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.
Another crack, and no pain.
“You tease,” I panted.
“You want it,” he growled.
In answer, I pushed down my skirt. It fell around my ankles. Matt didn’t hesitate. Crack went the whip, I rolled my clit up and down, and a burning slice of sensation fell across my ass.
Violent desire, Matt called it in his journal.
Oh, I was so on board with that.
My legs trembled and I fought to stay upright.
“I’m going to come,” I gasped.
I heard the whip slap against the floor.
“Not without me you aren’t.” He moved swiftly, his body pinning mine to the wall, his fingers sliding aside my thong. Something filled me, and it wasn’t … him. My eyes flew open. Fuck, it was the handle of the whip, the rough knob of it deep inside me.
Matt’s mouth captured mine. I groaned and bit his lip. He fucked me with that stiff braided cord—he gave me no choice but to come—and when I did, he took his turn, casting away the whip and entering me, driving us together into bliss.
Chapter 20
MATT
Hannah lay along the floor with her head on my lap.
I sat against the wall, the whip coiled nearby.
Breathless silence.
She was so sweet now, her legs drawn toward her chest and her lovely face pillowed on my thighs. Her bottom glowed with three faint red stripes.
“I wish I could carry you outside, into the evening.” I stroked her hair. “Just like this, in your blouse and panties.”
Her eyes opened, luminous in the dim room.
What strange power she had over me, looking at me with those eyes.
“Let’s buy a home where you can,” she said. I stared at her mouth, her plump lips and small pink tongue. I leaned down and kissed it. She came alive for me, folding her arms around my neck and arching up from the floor.
“Were you a witch in another life?” I pressed my forehead to hers. “Witch bird.”
She giggled and dragged me down. Side by side on the floor, we nuzzled one another. Nothing had changed with the revelation of my journal. I felt a happiness that was half relief.
The other half was Hannah.