Freefall (The Indigo Lounge Series, #5)

by Zara Cox

  He dismisses me with a look and drops the half-finished plate on the table. He picks up the pristine napkin and proceeds to wipe his fingers with a bored look on his face.

  Anger and some unknown charge of emotion send me to my feet.

  “You know what? Fuck you, Mason. I don’t know why the hell I’m so drawn to you, but fuck if I’m going to keep letting you talk to me as if I’m some piece of meat you can take or leave. I don’t care if we have to work together for the next two weeks, or that you’re a friend of Zach’s. Come near me again and I’ll rip your fucking—”

  The expletive barely leaves my lips before he grabs me. My gasp strangles in my lungs as I’m pulled forward and flung across his knees. I throw my hands out and barely catch myself from tipping forward onto my face. I try to twist away from him, but his hand wedges in the small of my back, pinning me down.

  The other yanks my hem up. For a moment I’m confused when cool air hits my bare ass, then I buck, my senses reeling at what I anticipate is coming.

  “Mason, don’t you fucking dare—Ah!”

  His left hand smacks my bare backside six times in quick succession, three on each cheek.

  There’s no mercy in the act. No hesitation. My eyes sting with tears, and my ass tingles with shock and pain. I’m so dizzy with the emotions tumbling through me, I can’t catch my breath. The hands I braced on the floor tremble as shudders roll through my body. Moisture brims my eyes and falls off my lashes. And with it, anger surges.

  “You motherfucker!”

  I start to rise, but he easily holds me down and delivers two more smacks. I gasp in horror, and my body locks in complete shock. It occurs to me then that while I can totally take care of myself on a New York street corner or a dark alley, I’m completely out of my depth with this dark, relentless predator. My lungs threaten to burst, and I suck in a desperate breath as another tear drops onto the carpet.

  His scent engulfs me as he lowers his head to my ear.

  “You have till noon tomorrow, Keely. I’ll be on the yacht. If you’re there at midday, we take this thing to the next level. If you’re one minute late, I’ll know you mean this not to go any further and I’ll take no for your answer. But remember, if you do turn up, we’ll be doing things my way. I’ll grant you your wish for mental stimulation as long as it doesn’t involve personal details. I don’t ask about your past, you don’t ask about mine. Dirty talk outside of the bedroom or sexual scenarios will be met with punishment. You’re a gorgeous and intelligent woman. It’s time to start behaving like one. I won’t apologize for what I just did. You’ve been asking for it from the moment we met. Don’t even think of defying me again or what I did to you just now will seem like the tip of the iceberg punishment wise. Are we clear?”

  Tears continue to rim my eyes and rush down my cheeks, and a part of me reels in horror at this unfamiliar surge of emotion. I never let anything affect me. Not anymore.

  Hell, when was the last time I cried? I can’t honestly remember.

  Which is why I’m too stunned to answer when Mason demands again, “Are we clear? I need an answer, Keely.”

  I force my vocal cords to work. “Let me go, Mason. Right now.” My voice is hoarse and shakes with anger.

  “Not until you answer me,” he rasps in my ear.

  I press my lips together and squeeze my eyes shut. A second later the hand that delivered cruel punishment slides soothingly over my burning skin. The gentleness in his touch confuses me even more than the spanking had. I lay bowed over his knees, my thoughts churning in a chaotic jumble I can’t make sense of.

  His left hand continues to sooth me as his right hand eases up my back to brush away the hair curtaining my face. I turn my head away so he doesn’t see my tears and quickly swipe the evidence away.

  I hear him sigh. “This is what happens when I’m forced to engage on anything but a sexual level. I don’t play well with others, never have. You can’t put me in a box and expect me to behave. Dammit, I shouldn’t even be here,” he mutters, almost as if he’s talking to himself. The raw ache in his voice catches me unawares and I twist to see his face. A frozen mask of pain and deep, dark shadows stares back at me. My heart lurches.

  What does that mean, he shouldn’t be here? Here, in this club, or here in this existence? The look on his face indicates he could mean both.

  My instincts urge me to move, to flee. Now.

  I shift sideways, but he catches me back, his eyes flaring as he stares first at my ass, then at my face. “I can show you untold pleasure, Keely. Everything you can possibly imagine can be yours and more, if you’re willing to drop the charade of needing to attach social strings to what we can have.”

  My throat is too choked with everything that’s happened in the last five minutes to deal with what he’s saying. But I can’t lie here like some fucking sacrificial lamb about to be slaughtered, regardless of the fact that his hand on my butt is doing things to my insides I’ve never felt before.

  “Wanting a little verbal stimulation is too much to ask? How about speaking at all? If I decide to let you do what you want with me, am I expected to lie there and count sheep? Or assume a blow-up doll position until you finish.”

  “We can iron out the finer details tomorrow, if you agree to this,” he says.

  It strikes me then what it is about Mason that unsettles me so much. Every guy I’ve met has a basic, civilized veneer no matter how outrageous they may pretend to be.

  Mason Sinclair has none, and he doesn’t try to hide the fact. Civility means nothing to him. When he deigns to respond to normal conversation, the words that fall from his mouth make my nerves jangle.

  “Take your hands off me,” I say again, my voice much stronger this time around.

  He pulls my dress down to cover my ass and the moment he takes his hands off me, I scramble upright. A movement catches the corner of my eye and I swing round to meet the hostess’s gaze. Humiliation engulfs me with the realization he just spanked me in full view of another person.

  Everything inside me wants to slap the hell out of his face, but my fists don’t move from beside my thighs. I’ve lost too much control in front of his man. I won’t give him the satisfaction of making me react out of turn again.

  “I don’t know who the fuck you think you are or what you think you can give me. I made a mistake in not believing you when you said you’d crawled out from under a rock. I suggest you crawl back under it and stay there because if you come anywhere near me or put your hands on me like that again, I’ll rip your balls off.”

  One corner of his mouth lifts. “I’ll see you at noon tomorrow, Keely.”

  Every filthy insult I’ve picked up since I was ten years old trips on my tongue as I watch him sit there, smug in his Neanderthal charisma and mouth-watering body.

  I’ve never detested anything as much as I detest him right now. I also know I can’t be in the same room as him.

  So I snatch my clutch off the chair and stalk to the door, determined to put tonight and Mason Sinclair very quickly and very firmly out of my mind.

  Chapter 11

  Keely

  I’m not going. I’m not going. Hell, I am so not going.

  My eyes dart to the clock for what feels like the hundredth time, and I congratulate myself when the clock hand moves from 12:59 to 1 p.m.

  Fuck yeah.

  I’ve not only flipped the bird at Mason’s insane-never-gonna-happen noon deadline, I’ve managed to stay put in my suite for another hour.

  Extremely pleased with myself and sure he’s finally got the message through his brilliant, but obviously thick, skull that I don’t intend to participate in, or be, any form of a sexual puppet to his skewed proclivities, I grab my purse containing my tablet and work stuff and head for the door.

  I’m a little irritated that I’ve had to shift my morning appointments to interview two Michelin star chefs, but there was no way I was going to board the IL Indulgence before noon and give Mason Sinclair the impress
ion that I was there for him. One of the chefs had expressed a touch of diva annoyance, but not enough to cancel.

  Making a mental note to keep an eye out for further drama from that particular chef, I cross the gold inlaid, marble floored atrium of the hotel and emerge into brilliant sunshine.

  I breathe deep and let the warmth wash over me. I’m ready for a new day.

  The sleepless night I’ve just spent kicking myself for losing control and allowing Mason to spank me—spank me, for fuck’s sake!—in full view of the hostess is something I’m not going to dwell on.

  I’ve never been into kinky in the bedroom. I don’t even possess a vibrator or dildo. I’ve never seen the point of artificial gadgets when a cock and a man who knows how to use it well has been all I’ve needed. As the previous owner of a sex yacht and hardcore inventor of gadgets, Mason is clearly into myriad forms of sex, including BDSM. His masterful demeanor and the way he soothed me after the spanking make me suspect he’d be extremely good at it. If that were my thing.

  Which it’s not.

  Another flush of humiliation crawls up my spine at how utterly I’d let him control me, and I push the feeling away. He’d caught me with my guard down and I’d been foolish enough to underestimate the power of the insane attraction between us before he’d spanked me. Since I didn’t intend to place myself in a position where either of those things would affect me, I’m good.

  Last night is behind me.

  From here on in, my job will be the center of my focus.

  I quicken my stride down the hill toward the marina. In the resplendent sunlight, the yacht looks even more stunning, but now that I know who it belonged to in its previous life, my enjoyment is a little soured. My heartbeat quickens as I step into the launch and greet the pilot. All too soon, we’re at the yacht. I make sure my sunglasses are in place as I step onto the deck and return the greeting of one of the many bodyguards employed to keep nosy intruders and paparazzi away. Reading the signs so I don’t get lost, I make my way along the various hallways. I arrive at the restaurant on the second floor deck where I’m to meet the two chefs. I tell myself I’m relieved when I don’t run into anyone resembling Mason.

  The time passes quickly as I sample the dozens of dishes we’ll be providing the guests. As I suspected the chef who’d thrown a mini tantrum at my revised schedule turns into a diva and even before he sets down his first course in front of me, I’ve decided to go with the other chef. But I’m a professional, so I sit through his presentation and smile my thanks when he’s done.

  “Great, I’ll let you know my decision by tomorrow evening.”

  Arnaud Delacroix huffs. “I fly back to the States tomorrow morning. I only came because Monsieur Sinclair requested me personally as a favor. If I’d known I was to participate in this...this amateur competition, I would’ve declined his request.”

  Irritation pulses through me, and I surge from the dining table where the tasting had taken place. “Let me get this straight. Mason asked you to come?”

  His eyes slide over me, and I catch his leer as he answers, “Yes, as I said. I run one of the best restaurants in Paris and New York. I do not audition for little schoolgirls.”

  “Excuse me?”

  A second slide of his gaze lingers at my breasts this time and my skin crawls. Sexist pig. “Mademoiselle, I have nothing against you personally—”

  “From where I’m standing, I seriously doubt that, but go on,” I quip.

  His lips purse at the interruption, but I don’t give a shit. “But my time is precious. I arrived at six this morning to prepare for the tasting. You moved the time at the last minute. I have accommodated you. But I don’t intend to hang around while you twiddle your thumbs about a decision that shouldn’t even be yours to make.”

  I swallow the ball of anger rising into my throat. “First of all, I’m glad you rose to the occasion of the time change. If you’re going to be a chef on this boat—and that it is looking mighty precarious at the moment—you need to know that you’ll be called to cater client’s needs at all hours. For the two weeks you’ll be on this yacht, your time won’t be your own. So if that’s an issue for you, then by all means, feel free to leave. Secondly, and listen up because this is important. I’m no fucking schoolgirl. I’ve earned my right to be here, just as you’ve earned the right to call yourself a chef. And lastly, Mason Sinclair isn’t in charge of hiring staff for this project. I am. I don’t give a damn what he promised you. If you want the gig, I’ll consider you and you’ll hear from me tomorrow. If you don’t, I’m sure one of the bodyguards can make sure you find your way back to the airport.”

  His face has been tightening as I spoke and he erupts into a flood of French, which I’m sure is as disparaging to women as his English had been moment ago.

  When he reels to a stop, I raise my eyebrow. “Sorry, was that a yes or a no?”

  “Where is Sinclair? I will speak to him and him alone!”

  I wave him toward the door. “Of course, but nothing he says will change what I’ve told you. Goodbye, Monsieur Delacroix.”

  He sniffs like a startled bull and strides out.

  The moment the door slams behind him, my breath shudders out and I look down to see my hands shaking.

  What the fuck is wrong with men?

  What the fuck is wrong with Mason Sinclair?

  My mind zeroes on the person responsible for these tumultuous feelings cascading through me. I toss the pen I’m holding onto the table and stride toward the door.

  Whether he likes it or not, Mason Sinclair is about to get another piece of my mind, even if I have to interrupt a testosterone bonding ceremony between him and Delacroix.

  I reach the lower deck and pick a random hallway. As I pass one of the sleek square portholes, I see Delacroix getting onto one of the launches, his face still set in angry lines. I allow myself a smile before resuming my search for Mason.

  After several hallways and peering into several adult entertainment rooms, I take the stairs to the next deck below. Again, the rooms are empty save for one where the construction crew is working. I’m beginning to think I was wrong in assuming Mason was on board when I spot one of the bodyguards.

  I assume he’s just patrolling the deck but once I approach the farthest point in the aft section where the spank room is located, I realize he’s blocking the door.

  He glances at me and an uneasy look flicks across his face. “Hi, Miss Benson.”

  He can’t be older than twenty-one or twenty-two, but he’s built like a Sherman tank and looks like he can take down a brick wall with one kick.

  “Hi, have you seen Mr. Sinclair?” I ask.

  His neck reddens a little. “Umm, yes.” He thumbs the door behind him. “He’s in there.”

  I resent the small quiver of excitement that tingles through my belly. “Thanks,” I say, and step toward the door, expecting him to move out of the way. He stays cross-armed and shakes his head.

  “Sorry, Miss Benson. Mr. Sinclair left strict instructions not to be disturbed under any circumstances. It was why I said no to the chef when he wanted to see him too.” His face is now flushed bright red and another feeling crawls through my belly, a feeling that tastes suspiciously like jealousy.

  I stare hard at the black door. “And what exactly is Mr. Sinclair doing in there?” I ask through clenched teeth, even though I don’t need a crystal ball to divine the answer.

  “I...umm, not sure...exactly.”

  I turn my glare from the door to the guard. “What’s your name?”

  “Umm...Daniel, Miss Benson.”

  “Daniel, do me a favor and step aside, please.”

  He swallows, and I watch him weigh the consequences of refusing my request for a few seconds before he steps aside.

  “Thanks. And you don’t need to stick arou—” We both freeze as a loud whoosh sounds through the door, followed by a long, ragged, feminine moan.

  The memory of Mason’s hand on my ass slams into my brain, and
my hand is turning the handle to the door before another thought forms in my head.

  I stumble into the room and exhale in shock at the sight before me.

  There isn’t just one, but two women with Mason. He has his back to me and his upper half is bare and dripping with sweat. The redhead next to him is naked save for the tiniest red thong I’ve ever seen, and her eyes flick to me as she rakes her nails down Mason’s back before sliding her fingers into the backside of the tight, black leather pants he’s wearing. Mason doesn’t react to her touch, most likely because his attention is riveted to the other woman in the room.

  My eyes swing to the woman—an Asian beauty with small breasts and a breathtaking face—and see the stark hunger and arousal on her face. She’s completely naked and standing on the platform with the three sides I’d asked him about during my tour yesterday. It looks no different than yesterday from what I can see. The middle partition is still covered in that curious shiny black surface and the two sides that would provide privacy are standing open.

  I return my gaze to the woman and see she’s fully immersed in the long whip in Mason’s hand. She whimpers when he lifts his free hand to her face and brushes back her jet-black hair. His knuckles caress her cheek, her jaw, the side of her neck.

  Her eyes remain downcast on the whip the whole time, but her scarlet lips part. “Please, Master. Again.”

  “No, wait for it,” he replies, his voice a ruthless blade, but it also holds a promise of rich reward. The whip twitches in his hand and her breath shivers.

  “Master, please...I want to come.” Her nipples turn to hard points as she whispers the words, and her whole body quivers as Mason traces a finger down to her belly button and circles the delicate hole.

  “Is that disobedience I hear?” he asks softly, his voice bleeding power and menace.

  She shakes her head immediately. “No, Master.”

  “So you’ll come when I’m say and not before?”

  Her body quivers. “Yes, Master.”

  “Open your legs,” he instructions.

  He flicks the whip and her eyes dart after the movement, anticipation almost eating her alive. When he brings it back to rest against his thigh, she lets out a broken moan.