I started moving again, trusting him to follow. Considering this was the third instance of me leading him through the club, I felt increasingly like the predator Maslow claimed I was. Setting a line and then reeling it in. Catching my prey.
It came as a relief that Beck couldn’t see the battle being waged on my face. Inner turmoil shaped itself in a tight frown and furrowed brow.
At the end of the passage, the “Private Area” waited as a dead end. Neither Beck nor I spoke as I stopped before the door and laid my hand on the knob. My pulse fluttered at the base of my throat.
I didn’t know how to explain or introduce the place, so I let it speak for itself by pushing through the entry, then stepping aside so Beck could take in the view.
The bed, the cross, the racks of floggers and restraints… Every feature added an extra beat to my heart’s unsteady rhythm. It could have been arousing. Tantalizing. Beck might have thought it was, and in bringing him here, I had opened that door both literally and figuratively. If he wanted to take me in this place, in this way, I would have no right to stop him.
I lingered as the quiet grew, rubbing my wrists and imagining leather cuffs being used to stretch my arms wide and offer my body for inspection or abuse. A gag in my mouth would silence any protest, and I would lose my voice the same way I was steadily losing everything else. All while Maslow watched from behind the camera’s lens.
After a pause that left me painfully raw, Beck asked, “What is this place?”
“It’s…” My throat tightened, threatening to take my words prematurely. “It’s my room.”
He entered at last, weaving a path around the furniture and various trappings. Passing the bed, he smoothed his palm across the sheets and watched the satin ripple. Then he glanced back at me.
“Yours?”
I didn’t want to admit it, but I forced myself to nod.
He progressed further into the space, stopping beside the cross with its lacquered surface and attached shackles. He gave one a rattle that echoed in my teeth before he chuckled.
“I didn’t realize you were a torchbearer for the sex Olympics,” he scoffed. “I think you mean it’s Maslow’s…”
When he looked at me this time, I pinned my lip between my teeth and bit down, hoping the pain would stave off tears.
Beck returned to me in a series of swift strides, drawing close and reaching out.
But before his fingers grazed my naked torso, I heard myself mumble, “He’s filming. You deserve to know.”
Beck jerked back as though stung, then casta narrow glance around the room. I pointed out the camera, and when Beck saw it, he snarled.
“The bastard built a goddamn porn studio?” he exclaimed, targeting the red dot of light with his wrath. “I didn’t sign a fucking waiver!”
He deflated a bit and pressed the heel of his hand to his face, wincing like the idea made his head ache. “Ah shit, it reallywouldbe a fucking waiver. What the hell?”
I started to wrap my arms around myself, shrinking from impending rejection, but Beck grabbed my elbow. Turning me toward the hall, he dragged us both out of the room and stopped a few paces beyond it before releasing me.
He was clearly upset, brows drawn down while a vein jumped at his temple. The strands of silver hair there shimmered in the ambient light.
“Why did you bring me here?” he asked.
His anger differed from Maslow’s. Less targeted. More abstract. I could stomach it, feeling unsure rather than thoroughly cowed. But I still wasn’t sure what to say.
“You didn’t before.” Beck swung his hand toward the room we’d abandoned. “Was this here then?”
“Yeah,” I mumbled.
“Was it booked or something?” he asked. “Do your friends bring clients here too?” Aggravation sizzled in the air, making every breath taste like static.
“No, it’s… just me. Mazzy built it…” I swallowed roughly. “For me.”
Over Beck’s shoulder, the door remained ajar like a watchful eye. But Beck put himself between that place and me. He’d created a barricade I would have sooner thrown myself on than tried to pass through. And I might haveclung to him if he didn’t look so baffled and I didn’t feel so ashamed.
Finally, he shook his head. “So, Maz wants the money. You turn tricks; he sells what? Souvenir videos?” I cringed as Beck made a dismissive gesture. “I know he wants the money, but what doyouwant?”
“What?” I croaked, barely registering the question. Another thing Maslow would never say. Something else I hadn’t dared think for myself.
