hold, I cross to the security screen and turn on the outside camera.

Fionnella.

I release the lock and wait for her to walk through the double set of security doors. Once the last one closes behind her, I open the front door.

Her hobo purse is slung over one shoulder, and she’s clutching a large brown bag with a logo I don’t recognize.

“Have you eaten?”

“No, but I was just about to make myself a sandwich.” I can cook a few basic meals, but I’m no culinary expert by any stretch of the imagination, so having a fridge stocked full of food is a blessing but also a curse. Although I planned to make something other than grilled cheese or pasta this weekend, using a cookbook I discovered among the plethora of reading material in the loft.

She holds out the takeout bag. The aromas that waft from it are heavenly enough to make my mouth water. “To make up for the confusion over the clothes,” she says.

I open the door wider with my right hand and reach out to take the bag with my left. Her gaze falls to my wrist. It hasn’t gone purple as I feared, but the distinctive yellowing is clearly visible. Her gaze sharpens.

“It’s nothing,” I blurt, but my heart sinks at the resigned look on her face. “Please don’t tell him.”

She enters, shuts the door behind her and regards me with a touch of sympathy. “It doesn’t work that way, Lucky. If there’s a situation we need to know about—”

“There isn’t, I swear.”

She reaches into her bag and pulls out her clipboard. “Give me the cliff notes. I can’t promise one way or the other how this will go. But I have a job to do, same as you.”

“And that includes bothering him with something this minor?” I gripe.

A flicker of something hard in her gaze reminds me of Q’s warning that not everyone’s as they seem. “Cliff notes, Lucky. Who. How. When.”

“Today, at work.” I stop and grimace. “My new clothes attracted a little more attention than I expected. That’s all.”

She nods in understanding, but her gaze doesn’t waver. “I’m waiting for the who.”

“It’s a guy I work with. Miguel. He’s pretty harmless,” I toss in hurriedly.

She finishes her notes and pulls out her phone. “Go eat.”

“Fionnella…”

“The food’s getting cold, Lucky. It’s your favorite. You’ll want to enjoy it while it’s still hot.”

She waits until I make my way to the kitchen before she retreats to the glass and brick wall at the far end of the living room. I plate the burger and fries and watch from the corner of my eye as she dials and presses the phone to her ear. Her voice is too low for me to catch her end of the conversation, but I don’t need to. The slight ding in The Boss’s one million dollar body has been duly reported.

The sanguine smile is back on her face when she joins me in the kitchen. We go through the next few days’ schedule while I eat. Then she makes me stand on a scale in the bathroom for my weighing. She catalogues my five-pound weight gain with another bright smile, after which she promises to be in touch soon, and leaves.

He’s going to call. But I don’t know when, so I distract myself by trying to work out the elaborate TV/entertainment center controls.

I finally figure it out and I’m watching reruns of The Big Bang Theory, when the black box flashes green.

My heart climbs into my throat. I debate ignoring it. On top of the subject I don’t want to discuss, I recall our conversation last night. My body is strung up on the attraction I feel for another man. I don’t know if I want to add Q’s brand of electronic hotness to my crazy right now.

But what choice do I have?

I slowly reach for the box. Before I can touch it, it flashes off. I jump back, relief and disappointment mingling through me. Five seconds later, the flashing resumes.

I pick it up and press the ‘on’ button.

“Were you thinking of not answering me, Lucky?” His voice flows around the room, like a living entity. “Think carefully before you answer.”

My fingers curl around the box. “Yes, I was.”

“Thank you for being truthful. Why?”

“The bruise is nothing. I didn’t want it to become something.”

“That’s not for you to decide.”

My shocked laugh is tinged with more than a touch of exasperation. “Excuse me?”

“Small fact you should know about me. Everything I own is precious to me. Everything I own is unequivocally mine, until such time as I choose to dispose of it. Everything I own I maintain in pristine condition. Do I own you, Lucky?”

My exasperation stands no chance beneath his obsidian power and the inevitability of my answer. “Yes,” I whisper.

“Once again. With conviction. I need to know you’ve embraced the reality that I own you.”

“Yes,” I repeat. I toss the box on the sofa and take childish pleasure in glaring at it. “Yes, you own me!”

Silence seethes for several heartbeats. “Are you in pain?”

I’m not expecting that, nor the different cadence attached to the voice. He’s just callously labeled me an object. A possession to dispose of eventually. Rich people don’t care about the suffering of mere mortals.

And yet, he ensured you didn’t end up in the shelter…or worse.

While my emotions sigh with gratitude for that, my brain holds back, cautioning me that everything happening to me could still be a twisted game in some rich man’s fantasy.

The man I’ve labeled Q is a stranger. Until we come face to face and I’m able to assess him otherwise, he needs to remain that way, no matter how he makes me feel.

I tuck my feet beneath me on the sofa, noting absently that somehow the TV has been muted. “In the grand scheme of things, compared to what your fitness instructor put me through today, I’d say the pain in my wrist is a piece of cake.”

“You think it’s the same? Pain deliberately inflicted and pain endured for the purposes of honing your body?”

I frown. “Of course not. You just…I was trying to explain…okay, I get it. No, it’s a touch uncomfortable when I touch it, but I’m not in pain. Can we get off the subject now, please?”

“We can. I have a prior engagement to attend to. If you would be so kind as to ensure I don’t have to make another call like this, I would appreciate it.”

The box turns black before I have a chance to respond. Or thank him for the clothes. Or just…enjoy the sound of his electronic voice.

I’m completely deflated.

When the TV miraculously un-mutes again, my enjoyment in my favorite show is nil. I flounder on the sofa for another hour before I drag myself to the double bookshelf at the opposite end of the room. I half-heartedly settle for a psychological thriller that promises high jinx on a pirate ship and take it up to the bedroom.

Although I try to blank my mind and immerse myself in the story, I lose interest by the second chapter.

Two streams of conversation play through my mind, each with its own unique brand of mind-fuckery that sends my thoughts spinning.

I jumped out of the frying pan because my very survival depended on it.

But the fire licking at my heels might just consume me because the craving inside me, one that has grown without my even realizing it, has me locked in its terrible hold.