Just as unwanted now as when Liam held me hostage on his island.
“Everyone, my queen. Fun has no bounds.”
I clear my throat. “Then I guess I should get ready.”
“I’ll meet you down there.” He makes it to the doorway before coming to a halt. “Two things before I go.” A glance over his shoulder accompanies his preamble. “I left a gown for you in the closet, and I’d really love to see you in it.”
“Okay,” I say, wondering where he’s going with this. “And the other?”
“This ball isn’t like any you’ve been to before, but I’m hoping you’ll keep an open mind.”
“That sounds…ominous.”
“It’s just a simple request, Novalee.”
“A request?” My dubious tone draws out the question. “What do you want from me, Mr. Stryker?”
“You can start by calling me Ford.” His gaze intensifies, challenging me from across the room. “And tonight, I want you to come for me.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I want you to touch yourself in front of everyone.”
“W-what?” I sputter.
Before I can argue with him, he disappears from sight, footsteps retreating down the hall in a rhythm of finality. That’s when I realize Ford Stryker is a liar. He promised freedom and fun, but his request is little more than a veiled demand to get what he wants.
And when it comes to the men in this tower, they all want something from the queen.
2
Ford’s “gown” is the raciest thing to grace my body in public. The dress hugs me like a second skin, leaving nothing to the imagination. Glittery lace the hue of a moon-lit night puts my breasts on display, exposing my erect nipples under the see-through bust. Double slits run up my legs, ankle to hip, allowing for easy access, but the most scandalizing part is how I’m not wearing any panties.
I could have picked another dress for the occasion, as he’d had the closet stocked with my wardrobe—as if daring me to go against his wishes—but my gut told me it’s the type of game he’d play.
A game he clearly expected me to lose.
And that’s why I did the opposite by shimmying into his obscene, form-fitting gown. Besides, I’m forbidden fruit in this sinful lace, a taunt and tease for the testosterone-infested population in the tower, empowered by the black mask around my head and the severe line of my blood-red lips.
As I stall on the threshold of the ball, I aim to stun, my offensive strategy one of false bravado. I hadn’t planned on making a grand entrance, but I took extra time on my hair, leaving it falling in a sleek sheet around my bare shoulders. As I sweep my gaze across the bustling space in search of a familiar blond head, techno music throbs under the red soles of my heels.
The ballroom has gone under a complete transformation—the left side of the room sectioned off from the dance floor with gauzy black curtains strung with gold lights. The French doors remain closed against the frigid autumn temperature.
Masked guests mingle and dance, the men in various shades of tuxes while women show off couture gowns that glitter under the ambient lighting. The fashion statements range from formal to kinky lingerie, and my own dress falls somewhere in the middle of the spectrum.
Ford appears from the thick of it, the guests parting for him as if he’s a king in their midst—a king heading straight for the queen.
He halts within arm’s reach, his hazel irises glinting behind a silver and black mask. “You wore the gown,” he says, sounding surprised.
“You asked me to.”
“You look…” His perusal lingers on my chest. “Wow. I couldn’t have asked for a better birthday gift.”
“Today’s your birthday?”
“Nineteen years and counting.”
“Happy Birthday.”