by Chloe Cox
So, he thought grudgingly, pacing now in his own luxury suite, awaiting the hour he had appointed for her to be ready for him, perhaps this is love, in its way.
He stopped short. He’d thought it, the word. Love. The world had not come crashing down around him; his universe had not changed. And neither had his options.
Mark would have laughed until he cried, and then told him to go elope.
But those were larger questions, not necessarily suited to the moment, and Bashir would not let anything ruin this moment for her, or for himself. He made the executive decision that he would not think about it until absolutely necessary; it represented a dark thing on the horizon that he would eventually deal with, but he wouldn’t let it impede upon this night. This night, when he would know if Stella Spencer—wounded, beautiful, sensitive, loving Stella Spencer—could trust him enough to inspire his own trust in her. It was all he could think about. All he cared about, to tell the truth.
Which, of course, led back to the conclusion that he had completely lost his mind. Bashir sighed.
Everything was ready. He would know, soon, if Stella fully trusted him. In fact, everyone would know. Roman and Lola had confirmed the arrangements; the equipment would be available, and arranged as he’d requested.
As would the audience.
All that was left was Stella.
CHAPTER 23
This had easily, easily been the longest day of Stella’s life.
She’d slept terribly, obviously, after the Sheikh had left her like that, warning her about “tomorrow.” First, he hadn’t…well, after all that, after everything she’d told him, and after she’d done everything he’d told her to do, it still wasn’t enough? What did a girl have to do to get a billionaire Sheikh Dom to make love to her?
Even when he was paying her for the privilege?
She cringed. Well, theoretically, as far as he knew, he was paying her. She would not be accepting any money, she had decided on that. It would taint everything he had done for her if she did, and what he had given her was priceless, even if he didn’t know it.
These past few days, she’d finally felt like she understood what people meant when they talked about coming out of their shell. Or that cheesy butterfly metaphor, with the cocoon. Stella wanted to run around—admittedly, like a crazy person—and announce to all those people, no, you don’t really know what it’s like to emerge from a shell, to break free of a cocoon, to find yourself completely changed into someone you’d always hoped you could be, but I do. Let me tell you about it!
Stella hadn’t ever thought of herself as the sort of person who could be confident of her place in the world, and, even more so, of what she might expect to get back from the world. She’d just sort of accepted that people wouldn’t treat her well, and her job was to still be the best person she could be, under the circumstances. It wasn’t really something she’d thought about consciously—she wasn’t the self-pitying type, or at least tried not to be—but, looking back, it was clear her expectations were totally warped by that feeling of inevitable suckitude. When Robert had left, it had been completely heartbreaking, and, on some level, shocking, like a sucker punch to the gut. And yet, on another level, something deep and pitiful inside Stella had thought, of course.
The Sheikh had, somehow, miraculously, succeeded in getting that deep and pitiful thing to shut up. He’d sucker punched it right back, and Stella firmly believed that, no matter what happened, that deep and pitiful thing would stay dead. It was gone. She was free, forever.
Even if the Sheikh never wanted to see her again.
Maybe.
She had pretty much been unable to think about anything else, all day. What could he possibly have in store for her that she hadn’t already done? And what if she failed? What if he decided that she wasn’t really…
Well, what did he want from her, anyway? If it was just sex, well, he could have had that. He could have a lot of that, frankly. But the plain fact was that he hadn’t had sex with her. So what else did he want?
Stella knew what she wanted the answer to that to be, but she didn’t want to say it, not even to herself. It would be just like her, to screw herself over by falling for a man as unattainable in real life as Sheikh Bashir was. This was a fantasy weekend, not life. What did a Sheikh’s life even consist of? The kind of man who bought a fancy restaurant on a freaking whim and thought nothing of it? She imagined his office with a giant map of the world, on which he’d manipulate little pieces, like a great game of Risk or something. It probably wasn’t that far off.
How could she ever hope to fit into a life like that?
It was silly to even think about. And yet she was clearly doing just that, waiting for the usual dress delivery to arrive. She did have to wonder where they were going, and what fabulous dress he would have picked out for her to wear. She didn’t mind getting a new designer dress every night, either, even if the Sheikh kept ruining them in ever more creative ways.
By the time the package and accompanying note did arrive—left, like all the others, at the foot of the door to her suite; she never did figure out who he’d hired to leave them—Stella had worked herself up into a state of nervous excitement. She felt buoyant and yet delicate, like whipped peaks of sugared cream.
It was a small parcel, actually. Much smaller than any of the others.
She opened it to find a note that said only “8pm, the Black Ball.” And a collar.
Just a collar.
For the Black Ball.
Stella had to sit down for a while.
The Black Ball was the start of Volare NY’s fall season, a massive costume party to welcome back the club’s wealthy members from their summers in the Hamptons, timed for the very last night of the Labor Day weekend. Stella had never been. She hadn’t worked at Volare NY that long, but she’d heard stories. This was the party where the BDSM elements of the club took precedence, and when even the most vanilla of Volare’s members sometimes dipped into more exotic flavors.
She’d been nervous about the Black Ball back when she’d thought she’d just have to host. Now she was apparently attending.
In only a collar.
She’d taken all of her clothes off, somehow not any more accustomed to nudity than she’d been before all of this, and put the thin, soft, leather collar on. It snapped easily in the back, and there was an ominous metal ring in the front. She knew what that was for. She remembered the Black Brunch.
But maybe she’d misunderstood? She’d wrapped herself in one of the impossibly plush bathrobes that were in never-ending supply in the suite’s bathroom, and waited for eight o’clock to arrive. She’d been naked at the brunch, it was true, but that was a punishment. Maybe he had something else in mind?
There was the telltale beep of the key code at the door. She was about to find out.
Sheikh Bashir strode into the room, looking, as he always did, incredible. Gone was the casual but impeccably tailored suit; in its place was a fine, loose white linen shirt, open nearly to the waist, and fitted black trousers. A man like Sheikh Bashir did not have to dress up for any occasion, if he didn’t feel like it. And his choice of clothing seemed suited for…athleticism. Or ease of access.
Stella felt her heart jump at the thought. The sight of his tan skin, smoothed out over a well-developed chest and a hard range of abdominal muscles, did not help. She hadn’t yet seen his body, had only felt it against her, through his clothes. It looked even better than she imagined. She felt weak.
Sheikh Bashir glowered at her. “Stand up,” he commanded. “Why are you wearing that robe?”
“I—”
“Take it off.”
That voice. Stella had an immediate, involuntary reaction to it now: her belly tightened, she got a little wet, even her nipples perked up. He really has trained me, she thought, and, marveling at the whole thing, happily did what she was told.
She loved being naked when he was clothed now. It made her feel nervous, and powerless, and yet so tu
rned on.
Sheikh Bashir stepped close, close enough to almost touch the length of her. Stella sighed, and he held her face as he had the previous night, tilting it up toward his.
He said, “You trusted me with your innermost thoughts and feelings last night, Stella. Tonight, I ask you to trust me completely with your body. If you do…”
“…and then beg…” she whispered.
He smiled darkly. “Yes. And then beg.”
He leaned down and kissed her, the heat of him burning through the last of her resistance and fear, stoking the fire in her core and spreading the warmth to every last, aching part of her. When he pulled away, she felt cold, and knew instinctively she’d do anything to get that warmth back.
She heard a click. Stella looked down, and saw that he’d attached the leash to her collar.
“Do you trust me?” he said, very quietly. She nodded. She did. Somehow, even though she was afraid, and nervous, she trusted him above all else.
“We shall see,” he said. “You will have a special safeword for tonight, for this event. ‘Rococo.’”
The name of the restaurant he’d bought. It seemed somehow fitting. Again, she nodded, and then leaned slightly into him, wanting to feel his body against her nakedness once more.
He allowed her this for just a moment. Then he turned on his heel, and led her toward the door.
CHAPTER 24
Stella wanted to laugh out loud, but from nervousness or absurdity, she couldn’t tell. There definitely was something funny about waiting for an elevator while stark naked, with a leash and collar around her neck. Especially when they weren’t alone.
Stella had balked a bit when Sheikh Bashir led her into the hotel corridor, until the Sheikh reminded her that Volare NY rented out the entire floor for the exclusive use of club members during the Black Ball. It still set her on edge, to stand and wait for an elevator in the nude. And then, of course, the others had arrived.
Another couple, the man dressed head to toe in black leathers, the woman wearing a very fine, very see-through mesh dress, waited with them for the elevator. The Sheikh had greeted them politely, calling the man “Henry.” Stella had no idea how she was supposed to act, so she ignored them. Or tried to. Henry had been staring at her naked body with obvious appreciation.
Henry was definitely handsome, in a preppy sort of way that didn’t necessarily suit his dress, and well built. Even so, Stella might have found his attention creepy if it weren’t for the presence of the Sheikh standing next to her. She must have moved closer to him, because as the elevator arrived, the Sheikh reached down and grabbed one buttock before giving it a light slap.
“Don’t dawdle,” he said, and, blushing, Stella trotted into the elevator.
But Henry was not to be dissuaded.
“So that’s her,” he finally said to the Sheikh, though he kept looking at Stella’s breasts. Wait, what has he heard about me?
“Yes,” the Sheikh said.
“Are they real?” Henry asked Sheikh Bashir. Stella blushed furiously. Yes, they were damned well real. “Mind if I see for myself?”
What? The Sheikh had made vague allusions to something like this, to the idea that she was a possession, to be loaned out if he felt like it, but only playfully. This guy Henry seemed to take it seriously. And while Stella didn’t want anyone but Sheikh Bashir, the idea that she was his, to do with as he wanted…
She was turned on. She couldn’t help it. The idea of another man’s hands on her, at the Sheikh’s orders, was somehow…
Oh God.
She could tell, without even looking, that the Sheikh was studying her with that intense x-ray stare again. She was sure he could tell that she was turned on. He could always tell exactly what she was feeling. Exactly what she wanted. Stella just looked straight ahead, and pretended no one was talking about her.
“If you want,” the Sheikh said slowly, and he took Stella’s hand in his own.
The man called Henry reached out and cupped Stella’s breast. Stella was too shocked to move, except to squeeze the Sheikh’s hand. Henry grunted softly, hefting her breast, kneading it slowly. Stella looked at the Sheikh, ashamed at how wet she was, wanting somehow to tell Sheikh Bashir that it was only for him, but not knowing how. Sheikh Bashir’s expression, as always, was unreadable, though when Henry began to toy with her nipple, the Sheikh’s eyes flashed.
“That’s enough,” he said.
Henry immediately dropped his hand. “Lovely,” was all he said.
Stella could feel the other woman’s hatred from across the elevator. She was glad when the doors opened, and the Sheikh allowed the other couple to leave first. By the time the Sheikh led her to the doors of the Black Room, the other couple was nowhere in sight.
In fact, no one was. Shouldn’t it be busy? Bustling, even?
The Sheikh stopped, holding up the end of the lead and signaling Stella to stop. All at once she desperately wanted to explain about the elevator, about how she wasn’t really attracted to Henry, or to anyone else—which, wow, she really didn’t want anyone else—she was just turned on by the idea of more than one man, as long as the man in charge was Sheikh Bashir. She opened her mouth, but the Sheikh put his hand over it, and looked into her eyes.
“Do you trust me?” he said again.
She nodded.
“I have been watching you, Stella. Studying you. And it is my responsibility to know you. Do you trust that I have done that? That I would only do what is best for you—for us—even if you yourself do not know what that is?”
He took his hand away so she could answer, but Stella was still speechless. He had said, “for us.” Us. There was an “us.”
She blinked, and nodded again. It was all she could do. Looking into her eyes, he ran his hand from her face to her neck to her breast, where he lingered, flicking the nipple with his thumb, and then down the front of her stomach, his light touch drawing her muscles into shuddering contractions, and then, finally, between her legs, where he held her sex in his hand. She felt he had tuned her naked body to its peak, and had primed her for whatever was in store.
What is he going to do to me?
“You are ready,” he said, grabbing hold of the lead and opening the door.
She had no choice but to follow.
Both times she’d been to the Black Room with the Sheikh, she’d listened for sounds from the main room while they navigated the blind foyer. Those sounds had given her an hint, at least, of what to expect: the leather-on-flesh sound of a flogging, the clinking of metal and glass of brunch.
This time there was nothing: only silence. Stella’s mind ran wild. She gripped blindly at the Sheikh’s hand, looking for some reassurance.
And then, quite suddenly, they turned the corner.
The room was festooned with what looked like hundreds of real wax candles grouped in every kind of candelabra and placed strategically on every available surface of the room.
The very crowded room.
There was no other ornamentation but for the candles, and the crowd. They were silent, some with their champagne flutes raised, and watching Stella expectantly. They were also all clothed, some of them in fetish wear, others in black tie dress. Most were not masked, and Stella recognized many from her duties at the club. All of them were staring at her as she stood before them, naked. The only naked person in the room.
Which is why it took her a moment to notice the centerpiece.
On a raised platform in the center of the space, surrounded by candles, and with a heavy chandelier hanging above it, was the table she had remarked on the very first time she came to the Black Room with the Sheikh. The table with stirrups. With straps. With restraints.
“Come, Stella,” the Sheikh said, and began to walk directly toward the table.
Stella almost didn’t move, she was so transfixed by that table, by what might happen to her there. But a small storm brewed inside her, a familiar pressure, and just as the lead went tight against her collar, sh
e found her feet moving forward.
No one else made a sound. She felt hundreds of eyes watching her as she clambered up onto the platform to stand beside Sheikh Bashir.
He looked down at her, and said again, “Trust me.”
Then he raised his arm, and the silence among the crowd deepened. The weight of all of those eyes shifted to Sheikh Bashir, and Stella almost sagged in relief.
If she thought she had trouble being only vulnerable in public…
“Thank you all for providing me with this venue,” he began. A few people in the crowd nodded. Stella thought she saw Roman out there, amid the members, raising his glass. Of course they’re all here. Are they all in on this?
Sheikh Bashir continued, “As many of you know, Stella Spencer is employed at Volare New York as a hostess, but she had never participated in any club events prior to this weekend. She is now newly submissive. My submissive.” Stella thought she saw a few raised eyebrows. Was he claiming her publicly? Why did he need to do that?
And did that mean that after the weekend…?
“But,” the Sheikh went on, “there are a few things she has yet to do. I hope you’ll all join in the festivities.”
Wait, what? Join in the festivities? Like that guy in the elevator?
Stella didn’t have a chance to ask any questions. Sheikh Bashir turned to her and said, “Get on the table.”
Oh my God. It wasn’t a surprise, except that the reality of it…to actually get on that table, naked, legs spread…
Stella hesitated only a second before Sheikh Bashir’s face told her that this was not negotiable. “Trust me,” he’d said. And he’d known, somehow, everything she was feeling; he’d known her own limits better than she did, in some ways. And he’d always, always wanted good things for her.
She got up on the table.
“Lie back,” he said, “and put your feet in the stirrups.”
Stella shuddered, and was glad that when she laid down that she could only see slivers of faces through the candle flames that surrounded her. She closed her eyes, steeled herself, and raised first one and then the other leg into the stirrups.
