I wake up sore. No surprises there.

My legs shake when I try to walk from bed to bathroom. The bath I had last night went a ways to soothing the throbbing between my legs, but it wasn’t a miracle cure by any stretch. There are faint red marks on my inner thighs and around my waist. I wince as I pee and touching my swollen lips brings back a flood of erotic memories of what Q did to me last night. What he plans to do to me today.

The orgasms he drew so effortlessly from me. The thought hadn’t even crossed my mind to put together the sequence of fake moans and groans leading to fake orgasms I mastered back at the Villa.

This was supposed to be a technical exercise. A clinical exchange of body for money. But I knew the moment he touched me that he had the ability to make it something else.

It’s that something else that lingers on my mind when I dress in yoga pants and a Lycra tank and head outside to the designated exercise area. I’m a few minutes earlier than the appointed nine o’clock workout, so I walk to the end of the sun-splashed terrace and eye the high wall signaling the end of the wing. A similar wall rises up on the other side of the great room, but there’s a huge garden, and pool, and a gate that leads down a steep path to a jetty overhanging the water. I haven’t ventured down the garden yet, but from the high position of the house, I can see the craggy rocks against which the waves pound.

The walls do an effective job in obscuring just how big this place it. I also haven’t found a door that leads outside besides the ones that bring me to the garden. Which means my only escape, should I need one, is via the water.

I’m a gilded, well-fed, diamond-wearing prisoner, with absolutely no clue where I am.

In some ways I’m reassured that if I don’t know where I am, neither will Clayton or my father. But I know that’s a pipe dream that has no basis in reality, but for a moment I let it wash away a little of the fear that clings perpetually to me.

I stop pondering the wall and let the view of the water soothe me. I have my first hundred thousand. Nine more days like last night and then I can allow myself to think of the possibility of a future.

Maybe in New York.

Maybe Quinn Blackwood.

I startle when I realize I haven’t thought much about him since arriving here. It’s almost as if when I’m with Q, I stop thinking about enigmatic CEO with the wastelands of hell in his eyes. And when I’m with Quinn, the man with the hypnotically sexy mechanical voice ceases to exist. I don’t deny that they both have profound, albeit different, effects on me. But one is a finite means to an end.

While the other…

I settle on the top step and fold my hands across my knees. To be honest, I don’t know what Quinn Blackwood is. Or whether he’s even anything to me.

But you want to find out…

“There you are. You ready to get limber?”

I startle and glance up at Fred…or Freddie. Or was it Eddie? Fitness Trainer. Here to prepare my body for another night of fucking. My face reddens as I nod.

If he sees my reaction, he chooses not to comment. He nods approvingly at my half-finished bottle of water, and we get started.

After we’re done I head back in. Stephanie’s laying out breakfast in the kitchen and I wolf down a plate of bacon, eggs and hash browns, topped off with a glass of juice. She’s stacking groceries in the fridge when I finish but stops and intercepts me as I head to the sink with my plate. For some reason my head snaps up to the camera above the fridge.

It’s blinking red. I hand over my plate without protest. As I turn to leave, Stephanie’s voice stops me. “I’ll be up in an hour to help you get ready.”

My eyes widen. “In an hour? I thought I wouldn’t be needed until tonight.”

“My brief is to get you ready by noon,” Stephanie replies.

My gaze returns to the camera. It continues to blink. I feel him watching me. “I see.”

I leave the kitchen and head up the sweeping stairs with my heart rate uncomfortably higher than it was twenty minutes ago. One hour. Then I’ll be in that room with him again.

The nerves that climb up my spine should be because I’ll be stepping back into the unknown. But I recognize part of the emotion as excitement. In the hallway leading to my bedroom, another camera blinks at me. My steps slow to a stop. I want to say something, but I can’t think of anything to say that won’t betray the slow sizzle burning in my pelvis. Like the cameras back in the Midtown penthouse, these burn into me.

I swallow and lower my gaze. As I enter my room, I swear I can almost hear him purr, “One hour, Lucky.”

I retrace my steps to locked double doors. This time, my outfit is a black lace slip with a matching thong. No garters or other undergarments. My finger and toenails are painted red to match the red soled black heels on my feet, and between my breasts hangs a blood red ruby on a gold chain. The stone is twice the size of my thumb. I’m almost too scared to look at it or even touch it.

With my hair worn up and the absence of a robe today, I feel exposed as I walk through the dark corridor and enter the foyer of Q’s wing. I wonder if this is a clever ploy to put me at a disadvantage. I snort beneath my breath.

Was I ever at an advantage?

I pause between the sweeping stairs, same as I did yesterday.

“Right staircase. Turn left at the top.”

That voice haunted my dreams last night. It made me do things that drew emotions so strong, I woke up covered in sweat and shame. Which led to worse dreams. About Clayton. About Ridge. My Father. Ma. Death. Destruction.

My mind and body are far from rested as I climb the stairs. But thoughts of respite evaporate from my mind, when halfway up the stairs a camera swings into view.

It’s suspended on a pulley, the lens trained on me.

Without the robe I know it can pick up every inch of my exposed skin. The combination of cool air and blatant focus ripens my sensitive nipples. They peak to attention beneath the lace and with each moment, chafe with a shamefully delicious friction that makes me bite the inside of my lip.

I’ve barely made it to the top of the stairs and I’m aroused. My fingers curl around the wooden bannister to steady myself.

“Pick up the pace, firecracker.”

I’m not sure how I feel about that nickname. On the one hand, it has a hint of take-no-prisoners that appeals to me, but on the other, I can’t help but think he’s mocking me, toying with me the way a cat toys with a mouse.

I reach the top and turn left. Sunlight pours through tall cathedral-like windows on either side of me. I want to stop and look through them, get my bearings. But I know he won’t like that. I content myself with a quick peek out the right window, but all I see is water. Frustration trickles into the cocktail mix of emotions. And then I arrive in front of another set of doors, and two emotions reign supreme.

Trepidation.

Excitement.

I enter. Unlike the one we used last night, this room has no windows. But the decor is equally bold and masculine, stripes of navy and ochre dominating the large space. Again, the focal point is the bed, with cameras trained around the four posts bracing its king-size majesty.

There’s no seat at the end of the waist-high bed, only the blindfold and the pair of gold-colored ropes.

He’s going to tie me up again.

The thought should fill me with strong misgivings. Perhaps even a flat refusal. But even though I know he’s watching, listening, I don’t speak.

I walk to the middle of the room and rest my hands on the bed.

“Good afternoon, Lucky.”

I shiver at the formal greeting. We both know his civility is a guise. But guise or not, now that I know the savagely demanding male attached to it, that voice is extremely effective in setting my pulse alight. “Hi.”

“The blindfold, please. Then place your hands back on the bed.”

I pick it up with shaky fingers and secure it around my head. The clasps click into place and my world turns black.

He doesn’t mess around this time. I hear him enter almost immediately. The whine of the camera follows, drawing closer with each passing second. The moment the door snicks shut, strong, shackling arms imprison me.

My breath leaves my lungs when his hot, hard body imprints against mine. He’s naked, and the erection he’s sporting is monumental against my back, the hands that find my breasts, rough and demanding.

“Missed these.” He teases urgent thumbs over the stiff lace-covered peaks, then catches them between his fingers and squeezes. The continuous tug at my nipples sends arrows of lust straight between my legs. In under a minute, liquid heat floods me. It scents the air and he growls deep in his throat.

One hand leaves my breast, pulls up the slip and slides into my panties. “Missed this beautiful pussy more. So fucking wet.” His finger finds my clit, and mercilessly flicks.

I hear the camera track his movement. The shame the mechanical sound induces is ever-present, but the blanket of arousal is growing thicker. My moan, when he slips one finger inside me, is raw and unguarded.

“Are you sore?” he demands, his voice a charged vibration above me. “Don’t lie.”

“Yes, I am.”

The answer seems to please him. His cock jerks against the small of my back. “Would you like me to be gentle with you, Lucky?”

Another shiver racks me as my mind tears in different directions. I should say yes, ask him to go easy on me. But I sense that wouldn’t please him.

The fact that I want to please him rips my mind into further pieces. The pressure between my legs intensifies. I gasp. My fingers curl into the silk sheets. “Answer me, firecracker.” The thick finger that plunges into me sends me to my tiptoes.

“Your body. Your pussy.”

A loud breath explodes from him. I sense his approval in the caress of my breast and the fingers that massage my pussy. “Yes,” he purrs. “So fucking right.”

He releases me abruptly, and I nearly groan at the absence of his finger inside me. The slip is tugged up and off my body. The thong goes the opposite route, and I’m left naked but for my heels and blindfold.

His tip finds my entrance and my breath strangles to nothing.

“My body.”

He penetrates me with a thrust so raw and rough, my feet leave the ground. I scream and my fists claw at the sheets.

“My pussy.”

I get a repeat of the same. I scream harder. By the third thrust, he’s crammed me full. Fuller than he managed yesterday if his groan of triumph is any indication. “Love that you’re taking more of me, baby.” He fucks me in sure, long strokes for a full minute, before he bends over my shaking body. “By the time the weekend’s over you’ll take all of me, won’t you, my little firecracker?” He punctuates the last three words with harsh animal thrusts.

“Oh!” I struggle to find my stolen breath. “Yes.”

“And why would you do that, Lucky?”

“Your body…your pussy.”

Those four words send him crazy. My feet don’t touch the ground again. One thick arm circles my waist and I’m lifted off the floor. His rough instruction to wrap my legs around his muscular thighs secures my position before he proceeds to rip me apart from the inside. Every thrust hits my end with a sharp intensity that drives the little breath I manage to catch straight back out of my lungs. He works me like an expert conductor, delivering pure, unadulterated ecstasy straight into my blood stream.

I almost forget to ask him for permission. My internal muscles tense and quiver, the anticipation of pleasure almost unbearable.

It’s his shout, followed by the thick, “Fuck!” that warns me that I can’t come without his say so.

“M—may…I?” My brain and my tongue can barely form the words.

“What was that, beautiful?” he growls above me.

“Come…please, may I…Q?” Every atom of my being is poised and ready. My channel is tightening harder, the need the come almost preventing his thrusts.

“My God, you feel incredible!”

“Pleeeeeeaaaase!”

I won’t last one more second. I know it. I don’t know what my punishment will be if I go against his wishes. I suck in a desperate breath and hold it, knowing I’m about to damn myself. My mouth goes slack and I prepare to let go.

“Yes,” he grates out, his voice a primitive roar that bursts me wide open.

I come so hard I feel my juices saturate my pussy and flow down my thighs. I can’t find my breath and my already black vision dims further. I lose strength in my arms and legs, and I sag and flop around like a useless creature.

The arm around me tightens as Q takes control of me. He carries me around the side of the bed, and tosses me down before he climbs over me. My wrists are caught and trapped in one hand, my legs are parted once more and he’s seated fully inside me between one frenzied heartbeat and the next.

My back arches off the bed as he fucks me with renewed vigor. Dirty, decadent sounds of wet flesh slapping against flesh forms the background music to this lewd coupling. I hear the cameras. The wash of shame builds. But so does the onslaught of sensation.

Above me, Q’s breathing turns even harsher. His cock thickens inside me. I’m stretched to my absolute fullest and strung as tight as a bow.

Thick, mechanical words flow over me as he falls into his own pleasure trance. “Fuck you for days…you milk me so good…mine…fucking mine…motherfucker!”

The words are like torch paper to my fire.

I shouldn’t be enjoying this. I am literally under a spotlight, staging a performance for an audience of one or an audience of a million. The words falling from his lips could be words practiced in front of a mirror in a room somewhere in this strange place.

I shouldn’t be enjoying this.

But I am.