“I accessed your medical history before bringing you here. I wanted to make sure you don’t have any life-threatening medical conditions, like diabetes.”

I stare at him. I should feel furious at this invasion of my privacy, but I feel relieved instead. It seems that my kidnapper is quite considerate—and more importantly, not trying to impregnate me.

“And you don’t have to worry about any diseases,” he adds, understanding my unspoken concern. “I’ve been recently tested, and I have always used condoms in the past.”

I don’t know if I believe that. “Why aren’t you using them with me, then? Is it because I was a virgin?”

He nods, and there is a possessive gleam in his eyes. He lifts his hand and strokes the side of my face, making my heart beat even faster. “Yes, exactly. You’re completely mine. I’m the only one who’s ever been inside your pretty little pussy.”

My breath catches in my throat, and I feel a gush of liquid warmth between my thighs.

I can’t believe the strength of my physical response to him. Is this normal, that I get so aroused by someone I fear and despise? Is this why Julian was drawn to me at the club? Because he sensed this about me? Because he somehow knew about my weakness?

Of course, given my plan, it’s not necessarily a bad thing that he turns me on so much. It would be far worse if he disgusted me, if I couldn’t bear to have him touch me.

No, this is for the best. I can be the perfect little captive, obedient and responsive, slowly falling in love with my captor.

So instead of standing stiff and scared, I give in to my desire and lean a little into his hand, as though involuntarily responding to his touch.

Something like triumph briefly flashes in his eyes, and then he lowers his head, touching his lips to mine. His strong arms wrap around me, molding me against his powerful body. He’s fully aroused; I can feel the hard ridge of his erection against the softness of my belly. He’s stroking my mouth with his lips, his tongue. He tastes sweet, from the papaya we just had.

Fire surges through my veins, and I close my eyes, losing myself in the overwhelming pleasure of his kiss. My hands creep up to his chest, touch it shyly. I can feel the heat of his body, smell the scent of his skin—male and musky, strangely appealing. His chest muscles flex under my fingers, and I can feel his heart beating faster.

He backs me toward the bed, and we fall on it. Somehow my hands are buried in his thick, silky hair, and I’m kissing him back, passionately, desperately. I’m not thinking about my grand seduction plan—I’m not thinking at all.

He bites my lower lip, sucks it into his mouth. His hand closes around my right breast, kneads it, squeezes the nipple through the dual barrier of the bra and the dress. His roughness is perversely arousing, even though I should be frightened by it.

I moan, and he flips me over, onto my stomach. One of his hands presses me down, pushing me into the mattress, while the other one lifts my skirt, exposing my underwear.

And then he pauses for a second, looking at my butt, lightly stroking it with his large palm. “Such curvy little cheeks,” he murmurs. “So pretty in white.”

His fingers reach between my legs, feel the wetness there. I can’t help squirming at the light touch. I’m so turned on I just need a little bit more before I come.

He pulls down my underwear, leaving it hanging around my knees. His hand caresses my buttocks again, soothing me, arousing me. I’m trembling with anticipation.

Suddenly, I hear a loud smack and feel a sharp, stinging slap on my butt. I cry out, startled, more from the unexpected nature of the attack than from any real pain.

He pauses, rubs the area soothingly, and then does it again, slapping my right cheek with his open palm. Twenty slaps in quick succession, each one harder than the rest. It hurts; this is not a light, playful spanking.

He means to cause me pain.

Forgetting all about my resolution to play along, I begin to struggle, frightened. He holds me down easily, then transfers his attention to my other butt cheek, slapping it twenty times with equal force.

By the time he pauses, I’m sobbing into the mattress, begging him to stop. My backside feels like it’s burning, throbbing in agony.

Even worse than the pain is the irrational sense of betrayal. To my horror, I realize that I had begun to trust my captor, to feel like I knew him a bit.

He’d caused me pain before, but I didn’t think it was on purpose. I thought it was just because I was so new to sex. I hoped my body would adjust and there would be only pleasure in the future.

I was obviously a fool.

My entire body is shaking, and I can’t stop crying. He’s still holding me down, and I’m terrified of what he’ll do next.

What he does next is as shocking as what he did before.

He turns me over and lifts me into his arms. Then he sits down, holding me on his lap, and rocks me back and forth. Gently, sweetly, like I’m a child that he’s trying to console.

And despite everything, I bury my face against his shoulder and sob, desperately needing that illusion of tenderness, craving comfort from the one who made me hurt.

* * *

After I’m a bit more calm, he stands up and places me on my feet. My legs feel weak and shaky, and I sway a little as he carefully undresses me.

I wait for him to say something. Maybe to apologize or to explain why he hurt me. Was he punishing me? If so, I want to know what I did, so I can avoid doing it in the future.

But he doesn’t speak—he simply takes off my clothes. When I’m naked, he begins to undress himself.

I watch him with a strange mixture of distress and curiosity. His body is still a mystery to me because I’ve kept my eyes closed for the last two nights. I haven’t even seen his sex yet, even though I’ve felt it inside me.

So now I look at him.

His figure is magnificent. Completely male. Wide shoulders, a narrow waist, lean hips. He’s powerfully muscled all over, but not in a steroid-enhanced bodybuilder way. Instead, he looks like a warrior. For some reason, I can easily picture him swinging a sword, cutting down his enemies. I notice a long scar on his thigh and another one on his shoulder. They only add to the warrior impression.

His skin is tan all over, with just the right amount of hair on his chest. There’s more dark hair around his navel and trailing down to his groin area. His skin color makes me think he either goes around naked, or he’s naturally darker, like me. Perhaps he has some Latino ancestry, too.

He’s also fully aroused. I can see his cock jutting out at me. It’s long and thick, similar to the ones I’ve seen in porn. No wonder I’m sore. I can’t believe he’s even able to fit inside me.

After we’re both naked, he guides me to the bed. “I want you on all fours,” he says quietly, giving me a light push.

My heart jumps in panic, and I resist for a second, turning to look at him instead. “Are you—” I swallow hard. “Are you going to hurt me again?”

“I haven’t decided,” he murmurs, lifting his hand to cup my breast. His thumb rubs my nipple, makes it harden. “I think it’s probably enough for now.”

Enough for now? I want to scream.

“Are you a sadist?” The question escapes me before I can think, and I freeze in place waiting for his answer.

He smiles at me. It’s his beautiful Lucifer smile. “Yes, my pet,” he says softly. “Sometimes I am. Now be a good girl and do as I asked. You might not like what happens otherwise . . .”

Before he even finishes speaking, I scramble to obey, getting on my hands and knees on the bed. Despite the warmth in the room, I’m shivering, trembling from head to toe.

Violent, gruesome images fill my mind, making me feel ill. I don’t know much about S&M. Fifty Shades and a few other books of its ilk are the extent of my experience with the subject, but none of those romances depicted anything like my situation now. Even in my darkest, most secret fantasies, I’ve never imagined being held captive by a self-admitted sadist.

What is he going to do? Whip me? Torture me? Chain me in a dungeon? Is there even a dungeon on this island? I picture a stone chamber filled with torture instruments, like in a movie about the Spanish Inquisition, and I want to puke. I’m sure normal BDSM is nothing like that, but there’s nothing normal about my situation with Julian. He can literally do anything he wants to me.

He gets on the bed behind me and strokes my back. His touch is slow, gentle. It would be soothing, except I’m cringing, expecting a blow at any moment.

He probably realizes it because he leans over me and whispers in my ear, “Relax, Nora. I won’t do anything else tonight.”

I almost collapse on the bed in relief. Tears run down my face again. This time, they’re tears of relief and gratitude. I’m pathetically grateful that he won’t hurt me again. At least, not tonight.

And then I’m horrified. Horrified and disgusted—because when he starts kissing my neck, my body begins to respond to him as though nothing had happened. As though it’s never known a moment of pain at his hands.

My stupid body doesn’t care that he’s a depraved bastard. That he’s going to hurt me again and again. No, my body wants pleasure, and it doesn’t care about anything else.

His warm mouth moves from my neck to my shoulders, then over my back. My breathing is shallow, erratic. Despite his reassurance, I’m still afraid of him, and the fear somehow makes me wetter.

His lips move to my buttocks, kiss the area that he hurt just a few minutes earlier. His hand pushes on my lower back, and I arch slightly under his touch, understanding his unspoken command. His fingers slip between my legs, and one long finger finds its way into my slippery channel, entering deeply.