Zara
I barely remember leaving the clubhouse. I float out on a wave of dual-post-orgasmic bliss, reflecting that I finally understand what all the fuss is about. My body is so relaxed, it’s almost boneless, and the world feels muted and softened, like it’s been wrapped in cotton.
The drive back to the city goes by fast, and by the time he pulls the motorcycle into the underground parking garage of a gleaming glass tower, I’m half-asleep against his back. We walk over to the elevator, and I watch Locke ignore all the numbered buttons and instead produce a key from his pocket.
“The elevator needs a key to work?” I ask.
“No, not usually,” he replies. “I’m the only one in the building with a key, besides security.”
“Why?”
“Because,” he says. “I own the penthouse.”
“You what?” I gape at
