Page 50 of Dublin's Danger Dancer

I swallow my dignity, reminding myself that tomorrow morning his face would be swollen up like a blowfish from all the dog fur I’d stuffed in his pillow.

“Sir, may I use the restroom?”

“Go ahead,” he says, reclining into the bread bed, his forearms holding him up as he unbuttons his shirt.

I grab my bag and enter the bathroom. It’s an immense space with an oval tub that overlooks the water. I whip out my box of supplements and scatter a few sprinkles of ketamine into my hand. I need to be quick to get it in his drink and swirl it before he notices.

I take off my dress. I’m wearing black lacy lingerie that I know he likes from the club. I have the tranquilliser secured in my fist. I lean against the door frame crossing my legs over.

Liam wolf whistles.

“I don’t know who’s going to enjoy this punishment more.” I say, picking up Liam’s drink.

I launch myself at him, kissing him hard while I swish his drink with the tranquilliser.

I pull back. “To my punishment?” I say passing him a drink. We clink glasses and both throwback the remainder of our champagne.

Liam pushes me back against the wall.

“I can be really rough when I’m in the moment.” He says, biting my neck. His hands are hungry, running all over me. “How rough can you take it?” he asks.

“Very rough,” I reply, my sex clenching despite myself.

“First, I’m going to watch you drink down my load. It’s been waiting for you ever since you fell asleep. And then I’m going to see how many fingers you need to squirt,” he slows, his voice slows.

I back him up against the bed. He becomes limp and slumps into it. I wrench him up the bed, grateful he’d already undressed himself down to his boxers.

Chapter Thirteen

Seagulls circle outside the circular window of our cabin. I watch their agile white bodies, listening to their peacock-like wail as they dive to the sea, trying to fish out some food.

Liam is still passed out, his eyelids swollen shut from the pet hair I’d spread inside his pillowcase yesterday.

I struggled to get him out of his suit last night, but I knew he would be suspicious if he woke up fully clothed. His suit is hanging inside the cabin’s wardrobe. Arranged in the same way I’d seen him take off suits at home.

The aroma of lightly caramelised and almost nutty coffee whisks up my nostrils. I rise from the bed, grateful Liam is still dead to the world. I pull on my bikini and kaftan, gently close the door behind me, and scamper up to the deck.

Tanya is reading Freddie’s Financial Times. “Morning,” she says. “Ciara, what does this word mean?’’ she asks, pointing to proselytise.

“It means to convert someone to your religion or to a religion.”

“You’re wasted at that club,” says Freddie. “Who knew strippers were smart?”

“I have a law degree and I didn’t know that.” Tanya says, acceptance heavy in her tone.

The waiter comes over. He takes a crisp white cup and pours in black coffee.

“Cream?” he asks.

“No, gracias,” I say.

“And you speak Spanish?” says Freddie

“No, just thanks, hello, bye, that’s it.” I laugh, taking a sip of the black coffee. The coffee was shallow, no depth.

I hear footsteps coming up the deck.

“Tired from last night are we?” asks Tanya winking at me.

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