“Already documented.”
“You’re enjoying this too much.”
“Only a little.”
She snorted softly into her drink.
Rhys studied her for a moment longer than he should have. Not because she looked beautiful—though she did. Because nomatter how dangerous things became, Gabriella Flores still ran toward the fire when someone needed help.
God help him, he loved that about her. But professionally, that was a complication.
Rhys moved closer and dipped his head so only she would hear. “We keep it simple,” he said quietly. “Enough visibility to draw attention. Nothing excessive.”
“You say that now.”
“I always say that.”
“And then you get bossy.”
A faint smile threatened. Dangerous territory.
“Careful, love,” he murmured. “You’re flirting during an active investigation.”
“That’s because I know I’m safe in your hands.”
The honesty in it caught him slightly off guard.
“We should get this done. Ready?” he asked.
“What if I say no?”
“We leave.”
Her expression softened briefly before she masked it again. Rhys wished, not for the first time tonight, that this operation required literally anyone else.
“I’m not sure why this is so hard. It’s not like we haven’t played in public before.”
“This isn’t our club, and these aren’t people you trust.” He offered his hand. “Do we go, or do we walk to that cross? The choice is yours, but the time is now to decide before someone claims our place in line.”
After half a second, she took it.
The St. Andrew’s cross stood against the far wall, slightly elevated to make it easily visible to the rest of the floor. Onlookers quieted as Rhys positioned Gaby carefully before securing the first cuff around her wrist. Loose enough for comfort. Tight enough for realism.
Even though this performance was directed at an audience of one, he remained focused on his charge, unlike too many dominants in this room. He had Rafe, Michael, and Boone behind him, steady and watchful, covering everything he couldn’t see.
His fingers brushed along the inside of her wrist before moving to the next restraint. Tiny contact. Tiny reaction. He noticed both.
By the time he finished and stepped away, Gaby’s breathing had already changed. He recognized her anticipation. She enjoyed a light flogging, and being bound, even more so, relinquishing control to him. She had told him how freeing it felt. Such vulnerability required a level of trust that humbled him. In a new place, in front of so many strangers, and possibly a killer, it felt like a betrayal of what they’d built.
He breathed deep then stepped into the role they’d decided upon for this performance: part possessive controller, part arrogant asshole.
Rhys picked up the flogger he’d preselected. He trailed the tails lightly along her shoulders.
“For my canvas tonight,” he said, voice carrying to her but more so the spectators. “I prefer skin to vinyl.” He undid the zipper on the side of her dress and watched the material, warm and pliable from her body heat, pool around her hips.
He swept her straightened blonde hair—still not used to that—forward over one shoulder, revealing the smooth golden skin of her back. Unable to resist touching her, he stepped closer and ran his hand, fingers splayed, slowly down her spine.
“Are you with me?” he asked softly.
