It was from Scarlett.
Tonight’s fantasy — You’re a masked man. You will enter my stateroom, tie me up, and pound me rough. I will film it. Room 546. Come in five minutes. Your time starts now.
I read it twice. Set the phone face-down.
In the mirror, Camila uncapped her lipstick and leaned closer to her reflection, perfectly at ease, perfectly happy.
I straightened my tie, looked at myself in the mirror for one long moment. Then I looked at her — lied to her — and walked out of the door.
CHAPTER 3
JASON
The Celestia’s main corridor was strung with lights for the evening.
Couples moved past me in clusters — women in cocktail dresses, men in dinner jackets, everyone laughing, everyone heading somewhere beautiful. A child ran ahead of her parents with a sparkler. A waiter balanced a tray of champagne flutes and wished me a good evening as I passed.
I said nothing back.
Room 546 was on the starboard side of Deck 4, far from the VIP suites, far from everything bright and festive. The corridor down here was narrower, the lighting dimmer, and the sounds of the party above faded the further I walked until all I could hear was the low, constant hum of the engine somewhere beneath the floor.
The door was unremarkable — the same as every other door on the deck.
On the doorstep sat a carnival mask. Red. Kept neatly, and of course placed deliberately.
I looked at it for a moment.
Then I picked it up, placed it on my face, and opened the door.
The stateroom was dark.
Not the soft dark of evening, but the deliberate dark of blackout curtains pulled tight against a sky that still had light left in it. The only things visible were shapes and shadows, the faint outline of furniture, and the red blink of a camera mounted high on the far wall, its light pulsing steadily like a small, patient eye.
And the music.
Heavy metal turned up loud enough that I felt it in my sternum — a wall of sound that made the room feel smaller, more airless, more enclosed. After having fucked Scarlett so many times in the last six months, I knew by now that her favorite music for fucking was heavy metal. The music that blocked out everything else, that made the outside world feel very far away.
Completely opposite of my favorite, but then, I was here to fulfill her fantasy, not mine.
She was at the far end of the bed, her back to me, balanced on one knee on the mattress. She was wearing a black lace nightgown that fell to the top of her thigh, sheer enough to be almost nothing. She was applying oil to her bare leg in slow, deliberate strokes, her dark hair falling straight and black over one shoulder.
She didn’t turn around.
Her phone was on the bed beside her. As I stepped inside, she reached for it.
A second later, my phone vibrated in my jacket pocket.
I read the message without taking the phone all the way out.
Grab me from behind. Place your hand over my mouth. Take the red handkerchief by the closet and gag me with it. Tie me up with the ropes from the closet. Pick me up and throw me on the bed. Be vicious. Be bad. The rest is up to you. It has to be rough and hard. Don’t hold back.
I put the phone away.
I crossed the room without making a sound, the music covering everything, and grabbed both her wrists in one hand from behind. My other hand came up and covered her mouth.
She reacted immediately — twisting, struggling, trying to wrench herself free with everything she had. For a moment the only sounds were her muffled attempts to scream, the creak of the mattress, and the relentless bass of the music. I pressed my hand harder against her mouth and felt her teeth against my palm. She bucked and writhed and threw her weight sideways, and I held on.
I reminded myself:Role. Stay in the role.
