I moan. My whole body is trembling.

“And do you know why you’ll do these things for me, Bell?”

“Why?” I breathe. “Tell me.”

He raises himself slowly, looking down at me as I writhe. “You’ll do it because you’ll like it. You like the game.”

“Yes!” I reach for him, but as my hand extends, the ring of the doorbell echoes through the penthouse.

Someone is here. And not just in the building. Someone was granted access to this floor and is right outside.

I try to get up but Lander gently pushes me back down. “I told you I ordered dessert, didn’t I?”

My heart is pounding so hard it seems to make the entire table vibrate beneath me.

“Will you come get the door with me, Bell? Will you give me that pleasure?”

I don’t know what to say. I don’t know who’s out there. I don’t know what this is about.

And then I’m struck with the strangest realization:

I trust Lander.

I trust that whatever happens, whatever he has planned . . . I’ll like it.

My heart is still pounding, his hand is still moving on me, and through barely parted lips I once again say, “Yes.”

And suddenly, just as I think I’m about to orgasm right here, on this table with God-knows-who waiting outside the door, he takes his hand away and then pulls me to my feet. I can barely keep my balance as he leads me out of the room, naked, and into the hall to the front door. I stand only a few steps behind. I’m tempted to cover myself, but instead I reach forward and take Lander’s arm, holding on to him tightly as he opens the door.

“Hi, I—” begins the man standing in the threshold, an insulated bag in his hands. But of course he doesn’t finish his sentence as his eyes land on me. He’s young, maybe my age, maybe a college student working part-time delivering desserts to wealthy patrons.

But whoever he is, he’s never seen anything like this. I can tell by the way his eyes wander over me, his mouth hanging open in shock, his eyes alight with desire.

“Ah, you brought the ice cream,” Lander says smoothly, turning to me, keeping the door open wide. “This place has the best ice cream in New York, all made on the premises, of course. They don’t usually deliver, but they made an exception for me.” He wraps his arm around my waist, his hand moving to my hip. “Please put it in the kitchen,” he says to the man.

The deliveryman nods and steps inside, never taking his eyes off me. Slowly, ever so slowly, he walks past, pivoting to watch me as he does.