Chapter Eleven

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I LOST COUNT OF my orgasms after I hit ten.

Hours blended into each other.

My system revved at a million miles a minute, keeping me alert, alive, and entirely too reactive to any stimuli, yet beneath that thirsting drive for more and more pleasure, I was exhausted.

My limbs had turned into useless noodles. Any sensation against my skin sent me into a full shudder that almost crippled me. The only serenity I’d found was in the lapping ocean outside my villa.

My fingers and toes had wrinkled from staying in liquid for too long, but the thought of dragging my aching, wrung-out form from the weightlessness of salty sea was too much.

I can’t.

I’m...I’m done.

More tears squeezed from my eyes as I floated on my back, mingling with the ocean that kissed and soothed my traitorous body.

Sunset slashes of mauve and mandarin Picassoed the sky above me.

The air temperature had fallen from unbearable to temperate, and the ocean continued its non-judgemental embrace. It cocooned me gently, washed away my abominable behaviour, and rinsed away the finally fading dregs of debilitating need.

I didn’t have a bikini on.

I didn’t care I was naked.

I’d blindingly run into the sea after my fifteenth or fiftieth orgasm, sobbing in fatigue and unable to stand another touch. Even though it was my touch. My fingers that wrung bliss after bliss from my bruised and throbbing body. My hands that couldn’t stop even though I begged for a rest.

I’d put my jumper back on, trying to prevent myself from torture.

I’d tried tying my wrists together with a towel.

Nothing worked.

Unable to take it another minute, I’d bolted from the villa, past the security guard posted so I couldn’t enlist some despicable paying guest to rape me, and over the glittering crystal sand. The beach undulated beneath my bare feet in erotic ways. The splash of cool water on my legs threatened to become sexual, but I threw myself headfirst into the wetness, staying under until my breath grew thin and my heart pounded for another requirement other than drugged desire.

My grey jumper had become waterlogged, dragging me to the shallow bottom where sand glittered through turquoise clarity, and sparkly, metallic fish darted suspiciously around me.

By the time I’d come up for oxygen, I was able to take a breath that didn’t hunger for yet more pleasure and, in utmost relief, threw off the sodden jumper, watched it sink, then gave everything I was to the sea.

That’d been at least two hours ago, and I still hadn’t moved.

After a man in another suit had carted me from Sinclair’s office and dragged me down yet another sandy pathway, I’d ached with a need so painful I’d almost fallen to my knees when his fingers locked around my elbow.

Sinclair hadn’t looked at me as I was unceremoniously removed from his picture-perfect office. Even after everything that’d happened between us, he looked unruffled and entirely unmoved. No sweat on his brow, no dampness crinkling his clothes.

How cold-blooded must he be to not feel the humid heat or show any signs of the lust scalding his veins? And I knew he had felt lust because he’d almost come. He’d stopped himself. He’d tucked himself away mid-release as if I was an abomination and didn’t deserve whatever consummation we could’ve shared.

My back had slicked with as much moisture as my pussy. My temples and hair were damp from sweat—perspiration from desire as much as the tropical mugginess.

He was the most callous and cruel person I had ever met, and, floating weightless in the sea surrounding his island, my hate returned a thousandfold. Lust didn’t overshadow my every thought anymore. The boundaries and borders that allowed civilisations to evolve from rutting beasts to intelligent humans were well and truly back in place.

What an absolute asshole.

What a monster to drag me here against my will, feed me a drug—also against my will—and then watch me flounder for something I abhorrently didn’t want yet couldn’t stop begging for.

He could’ve had me.

I would’ve done anything in that moment to have him enter me and give me what I was so empty for.

But now...

Now?

God, now I was prepared to murder him with my bare hands. I wanted to slash his jugular with that condemning pen I’d used to sign his awful contract. I wanted to swim and swim until some fisherman scooped me from the sea in his net and tell the police about this sick and twisted island that he’d trapped me on.

What would Scott think?

I blushed a deep crimson. Even though my behaviour wasn’t my fault, and I’d fought it at every step, I still suffered guilt so thick it made me nauseous.

How would I ever look him in the eyes again, knowing how I’d acted?

My guilt turned to homesickness.

Had he enlisted the authorities to look for me yet? Did my parents know I’d gone missing?

My eyes burned as another cascade of tears began.

I hiccupped and swallowed them down. I honestly didn’t have the strength to cry. I’d reached the end of my limit. I needed to sleep, to rest, to forget.

Allowing my legs to sink beneath the surface, I hovered vertically instead of horizontal. My eyes met those of the guard who’d never left the sand, even in the beating sunshine. He’d kicked off his loafers and hovered around on the edges of the lazily lapping waves, ready to launch after me if I did make a swim for it but content for me to bob if that was my only intention.

He was young. Probably only mid-twenties, yet he willingly worked for a monster like Sully Sinclair.

My fists curled in the water.

Don’t think about that bastard.

He was yet another topic I had no energy for.

For the first time in hours, my thoughts were my own again, and my throbbing body licked its wounds rather than drove me to do unspeakable things.

I could no longer ignore my wrung-out tiredness.

I hadn’t slept since I’d been corralled from the room I’d been held in with Tess, forced to shower, been tattooed, tagged, and knocked unconscious to fly halfway across the world.

After today and what Sinclair did to me, I had no energy left for escape.

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow...I’ll get free.

With a groan and a thousand pounds pressing on my shoulders, I stood in the waist-deep water and made the agonising trek from the cushioning ocean back to harsh gravity.

The guard watched my every naked move, but he didn’t approach me; he didn’t give me any signal that I was in danger of him molesting me. Instead, he allowed me to inch my battered and lust-broken body up the beach to the private villa I’d been tossed into.

I didn’t know what part of the island I was on or if I even had neighbours. The way the villa had been constructed made it seem as if I existed entirely on my own. No hint of cages or locks. No obvious imprisonment or signs of co-inhabitation.

My feet ached. My back ached. My core ached. Even my fingers ached from making myself come over and over again.

All I wanted to do was to sit down in a sprawl and never move again.

But...I also wanted to shower away the last week of my life. I wanted to be clean when I finally succumbed to sleep.

Dripping saltwater over the white sandstone tile, I cut through the lounge with its matching silver driftwood furniture, gauzy curtains, and high thatched roof and rafters like Sinclair’s office. Unlike his office, though, this one had an annex with a huge king bed, crisp white sheets, mosquito net slung over the carved bamboo headboard, and a bathroom off an alcove where a kitchenette waited with a fridge stocked full of water and icy beverages.

In my exhaustion, I didn’t even care I was held there as his prisoner.

In another world, this was a beautiful hotel. In a previous existence, long travels equalled jet lag, and I couldn’t keep my eyes open much longer.

Stepping into the bathroom, I tried not to marvel at the exquisite vanity carved like a wave with the bowl curved and sensuous along the entire wall or the glass door leading to an outdoor shower surrounded by palm fronds and a rock wall for privacy.

Sluicing off salt and shampooing my hair, I barely managed to dry off and face plant onto the inviting bed before I passed out cold.

* * * * *

A phone.

The first thing I saw when I opened my eyes was a phone.

My heart rate spiked from exhausted dreams to manic hope. Jack-knifing off the bed, I launched at the innocuous phone waiting on the simple side table holding a lamp with a rattan lampshade and a box of tissues.

Grabbing the receiver, I checked for a dial tone before punching the emergency number.

Nothing.

Clearing the call, I tried again, only to hear a click and a pleasant feminine voice, “Good afternoon, Jinx. Are you ready for something to eat? We can have room service delivered, or you’re welcome to come to the goddesses’ private dining villa.”

I froze.

My fingers latched tighter around the phone as my manic hope deflated to dejected desolation. Of course, they wouldn’t allow outside numbers. Of course, my freedom wouldn’t be that easily obtained.

“Hello? You there, Jinx?”

Pinching the bridge of my nose, I tried to squeeze away exhaustion and a headache caused by dehydration. Had I truly slept since twilight yesterday to lunchtime? No wonder my stomach was hollow and my body desperate for a drink.

“If you’re still listening, I’ll send lunch to your villa—”

“No.” I snapped out of my fugue. “I’d like to go to the dining room. How do I find it?”

A smile sounded down the line. “Great, I’ll send a staff member to escort you. Do you have any food intolerances, Jinx?”

Jinx.

What the hell was with this Jinx business? Vaguely, I remembered Sinclair calling me that. A strange name with no relation whatsoever to me.

Ignoring her question, I asked one of my own. “Why are you calling me that? My name is Eleanor.”

A pause before she said, “Jinx is the name you’ll be known as while you’re employed here. It’s a nom de plume, if you were. For your own protection from the guests and a way of distancing yourself from your time here when you return home in four years.”

My heart seized.

A name for a goddess.

A name for a whore.

A whore who wasn’t employed but trapped, lost...stolen.

Nausea rushed up my gullet, bringing bile and the full ramifications of my new life into brutal effect.

I hung up.

I barely made it to the bathroom before dry-retching into the silver-lidded toilet.