“My aunt and uncle owned a stable for several years. They bred Friesian horses. You know the breed?” He stepped into the office and I hovered near the door.

“No.” My voice was small.

“Mm. Doesn’t matter. Aunt Ella had us all learn to ride. I swear, she was determined to raise the last Renaissance men…” He glared at the ceiling, the walls, the floor, a question in his gaze. What the hell was he doing? “There were always whips in the barn. Seth and I used to sneak them out and mess around with them.”

He tested the weight of the whip, snaking it over the floor.

“One of my exes was into this sort of thing,” he added. “Whips, that is. Not horses.”

“Bethany?” I whispered.

“No, she and I didn’t do any of that.” He watched me carefully, his expression guarded. “Not for lack of trying on her part. I made the mistake of telling her how I played with other partners. She nagged me about it, pushed for it constantly. But I didn’t want that with her.”

“Why … why not?” I couldn’t conceal my shock. Bethany was the one pushing for kinky sex? Katie had lied to me, or she was misinformed. My cold panic turned to a burning blush. Fuck. Now I was pushing for kinky sex, giving Matt a whip, all because of some stupid misleading remark from a total stranger. Hannah, you idiot!

And nowhere in that black journal had Matt mentioned whips. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Restraints, yes. Riding crops, yes. Plugs, pain, punishment, shame. But not whips.

“I want it with you,” he said.

My mouth fell open.

Before I could sputter out … something … he nudged me into the hallway.

“Stand out there.” He grinned at me like a boy. “Look at the darts.”

The darts? My spinning mind took its time making sense of Matt’s words. The … dartboard. In his office. I looked at it. Two darts protruded from the board. Matt drew back his arm in a tight, controlled motion—the tail of the whip curled into the air—and a loud popping sound filled the office. I yelped and jumped.

When I opened my eyes, Matt was glaring at me.

“You missed it,” he snapped. He pointed to the floor. One of the darts lay on the hardwood. “Done right, it sounds a lot worse than it feels. Or so I’m told.”

Again, and with a patient expression, he raised the whip.

“Cover your ears and watch,” he said.

I did.

I’d always imagined a whip’s crack as swift, sloppy, and brutal, but the leather cord became an elegant extension of Matt’s arm. It formed a slow helix in the air, flickered out, snapped the dart off the board, and relaxed across the floor. Matt beamed at me. I uncovered my ears and grinned stupidly at him. God, he was so cute, and so …

He quirked a brow. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” I curled my toes. “You look really hot. Holding that.”

“Do I?” His shadow fell over me. There’s a little terror in delight. I wanted to run, and he probably would have liked that. “You trust me with it? With you.”

I nodded.

He took my hand and led me back to the TV room.

“Keep your skirt on.” Matt arranged me against the wall. He lifted my hair and kissed the back of my neck. “Unzip it, though, so you can get a hand inside and play with your clit.”

I did as I was told, but haltingly, my brain-to-hand signals slowed by desire and fear. Done right, it sounds a lot worse than it feels. Or so I’m told. Matt’s words weren’t exactly comforting. I glanced over my shoulder.

“So, you…” I slipped a hand into my skirt, into my thong, and trembled. “You’ve never actually been … hit with one of these?”

He pressed against my back and ass so that I felt his erection.

“Anyone who can whip a dart off a board”—his whispering voice heated my ear—“has hurt himself many times in the learning process. Practice makes perfect, bird.”

I envisioned a younger Matt standing in a field, cracking a whip. And holy shit, he knew how to ride a horse? All this new intel, combined with his kinky journal, had me reeling. I moaned as my fingertip skimmed over my clit.

“Good girl. Keep that up.” He tensed as if to step away, but he cradled my cheek and sighed across my lips. “Hannah, you feel how hard this makes me?”

I wrapped my lips around his finger and nodded, sucking softly.

“Fuck.” He moaned. Oh, I liked that sound.

Matt backed off and I closed my eyes, my nerves singing.

“Tell me when to stop,” he said. His voice had changed. Gone was the undertone of recklessness, replaced by calm control. Fear kept my eyes closed, but I longed to look at him: shirtless, aroused, wielding that black whip.

In my mind’s eye, he looked … beautiful.

Crack!

I yelped, more from surprise than pain. Gradually, I felt a stinging line across my bottom, dulled by the fabric of my skirt.

“Ah.” I breathed. Desire and excitement surged through me. We were actually doing this—Matt was whipping me—and it felt nothing like my gruesome imaginings, which involved screams and red stripes along my skin.

No, this was … tantalizing.

I wedged my other hand into my skirt and began to finger myself. Matt moaned his appreciation. I wiggled my bottom. Give me more.

Another loud pop sounded. The pain followed, subtly delayed. Thunder and lightning. Lightning and thunder. I gasped, desire oozing over my fingers.