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I melted.
My insides turned to liquid.
My adrenaline switched to arousal.
Terrible, tempting, treacherous arousal.
Victor glanced over. “Nice crack, mon ami.” His eyes narrowed. “You said you’ve never used a whip before?”
Henri had a hard time looking away from me. His voice sounded like smouldering volcanic ash. “Pure novice, but…I watch things.”
Victor’s forehead furrowed. “Just like you watch MMA and somehow became a killing machine?”
“Something like that.”
“Hmm.” Victor sniffed. “It took me weeks to master the art of cracking a whip. Either you’re very humble or you’re lying.”
Henri stiffened. “You know I’m descended from Quincy Mercer the First. I witnessed him playing. One of his favourite toys was a bullwhip.” He swallowed hard before admitting, “And I may have had a few swats myself, now and again.”
“He taught you?” Victor lost all his tension, a slow smile crossing his face. “In that case…carry on. I’ve always thought Mercer the First and I would’ve gotten on quite well. It’s fun watching you step into his shoes.”
Henri didn’t respond.
Victor returned to Rachel, stripping off his jumper and grabbing a few silver clamps from a nearby rack.
Henri turned back to me; the whip coiled like a sleeping serpent on the floor. With a flick, he cracked it again.
Another droplet of need.
A heavy emptiness needing to be filled.
I feared him and wanted him.
I hated that he had to share a past he obviously detested. I pitied him that his mind had protected him from all of this, yet his present dragged every dirty memory to the surface.
My thoughts raced and collided for ever agreeing to this.
For making him become this.
I grew wetter and hotter, and God…
I wanted this.
I wanted him.
I-I couldn’t help it.
I wanted to save him, submit to him…
I felt ashamed and embarrassed and so turned-on that tears prickled up my spine.
I couldn’t look.
Closing my eyes, I did my best to remember who I was.
I was strong. I was smart. I—
Henri suddenly crowded me against the cross. His heat, his hardness, his power.
