Page 69 of Suite 7

The mini fridge hums when I open it. Three water bottles already sweating with condensation. I close the door and check the aftercare couch, lifting the folded blankets, soft fleece, no stray threads.

The flogger hangs in the cabinet. Not tonight. I reach past it for the small vibrator instead and set it on the table beside the Cross at an angle that keeps it hidden from the doorway.

Six forty-five PM.

* * *

I stand at the window with the scotch I haven’t touched. Behind me, the room is ready.

She broke the rule.

I’d suspected she might. Three days of denial, her increasing desperation, the way she’d looked at me in that parking lot — how much longer — and her voice with that edge of naked need in it.

And when her text came through — I touched myself in the shower — I felt two things simultaneously.

Disappointment that she couldn’t wait.

Pride that she told me.

Both matter.

The intercom buzzes at six fifty-five PM.

“Ms. Beckett is on her way up, Mr. Sinclair.”

“Thank you, James.”

I move to stand near the elevator, not directly in front of it, giving her space to enter, to see me waiting.

The elevator chimes.

She steps out like she’s walking to her own verdict, chin raised in defiance that doesn’t quite reach her eyes, hands clasped in front of her with the knuckles white, hair pulled back to expose the length of her neck where her pulse hammers visibly. A simple black dress that whispers against her thighs.

Our eyes meet.

I don’t smile. Don’t frown. I watch her work to keep her face neutral, and see straight through it anyway.

“Good evening, Sir,” she says.

“Vera.” I keep my voice neutral, letting no warmth or anger color it. “Close the elevator.”

She reaches back and presses the button. Her hand shakes. The doors slide shut with a soft hiss that sounds loud in the silence between us.

I let the quiet stretch. She stands there, guilty and uncertain, while I watch. Her weight shifts from foot to foot. Her hands tighten their grip on each other. The pulse in her throat jumps faster.

She holds my gaze. Tries to maintain the raised chin.

“Come here,” I say.

She moves forward three steps and stops.

“Closer.”

Two more steps. I can smell her perfume now, soft floral.

“You know why you’re here.”

“Yes, Sir.”