Chapter 11

11

Mira

"I’m not sure this looks good on me." I run my hands down the silken fabric of the dress which clings to my curves like it’s a second skin.

He runs his gaze from my feet, now clad in six-inch-Manolo Blahniks, up the gown which sweeps my ankles, over the slit which bares the length of my leg up to almost the top of my thigh, to the flare of my hips which are molded by the glossy material, to where it dips in the front to bare the valley between my breasts. His gaze stays there for a few seconds, and by the time he meets my eyes, I’m flushed to the roots of my hair.

"This wasn’t made for someone with my figure," I burst out.

He frowns. "What do you mean?"

"Don’t pretend you can’t see it."

"Can’t see what?"

"This." I gesture to myself. "I’m overweight. I always have been. Nothing I do has helped me get rid of the extra pounds I’m carrying on my body."

He slides his hand inside his pocket, which pulls the fabric across his crotch tight. It outlines the bulge which I’d noticed the time I spilled coffee on him. It only seems bigger… Ugh, I have no business noticing these things about my boss. Except, he’s the one who asked me to get myself off… And I obliged.

How am I going to face him in the office tomorrow? How am I going to get through the rest of this evening, for that matter? "Forget it. I changed my mind. I need off this boat. Can you arrange for me to leave, please?" I turn away, but he curls his fingers around my wrist. A flare of sensations run up my arm. My nipples tighten. A thousand little bees have taken up residence under my skin. I sense him draw a sharp breath, then he releases me.

"Look at me."

The authority in his voice forces me to comply. I slowly glance over my shoulder to find he’s looking at me with a strange fervor, one that raises the hair on the back of my neck. I’m trapped in the vortex of gold, which are his eyes.

"You are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, and I don’t say that lightly."

"Oh." I swallow.

"You’re a real woman, earthy, sexy, voluptuous."

"You mean, I’m fat." I swallow.

"I mean, you're gorgeous. You’re curvy, shapely, full-figured, as Mother Nature intended you to be. The swell of your hips mirrors the beauty of spring, the dip of your waist and the thrust of your tits, hint at the passion within, your luscious thighs promise that softness which is your appeal. Your eyes, your lips, your flushed cheeks, your every inch radiates the appeal of a siren calling to every man in the vicinity."

"Everyone, except you."

"Especially me." His throat moves as he swallows. He raises his arm, then pauses, before curling his fingers into a fist and tucking it back into his side. "You’re perfect as you are, and never let me catch you saying otherwise."

I hold his gaze and sense the seriousness in his eyes, the sincerity writ in every hard angle of his body, the honesty which laces his expression and I know he means everything he said. "Thank you," I say softly.

He nods. Then slides his hand into his pocket and holds up a strip of leather with a circular disc in the center. "What’s that?"

"Turn around."

I do so without hesitation, his earlier words having cut through any doubts I might have had about coming on board this yacht. He places the piece of leather around my throat and hooks it at the nape of my neck. I see our reflection in the mirror on the wall ahead, and the bees under my skin seem to take wing. Edward, in his black three-piece suit and golden tie is the perfect foil for the flaxen color of my dress. He’s tall, stern, all straight lines and angles and dark shadows. I’m a glittering, glowing, shining bundle of sparks. His fingers brush my neck, and goosebumps crowd my skin. He looks up and meets my gaze in the mirror. The air thickens, pulsing with unsaid emotions. There’s a wrinkle between his eyebrows as he peruses our reflection. I touch the engraving on the disc that nestles at my throat. "Is this a?—"

"Fallen angel," he nods.

"It’s pretty," I muse.

"It’s essential, so everyone here knows you’re mine."

A hot sensation stabs into my chest. "I’m y-yours?"

"For the next few hours. It’s necessary."

"Necessary?" I frown. "Why would it be necessary?

"You told me it was necessary, not that it was a collar."

We’re in the grand hall of the yacht. The light is low, and there’s music on in the background. It's very faint and rhythmic, and filled with pounding, pulsing beats which surround me in an intimate, soothing, yet edgy ambiance. He led me through the hall without touching me, but making sure I was close to him at all times. We passed a few couples, and the men eyed me with interest, until their gazes alighted on the band around my neck. At which point, they turned their attention away. That’s when I’d realized the necklace signified possession. I should have felt like an object—I did feel like an object—but I was being seen as his object, and somehow, that gave me pause.

Edward ushered me to a couch in a corner. A waiter served us. A glass of sparkling water for me and a glass of whiskey for him. When I asked for alcohol, he said he preferred me to have my wits about me. Which wasn’t exactly reassuring. Also, I didn’t notice him giving the waiter an order which means he must have messaged ahead.

Before I can ask him about it, I notice a woman halfway across the room. She’s on her knees, next to a man who’s seated on a couch. He’s talking to a woman in a leather jumpsuit.

The kneeling woman has a strip of leather around her neck with a circular disc on the side. That’s where the resemblance to my accoutrement stops. There’s a chain hooked to her choker, the other end of which is in the hand of the man next to her. He’s talking to the leather clad woman while she stays with her chin lowered to her chest. She’s motionless, but for the rise and fall of her chest. She’s wearing far less than me, and her skirt rides up high, enough for me to see the moisture glistening on her inner thighs. My face grows hot. She’s aroused. And I’m embarrassed on her behalf.

"You don’t need to be embarrassed. She’s content." He takes a sip of his whiskey.

"How would you know?"

"Look at her face. What do you see?" He places his glass on the table in front of us.

"It’s not polite to stare." The words come out in a prim tone, and I wince. The gap between me and this man has never seemed as insurmountable as now in this space. A very exclusive space which you have to be invited to, and only if you are of a certain profile, or so Edward informed me earlier. It's not about the money you have. It's about your ability to be discrete. Everyone here trades in something which entitles them to be here. When I asked Edward what he bartered, he stayed silent. I didn’t bother to pursue that line of questioning. See? I'm learning fast. He only answers if he wants to, and he can’t be swayed. I can only speculate, so I decided not to waste my time on it. I was too busy taking in the scene around me.

"She wants you to stare at her. She wants the world to know she belongs to him."

"You’re a man. Of course, you’d say that."

He blows out a breath. "You’re just like the rest—quick to pass judgement. Quick to view everything through a narrow moral compass, when the world is much more complex."

"You should know. You’re the one who turned your back on your calling, after all."

His entire body goes rigid. The tension that always seems to cling to him intensifies. The static in the air shoots up, and the hair on the back of my neck straightens. "I’m sorry," I whisper without meeting his gaze, "that was uncalled for."

"Life is complex, Belle. It’s not what you expect it to be. You think you have it all planned out, and then something happens that destroys everything you believed in. Suddenly, your past and the choices you made haunt you. The future's a long road, with an end you cannot see. And your present? It digs its claws into you and refuses to let go, no matter how painful your everyday is."

Tears prick the backs of my eyes. A ball of emotion chokes my throat. The bleakness in his voice drips onto my skin like acid and burns me to the bone.

"What’s this?" He reaches forward and scoops up the moisture on my cheek. "Are you crying?"

If I didn’t know him better, I’d say his voice carries a note of wonder, but this man is not capable of such emotion. More likely, he’s laughing at me. And I’m not going to risk looking at his face to find out.

"Are you, Belle?"

I sniffle. "I didn’t mean to. It’s just…you sound so lonely."

"I enjoy being on my own."

"Yet here you are." I gesture to the large hall which is now considerably fuller than when we came in.

"This is a way to connect to the only part of me I still recognize."

"Which part?"

'The one I knew I always had but which I refused to acknowledge all that time I was a priest. The one that resulted in my losing everything I once held dear."

I stiffen. "You mean?—"

"I mean, you haven’t looked at her face and told me what you see yet," he interjects.

Of course, the moment it seems like he’s opening up, he has to change the topic. Which is good. I don’t want to get to know the man behind the facade. The man who’s emotionally wounded. The man who’s hurting and refuses to share it with anyone. The man who’s an enigma…

Which I want so badly to solve. I focus my attention on the woman who hasn’t moved from her perch on the floor. She’s been kneeling all this time on the wooden floor without a word of complaint. Her hands are clasped in front of her, her gaze lowered. The light is dim in the space, but there’s enough for me to take in her relaxed features. The slight upward turn of her lips. The man next to her runs his fingers through her hair, and she trembles. She licks her lips, and when he drags his knuckles over her cheek, her mouth opens. I’m not close enough to hear it, but I’m sure she’s panting. She’s even more aroused and she looks "blissful."

"She is."

Only when he replies, do I realize I said the word aloud.

"But he’s demeaning her, by making her kneel, and not paying any attention to her,” I protest.

"Is he?"

I bring my gaze back to his face and pout. "Of course, he is. She may seem happy, but looks can be deceiving."

"Everyone who is here is here by their own choice."

"But I—" I'm about to say I’m not, but he did give me a choice. And it was my decision to be here, too.

He nods.

"It doesn’t seem right. Why should she be chained? Why is he treating her like?—"

"His possession?"

His rough voice forming that word turns the flesh between my thighs into molten lava. I begin to cross one leg over the other, but he shakes his head. "Don’t."

"Why not?"

"Because I want to smell your cunt."