“You crave power over the one you own.”
“I crave dominance.”
He absently rubs at Eve’s wrist. “Power comes in many forms.” He twists his neck and pulls on Eve’s hand. While staring at me, he kisses the inside of her wrist. “You can force a woman to serve, or she can come to you willingly. Which one gives you more power?”
“Both.”
“How so?”
“One you take because you’re more powerful. The other is earned because you have power.”
“My slaves are trained to be submissive.” He glances at Eve and releases her wrist.
Eve places her hand on the back of Benefield’s neck, continuing her massage.
“Your slaves are vacant inside. Good enough for an effortless fuck. I can lie on my back and any one of them will crawl on top of me and serve my needs. Where’s the fun in that? There’s no fight, no victory when you pin her down and take what you want. My slave will respect me. She’ll fear the consequences of not pleasing me. I’m not looking for a woman whose will is broken and mind is shattered.”
“You like your slaves to resist?”
“I like them to fight back.” Again, my gaze cuts to Eve. “The moment they realize they can’t win, that’s when I truly own them. That moment is better than any sex in the world. Not to mention it keeps things interesting.”
Benefield needs to understand who I crave, in addition to what and why.
I’m sorry, Eve. One day, you’ll forgive me.
As for Eve, the tension in her body builds, magnifying by the second as I describe in excruciating detail how I like to discipline my slaves. After this is done, I’ll need a shower to wash away this goddamn filth.
“Perhaps we’ve wasted each other’s time. I was under the impression you could deliver whatever your client needs.”
“I’ve never had a client complain about the goods I have for sale.”
“Perhaps you’ve never met a man like me.”
Benefield is a cocky prick, claiming no man leaves The Retreat unsatisfied. Well, I’m not like any of the men here. I have morals.
Benefield is a psychopath with a god complex. Power is the currency he wields. Money means little to him.
In a business where word of mouth is king, he can’t afford an unhappy customer. My bet is he’ll do everything in his power to meet my demands, but—and here’s the kicker—he’s going to make me pay for it. How he intends to do that remains to be seen, but it’s coming. He’ll force an unsavory choice on me if I fail to play his game.
“Don’t be so hasty. I’m certain I have something that will meet with your approval. My ability to provide my guests the perfect gentleman’s companion is unrivaled. None have left unsatisfied.”
Gentleman’s companion?
It’s a grotesque euphemism for a broken woman. Men like him belong six feet underground. His dark, soulless eyes glimmer with anticipation.
My gaze cuts back to Eve. “You have my attention.”
Benefield crooks a finger and gestures to one of his men. It’s James, the man who greeted us on our first day. James leans down while Benefield whispers something in his ear. With a nod, James departs.
I follow it all with interest. This part of the plan is a long shot.
He taps Eve’s hand. “My darling Evie, will you please go with James?”
“Of course.” Tiny lines furrow her brow as her troubled gaze cuts to mine. While I stare greedily at her, she takes a step back and gracefully departs with James.
Mr. H takes an interest in our conversation. He separates himself from his bevy of women and wanders over. “What’s going on?”
“Mr. S and I are going to make a wager.”
“What is the bet?” Mr. H looks eagerly between us.
A smug smile slides across Benefield’s face. “Something of great worth.”
“Such as?” Mr. H rubs his fat hands together. “Anything I might be interested in? Or is this a private offering?” His beady eyes shift between me and Tomas.
Mr. H is a tool. Oil rich, he’s a pompous, self-inflated prick who shows no interest in a girl until one of the other guests does. He’s the kind of man who gets off on depriving others of what they want. Men like him piss me off.
Honestly, all these men irritate me.
Benefield takes a moment to consider his next move. He claps his hands. “Usually, for our last night, I let you pick one girl to spend the night with. Sample the merchandise before the auction tomorrow. Let’s shake things up. I have something different in mind for this evening’s entertainment.”
I don’t like the sudden change in the air. Involving the other guests is not a part of my plan.
Mr. B notices us gathered in front of Tomas. He ambles over, moving his enormous bulk to stand beside Mr. H. “What is this?”
“Tonight, I’m putting up something valuable for your pleasure.” Benefield looks at each of his guests in turn.
“Really?” Mr. H rocks back on his heels. “And what might this be?”
“Something special.” He takes his time, drawing out the anticipation. “Mr. S wants a challenge.”
“A challenge?” Mr. B wipes the spittle from his chin. “As in, what?”
“A woman who fights.”
Mr. B’s face screws up with distaste. “Fuck that. I get enough of that from my wife. That’s why I’m here. I want a woman who doesn’t fight me. One who does what I say, when I say it, keeps her trap shut, and her legs spread. Not interested.”
“You don’t have to participate. It may be more fun to watch.”
I have to give it to the man, he takes perversion and depravity to a new level. As for the girls, they wisely move to the edges of the room, huddling against the walls until called upon again.
Men enter the room. Two of them carry in a card table. Four others carry two chairs apiece.
“We’re playing cards?” Mr. H rubs his hands together again. “I fancy a good game of Texas Hold’em.”
No doubt he does. Mr. H is a Texan, and he fits all the stereotypes: thick lazy drawl, bit of a swagger, a belt buckle two sizes too large—although he’s not wearing a belt now. One of the girls removed it during an earlier lap dance and subsequent demonstration of her oral skills.
A repeat customer, I’m curious as to how many slaves he’s purchased. Those questions will not be answered by me, but rather by Mitzy and her team of tech whiz kids.
“Poker?” Mr. B gives a nod. “It’s been a bit since I’ve played, but I’m interested.”
“I thought you said you weren’t.”
“I like the game.” Mr. B shrugs. “What’s the buy-in?”
Benefield looks at me. With a grotesque grin, he answers, “Five million.”
“Five? Five million?” Mr. B takes a step back. “That’s awfully steep.”
“We’re playing for money?” Mr. H doesn’t sound as interested as he did a moment ago. “I thought we were playing for a slave.”
“In a way.”
“What way?” Mr. B pulls at his chin. “Five is a bit steep, don’t you think? I want enough for the auction tomorrow.” He turns and waves to one of the girls trying to remain invisible.