“Yes, sir.”
The title slid through him warm and arousing, also dangerous considering what they were about.
He cleared his throat subtly and announced with cringeworthy arrogance, “You’re a hot little thing. No need to warm you up more, I shouldn’t think.”
The first strike landed lightly across her shoulders. Measured. Controlled. More introduction than impact.
He watched her reaction, shoulders settling, breath releasing. Permission.
The next fell lower, a shade heavier. The muscles along her spine acknowledged it. Not flinching. Receiving. He gave her a few seconds before the next, varying the rhythm deliberately.
That was the work. Not the strikes themselves but the space between them.
He moved to her left side, changed the angle, and let the falls wrap lightly around her ribs, catching the underside of her breast. A small sound escaped her. Almost nothing, but he caught it.
Moving lower still, he delivered a series of quick, glancing strokes over the curves of her ass. The sound of leather on vinyl echoed sharply through the room. No below-the-waist nudity allowed on the public circuit. Pity for the viewers. Her ass was spectacular. Good for him, though, and the possessive streak he didn’t know he had until Gaby.
Another stroke. Quicker and harder. Once across her upper thighs.
She inhaled sharply and held it.
Conversation, music, the slow movement of bodies around them—all of it had dissolved. There was only the next signal her body offered him. Muscle tension. The quality of her stillness. The particular way she exhaled when sensation moved from discomfort into something more.
He saw the shiver start at the base of her spine. Involuntary. Unmistakable.
Rhys set the flogger down and stepped close. Twisting a hand in her hair, he tugged, angling her face upward until she met his gaze. The move was deliberate. Playing his part to the hilt. But his eyes on her were intimate, his voice quiet enough that the words belonged only to her.
“Your arousal is showing, love.”
A flush tinged her cheeks. “I can’t help it,” she whispered. “You do that to me, sir.”
The confession hit him harder than it should have. Not because of the words. Because of the honesty behind them. Not performance. Not compliance. Him.
For one reckless moment, the investigation ceased to matter. The possibility of unseen eyes watching from the dark vanished beneath impulse: push her farther, hear those breathless sounds again, see how completely she’d unravel for him if he allowed it.
A glass shattered behind him in the bar area. Rhys retreated a step immediately as, barely in time, his control snapped into place.
He let his gaze track the sound slowly, the way a man in control would. Unhurried. Possessive of the moment. A flash of annoyance at the interruption.
Third stool from the end, half turned toward the floor, watching… Gray Jacket. His sharp-eyed gaze was a weighty reminder: they had a job to do and roles to play.
Rhys shifted. Subtle. Deliberate. His posture changed. It had nothing to do with Gaby and everything to do with the room. He tightened his grip on her wrist—not roughly but completely. Ownership, not suggestion.
His mouth dropped close to her ear, his voice pitched to carry. “You don’t come down until I say so.”
A statement to the room as much as to her. The couple nearest them exchanged a glance.
He set down the flogger. Crossed to his bag. When he straightened, he was holding a red flicker whip. He swished it through the air once, the black braided nylon tassel on the end making a soft whoosh.
The trigger.
He felt her tense.
“You only said a flogging, sir.” Controlled. Clear. Pitched just right—enough edge to question him, not enough to defy.
“You can handle more,” he replied, smooth, unhurried, but most important, dismissive. Still the persona. “You’ll do it to please me, won’t you, sub?”
She held silent for a beat before repeating, “We negotiated a flogging.”
