Still, she says nothing.

"You like this, don't you?"

"Yes," she says, her eyes on my cock, still peeking through the zipper of my pants. "I like it all, Elias. Give me what I like."

I leave my pants on. I like the way the zipper bites at my balls when I bend down to lick between her legs, my tongue sweeping up and down her pussy, flicking against her clit until she is writhing and begging me to whip her, and slap her face, and come all over her tits.

"Getting ahead of yourself, Marcella," I say in a low growl as I straddle her hips and walk my knees up her body until my cock is hovering right in front of her mouth. "We've got a long way to go before we get to that little corner of your dark mind."

I straddle her shoulders and slip my dick into her wet mouth, grabbing her hair as I push myself so far inside her, she gags hard.

But it only turns me on more. It only makes me go deeper, thrust harder. Her face is covered in her own spit, her eye make-up running down the sides of her cheeks.

Still, her eyes never leave mine.

I can do anything I want with this woman. Anything I want. She will never again tell me no.

I fuck her after that.

I put my dick in her so deep, she wails, her bound hands grabbing for my shoulder as I thrust, over and over. Her nails bite into my skin and she's whispering in my ear. "Don't stop, don't stop, don't-"

I fuck her like I've wanted to fuck her all week. I fuck her the way I imagined it. I look at the cameras-because I know where each and every one of them are-and I flip Smith off as I do it.

Fuck you, Smith, I think. Fuck you for being right. Fuck you for bringing her here. Fuck you for watching.

Fuck you for ruining her, just like you ruined all the others.

Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you.

But he's the one who wins tonight.

And we both know it.

Chapter Eighteen - Chella.

When I wake up Bric is gone. On the pillow next to mine is a note.

Don't be late for work.

Don't be late coming home.

Wear the red dress without panties or bra.

I'll pick you up here at seven.

Elias His commands feel both familiar and foreign. Familiar because I've been down this path before. I've taken that shortcut through the woods more than once.

But it's been a long time.

The only significant thing that happens at work is learning that Matisse's entire collection sold on Saturday night-Saturday seems like years ago-and that Bric bought it, and then promptly donated it to the Mountain Ballet. It's going to be displayed in its entirety in the courtyard outside the building. Construction on an all-weather version of the curtain has begun and installation will begin on April first.

My boss, Charles Benton, is in the gallery all day talking on the phone to special patrons-a code word for contributors-about the year ahead. He takes over my office since he really doesn't have one here himself.

I manage visitors and do the appropriate amount of small talk. But my mind is not here at the gallery. My mind is stuck back in the place Bric left it last night.

Under his complete control.

Silently begging for more.

Asking myself over and over and over why I need more.

I've had complete control over all my shameful desires for three years. So why now? Why did I let Rochelle dangle this arrangement in front of my face? And more importantly, why did I accept her offer?

The problem is... there's only one answer for it. One answer that I don't want to think about.

I really am sick.

The car comes promptly at six to pick me up, just like it came promptly at eight forty-five this morning to take me to work. It was strange walking out of the top-floor apartment without one of my players, and it feels strange to walk in without them as well.

But I see them. I see all three of them when I get home from work.

Bric is in the bar talking to a good-looking man and a woman I recognize from the first night I was here. Quin is chatting with four men in the main lobby and even though I catch his eye for a second, he doesn't acknowledge me. Smith is sitting up in that private bar they have on the second floor.

He never stops looking at me while I climb the stairs.

"Come here, Chella," he says from his balcony seat as I wait for the elevator.

"No," I say, just loud enough for my voice to carry up to his ears. "This isn't your night." When the doors open, I step in and make sure I don't turn around until the they close me up tight.

When I get to the apartment I find the dress already laid out for me on the bed. I look around for the cameras I know are here, but can't seem to find. And then I put them out of my mind.

That's a lie.

I undress for them.

For him.

For Smith.

I undress and sit at the makeup vanity in the large master bathroom, naked. And when I'm happy with my dark eyes and red lips, I lie back on the bed and finger myself until I come so hard, there's a wet spot on the comforter.

The dress slips over my flushed body in seconds, and at exactly seven o'clock, Bric walks through my apartment door.

"Wow," he says. "I like you in the black, but red is your color." He kisses me, a long, lingering kiss with one hand around my throat and one hand between my legs.

"You're wet," he whispers into my mouth.

"I just came," I whisper back. "I'm sorry. I couldn't wait."

"You filthy whore," he says, smiling.

I want to undress him right now. Tell him to forget this party and fuck me instead.

But I'm being good. I'm being very, very good.

"Are you hungry?" Bric asks. "For something besides my cock?"

I laugh with him. "Not really," I say, my answer more truthful than he suspects. "But I'm happy to wait for that later."

"Like a reward," Bric says, grabbing a black coat from the front closet I've never seen before. He drapes that over one arm, places his hand on the small of my back, and then leads me out into the hall. We get on the elevator and look at each other the entire way down to the second floor.

"I saw you come in but I didn't want people to know I was looking."

"I saw you as well."

"We're having dinner in the Black Room tonight."

"I thought that was a bar?"

"It is, but the booths by the window are nice."

They are nice. I know this because I already sat in one when Smith first brought me here. "I saw Quin and Smith too. Are they joining us?"

"No," Bric says as the elevator doors open. "They're both busy tonight. And we can't stay at the party long."

"Good." I laugh.

"We might want time to ourselves before I have to drop you off at your house."

"My house?" I ask, as we step out on to the landing. Smith is staring at me from his perch in the balcony bar.

"You belong to Smith at midnight. And he wants you at home tonight."

"Oh," I say, letting Bric guide me down the stairs. Quin isn't in the lobby when we get there. He's in the Black Room sitting near the bar with a blonde woman who I swear to God I think is Rochelle before she turns her head to laugh and I realize she's not.

"Are you OK?" Bric asks.

"Fine," I say, letting him take my hand. He drops the coat off with the coat-check girl and then leads me into the bar and over to the very same table I sat at when Smith brought me here for my test.

I sit down on one side and Bric sits on the other. He smiles at me. "This party is going to be boring. Not that last night's wasn't, but worse. No one under the age of sixty tonight. So we'll get there at eight thirty, stay ninety minutes, and then come back here for a little bit. Sound good?"

"All the parts except for the party sound perfect."

He laughs. "Did I get your imagination working last night, Chella? You seem to be warming up to this arrangement."

"I just... had a lot of fun. And I like fun, don't you?"

"I do," he says. "What do you feel like eating tonight?"

"Just something light, like a salad. With chicken, maybe?"

"I can get that for you," Bric says. And then someone comes over to talk to him and he's distracted for a moment. The man eyes me, but Bric makes no move to introduce us.

I look down at my place setting and grab the napkin, which is folded into a crisp envelope shape.

But it's what's peeking out from under the flap that catches my eyes.

Writing.

I look at Bric to see if he's watching me. Maybe he left me a little note. But he's not. He's still busy with the interloper. So I lift the flap and find the same thick, bold handwriting last's night message was written in.

I look up at the bar balcony and find Smith smirking down at me.

He lifts his drink as if in a toast but I turn my head, shake the napkin out, and place it in my lap.

I spend the next hour repeating Smith's words in my head as I have mindless conversation with Bric and the many, many people who come up to the table to try-and fail-to get an introduction.

If you want to go dark, go dark.

Don't take a light.

You're mine every night, Chella. You just don't realize it yet.

When we're done eating, Bric takes me outside where a car is waiting, but not the long, black kind we usually take.

His own personal car.

He opens the door and there's a present on the seat.

"What's this?" I ask, smiling up at him as I pick up the bag.

"Open it and see."

It's a video camera. A little handheld one that almost no one uses anymore because everyone just uses a phone.

"He was pretty happy with last night, Chella."

"This is from... Smith?"

"Yes." Bric nods. And then he leans in to kiss me. "We're going to do dirty, dirty things for that camera tonight. Starting the moment you get in the car."

And even though I do not want to feel that creeping hot wetness between my legs, it's there. It's ready.