Illicit

He stepped forward, never breaking the speed or precision of the circles he made with his wrists, and the sound of the wind changed as each bundle of leather straps began connecting with human flesh.

The woman moaned and Greer grabbed my hand, squeezing tight.

I swallowed hard, eyes locked on the scene playing out before me.

The pressure in his swing never changed, but as the circles continued and the whips made repeated contact with her skin, her back grew redder as we all watched.

Her whimpers became moans.

Her body arched, hands tugging against the restraints as if…

As if she wanted more.

She wasn’t trying to get away; she was trying to get closer.

Greer’s other hand clamped down on my forearm and I snapped out of my thoughts, focusing on the woman as she arched her back. She moaned loudly and a series of tremors shook her body, rolling through her in waves until she sagged. Her head lowered and her shoulders heaved with each breath.

Casually, Reed walked to the side and returned the whips to their hangers on the wall. He strode back to her, slipping his hand over the nape of her neck and fisting it into her hair. Then he pulled her head back to look into her eyes and the murmurs resumed, soft as they were earlier and too damn quiet to hear. He whispered to her, then kissed her temple.

“Good girl,” he said, this time loud enough for the crowd to hear.

I sucked in a breath as his words hit me between the legs.

As he ran his hand up her right arm and began to unlace the leather straps, he swiveled his head toward me.

Our eyes locked.

He inclined his head, then returned his attention to the woman on the cross.

And I bolted.

As one does.