Page 18 of Enslaved

I was stunned. My heart beat hard. Crap. He’s my boss and he wants to dirty fuck me all over this yacht. “He is. He definitely is the devil,” I muttered, pulling back at the growl coming from above. Christos’ hands gripped the rail hard as he looked down at Andre standing close. I felt vulnerable; scared. In a moment without thought—my hand reached out, stopping Andre. In a tone loud enough forEl Diabloto hear I asked, “Hey…are you free tomorrow night? It’s the crew’s night off…I thought you and I might go to dinner?”

“Are you asking me out on a date?”

“I am.”

He grinned. “Finally. We’ll go to dinner, then dancing. My friend, Rico, manages the hottest disco in Capri.”

“Disco?”

“Ah, yes, in the States you call them clubs. We call them discos.”

“Ah, well, yes, I love to dance.”

Andre smiled warmly at me as he readied the small launch boat to ferry last night’s “guests” to shore. Without glancing up at the man looming above me, my eyes stayed lowered as I enter the main salon of the yacht. I took a small detour to the restroom, washing the smell of my moment of shame and weakness from my hands.

“Good. They sent for you. One of my stewardesses is sick, so they need you to work the interior of the boat with me today.” Sara met me in the hall as I opened the door.

“I didn’t sign up to be a stewardess. My job is deckhand.”

“You do what you’re told to do.” Sara handed me a short, white dress. “Change. This is your uniform today. We’ll go room to room, cleaning and freshening the flowers. After that, we’ll do lunch and dinner service.”

“Great. Cleaning and serving him,” I muttered under my breath, “I’d rather take my chances swimming to shore.”

“It’ll go quicker if you don’t complain. The master—he’s very clean. Sometimes I wonder where, or if, he even sleeps. Meet me in the lounge. I’m sure after last night it’ll need the most work.”

I made my way through the empty halls down a few flights of steps to the underbelly of the luxurious yacht. The small space where I sleep can’t even be called a room. There’s a bunk bed, a porthole the size of child’s head, a cheap square mirror, and a shower and toilet so small the bathroom on an airplane is probably larger.

But I’m fine with all of that if it meant I could see the world, experience new cultures, and feel the ocean breeze on my face every morning. What I’m not fine with is becoming the master’s plaything.

Not even if it comes with toe-curling, mind-numbing orgasms served with a side of champagne.

I’m deck crew.

Not street crew.

He must never know what I’m hiding; his dirty seduction is working.

I’ve met a lot of sailors, rich men, old men, young men—none of them even made me think about sex in my head. ButEl Diablo—he put images in my brain that I’ll never erase. Aches I’ve never felt are surfacing, secret desires and cravings for things I’ve never tasted—are a breath away from being spoken.

I’m tempted. I won’t lie.

But only on equal terms.

I’m not a submissive.

I’m my own woman and no one—no one will ever make me beg to feel his dick between my legs.

I’m not some stable mare whose sole purpose is to be mounted.

I’m a woman traveling the world, trying to find my place. I’m not going to get there on my back or knees.

I refuse.

But my swollen clit, rubbing against the seam of my khaki shorts, and my hardened nipples had a mind of their own.

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