Hannah peeked at me continually.

“An evening ceremony, then,” I said.

She plucked the magazine from me and tossed it onto the desk.

“Oh, I don’t know. Whatever you want. Something … simple.”

“I want what you want.” I slid her off my lap and stood. “You know I love the evening. The night.” I moved to lean against the door. Now I needed a little distance from Hannah. If she kept giving me those coy looks through her long lashes, we’d have to go another round.

She scooted up to her desk.

“Cool,” she said, her eyes downcast. Her fingers danced over the keyboard. She straightened a pile of papers.

“Work.”

“Hm?” Her head shot up.

“I want to watch you work.”

“Um. I can try.”

“Forget I’m here.”

“No chance of that,” she said with a giggle. After some dithering, she began reading from the computer screen and typing. She glanced at a paper, typed some more. Licked her lips. Looked at me. I smiled and shook my head.

With a huff, she refocused on the screen.

I stood very still, and Hannah’s work finally absorbed her. Calm confidence came into her expression. She reclined in her chair as she read, then leaned forward to jot down notes.

The future Mrs. Hannah Sky, working the job she’d refused to give up for me. Good for her. I felt clean, happy pride watching her, and Mike’s questions passed back through my mind.

Would you be comfortable if she felt this proprietary about your body?

Would you allow her to humiliate, dominate, and punish you?

I slipped out of the office while Hannah wasn’t looking.

I just might, Mike. I just might.

Chapter 15

HANNAH

I ate lunch at the Mediterranean deli every day that week, but I didn’t see Katie.

Maybe I’d freaked her out, or maybe she’d had second thoughts about tattling on Bethany. Either way, her disappearance—and the questions she’d spawned—unsettled me.

On Friday evening, I swung by the deli after work. The outdoor tables were empty, plastic tablecloths fluttering in a warm wind.

I strolled along the sidewalk¸ humming.

The universe seemed to be telling me to make my peace with Katie’s absence. Plus, I did feel a little guilty listening to potential lies about Matt. I should have told him about Katie, just like I should have told him about Seth and Chrissy. But now Katie was gone, taking her weird claims with her, and I didn’t need to tell Matt anything.

And anything I wanted to know about Matt, I could ask him. Right?

I tucked my hands into my jean pockets—casual Friday.

Asking Matt questions … easier said than done.

I turned a street corner aimlessly, enjoying the summer evening.

I shot a text to Matt as I walked.

Doing some shopping, might be home a little later than usual.

He replied quickly.

Buy yourself something nice. Isn’t your sister coming over tonight?

We’d decided to have Chrissy over to the condo rather than going to meet her someplace. My parents’ house was out of the question, and almost any public place was out of the question. We had private matters to discuss.

I replied to Matt’s text.

Maybe I’ll buy you something nice. Yes, she’s coming over at 7. Plenty of time. Love you.

I hoped Matt had gone for a run today, or at least sat out on our crappy little balcony for a while. This evening felt too good to miss.

My cheeks heated as I considered the balcony. He deserved something nicer. I made a mental note to re-raise the house-shopping issue.

I passed a narrow hole-in-the-wall shop—HORSE TACK AND WESTERN SUPPLY—and stopped in my tracks. I backpedaled a few steps.

A tooled leather saddle stood in the storefront display. Cowboy boots lined the bottom of the case, and against the wall, wound around a peg, hung a whip.

Holy shit. The whip looked innocuous enough, until I considered Matt wielding it.

No … way. No way. He couldn’t possibly want to use that on someone, could he?

I stepped into the store, bells announcing my entrance. My eyes adjusted to the low light. The pleasant scent of leather and polish filled my nostrils.

“Can I help you?” said the woman behind the counter.

“I was”—so glad for the semidarkness hiding my blush—“interested in the … whip. The one you’ve got out front.”

“Sure, hon. We’ve got more of those back here.” She led me to a slice of wall flanked by big western belt buckles and pocketknives. “All our whips are David Morgan. Here’s the model from the front case. You whip-cracking at the fair?”

“Excuse me?”

“The Boulder County Fair. They’re doing a whip-cracking show this year. We’ve been getting a lot of customers looking at whips for that.”

“Oh, no. But…” I edged closer to the whip, touching it tentatively. I shivered. The black plaited cord felt rough and merciless. A snake coiled to strike. “My husband does. He…”

Smelling a potential purchase, the woman launched into a speech about the virtues of the whip, which, I learned, was a six-foot bullwhip—the perfect length!—handcrafted, all leather, no stuffing, with replacement fall and cracker included, a bonus pot of leather dressing, and a one-year warranty—a real steal at … seven hundred bucks!

“Whoa,” I mumbled.

By the time the woman stopped talking, she’d removed the whip from the wall and unwound and wound it several times, and finally she laid the looped leather in my hands.