"Sir."
Something flickers in his gaze. Excitement. Lust, maybe.
"Would you call me that?" he asks, deadly serious.
"In front of your parents?" I gasp.
"No. If you call me Sir, it would only be for us, baby girl."
The sound of that endearment sends a tingle between my legs. I can't handle the focus he has on me. It simultaneously makes me want to shrink into my seat and pounce on him.
Would I call him Sir?
It feels so kinky and I think I should say absolutely not.
But then why is my stomach contracting and my legs squeezing together? He knows it too. He can tell by the way I'm squirming in my seat that the idea of calling him Sir turns me on.
Instead of answering him, I redirect. "Not baby girl," I whisper.
"No?"
When I shake my head, he continues. "Well then, I'll have to come up with something better."
By the time we land in Bali, Asher has made good on his promise to come up with a better nickname. So far, he's tried out buttercup, babe, and my least favorite, snooker. He did so while briefing me on what to expect.
This retreat is held annually during the spring equinox with the company executive suite and Celeste’s truest followers. When I asked what that meant, to be one of her followers, Asher rolled his eyes and called them her “groupies.”
Tomorrow starts bright and early, with yoga for the women and then a welcome breakfast. There are different treatments and therapies handpicked for each guest by Celeste. Asher told me to expect an itinerary laid on our pillows.
As we exit the plane, I'm reminded again how different Asher's world is from mine. Where I'd be shuffling through customs lines and hunting for my luggage, we're whisked directly to a waiting black Bentley, the driver greeting Asher with a respectful nod.
"Mr. Caine, welcome back. Your suite is prepared for your arrival."
"Thank you, Wayan," Asher replies, his hand finding the small of my back as he guides me into the car.
The leather seats are cool against my bare legs, and I press my face to the window as we pull away from the airport. Humidity hits differently here, the air thick and earthy.
Bali unfolds in layers. First, the chaotic sprawl of Denpasar, with mopeds weaving between cars like water around stones. Street vendors sell fruit I don't recognize under tarps strung between trees. Then gradually, the buildings thin out, replacedby rice paddies that shimmer like emeralds in the late afternoon sun.
"Beautiful, isn't it?" Asher's voice pulls my attention from the window.
I nod, unable to form words that wouldn't sound embarrassingly provincial.
"The retreat is in Ubud." He continues, scrolling through his phone with practiced efficiency. "Wait until you see the grounds."
The grounds aren't anything like I expected. We arrive at a compound tucked into the jungle, all sleek wood and stone that somehow looks both ancient and modern. A woman in traditional dress greets us at the entrance with pressed palms and a bow.
"Selamat datang," she murmurs, her smile genuine and warm. "Welcome to Lotus Ridge."
I copy her gesture awkwardly, pressing my palms together. Asher does the same with the ease of someone who's done this a hundred times.
"Please, follow me." The woman leads us through an open-air pavilion where ceiling fans stir the humid air. Everything smells like something floral and rain-soaked earth. Balinese offerings sit in small woven baskets at every doorway, petals and incense arranged with careful precision.
We pass a massive pool that seems to disappear into the jungle beyond. No sign of Asher's family yet, just the soft trickle of water features and bird calls I can't name.
"Your suite," the woman says, sliding open a carved wooden door.
Our room steals whatever breath Bali's humidity left me. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook a private garden. The bed sits on a raised platform under gauzy white curtains that billow inthe breeze. Everything is teak and cream linen, minimalist but impossibly luxurious.
