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driven to a sprawling building that looks like it belongs in Morocco. There are gleaming gold domes for roofs, curved stucco walls, exotic gardens filled with pink flowers and spiky plants. Our driver, Rene, explains everything to me as we go up the drive.
    “There are a dozen of these villas on the resort, miss,” Rene says. “They are separate and private, and just steps from the ocean. Each villa has dedicated staff, a private well-stocked bar, and you can order anything you desire from the main kitchen. We’re on call at any time of the day or night.” He wishes us a Merry Christmas when he drops us off and carries our luggage inside. Jonathon tips him generously, but doesn’t return the sentiment. So I say it.
    “Merry Christmas, Rene, and thank you so much.”
    Then we’re in our villa, alone. I pass through the entrance foyer into a circular, domed space, filled with curiosity. The huge round room is the living room. A flat screen T.V. spans the curve. Comfortable couches and chairs of white leather are arranged in a circle. On one side there is a bar; on the other, a large doorway which I guess leads to bedrooms.
    Right across from the foyer, the circular room juts into a square space that is glassed in with doors that open onto a terrace. And a pool!
    One of the doors is open and I realize the rhythmic, crashing sound is the surf on the beach. Sultry breezes, tangy with salt, waft into the room. From here, the sky looks almost pure gold with slashes of pink, and I realize the sun is dropping to the horizon.
    “Finally,” Jonathon says, dropping his carry-on bag. “Take a quick look outside at the sunset, then come back in here. I’ve been going crazy for the last two hours, waiting to tie you up again.”
    Chapter Four
     
     
     
    Am I ready to be tied up again? Ready to test and push boundaries already?
    After watching a breathtaking sunset, I’m quivering a little when I slip into the bathroom to wash up. There are three bathrooms in our villa. One has a huge walk-in shower done in decorative tile. The second has a soaker tub large enough for four people. It is set into the floor and surrounded by a plush, white carpet. The last one is larger than my bungalow, has a heart-shaped tub with jets, and a granite waterfall that frames the sink and mirrors.
    I end up deciding to use the one with the sunken tub. The room is decorated with black and silver art deco tiles and features a huge mirror framed in bulbs, like a Hollywood-style makeup mirror.
    After I come out, I take the wrong route and end up in a huge bedroom. A four-poster bed stands in the middle. Gauzy white fabric flutters around the bed. Large doors open to a terrace. Steps lead down from there to the white sand beach. Thick carpets surround the bed, all in an exotic, Oriental pattern. Furnishings of dark wood contrast with the pale beige-white walls. It looks like the room of a pirate who brought his old world sensibilities to his luxurious Caribbean home, built with his plundered booty.
    From that room, I go through a connecting door into another that matches the sunken tub bathroom, decorated for a Hollywood siren from the 1930s.
    Catching my breath, I leave that room, closing the doors behind me with a sense of awe.
    I figure out how to head back to the living room, where I find Jonathon.
    “There are six bedrooms. All of this is really just for us?” At the bondage club I visited with Jonathon—where nothing happened except some voyeurism—I met a friend of Jonathon’s. A man named Devlin Crane, Jonathon’s age, a billionaire who took over the helm of his family’s industrial empire two years ago. Crane told me he and Jonathon regularly had threesomes with whatever lucky girl either man was dating.
    “Are you expecting other guests?” I ask slowly.
    Jonathon sits back, pulling the cork from our chilled champagne. “These villas are intended for several couples, but I like privacy. I rent the entire place.” He fills a beautiful