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He squeezes a handful of buttock. “One that’s foreplay.”

Something deep and sensual clenches inside me, and I remember how bottomless my crush was. Back then, he hinted at dark sexual fantasies. I hinted back I was game to let him experiment with me. I was so attracted, and he was a mystery I desperately wanted to unravel. If I’m being honest, I’d still like to. It’s probably why I went ahead with drugging his drink. He refused to talk to me and it upset me… which is ridiculous after so much time. The sedative in his drink could’ve been my one chance to scratch through Scott Patrick’s enigmatic surface.

“How long have you been doing this sort of thing?” I ask.

“Long time. Who set me up?” he counters.

I purse my lips, trying to muster my anger that I’m in such a vulnerable position. He wouldn’t have stripped a man and made him lie over a foam wedge with his ass in the air to be paddled like a naughty schoolgirl. He’s a sadistic misogynist. I’m lucky things ended when they did.

A hard smack of the paddle shocks me. I stiffen. The sting reverberates through me. That one wasn’t cute or sweet or sexy. Then another, harder still. I groan in pain and try to jerk sideways off the wedge, but his hand on my back and the taut chains keep me in position.

My voice is sharp. “That’s enough.”

Then the paddle swings down quickly, one, two, three, four. I’m breathless from the hard cracks that send shockwaves of pain through my muscles. The blows continue, rattling my bones and driving the air from my lungs.

Fighting the restraints doesn’t help me escape; it only causes the t-shirt to ride up higher so my breasts are partially exposed.

Kicking my legs against the mattress as the paddle falls again and again, I struggle. The blows flatten my flesh momentarily until it springs back, reverberating with pain and heat. Warmth blossoms in my ass and then seeps lower, making me squirm as an ache develops deep in my core.

“Stop!”

Trick doesn’t relent, or even pause. If anything, the strokes get harder. I clench my buttocks and groan at the merciless paddling he gives my defenseless ass, covering the whole surface until it’s on fire.

Tears sting and fill my eyes. “Please. I can’t—please!”

He pauses, and I collapse against the bolster and mattress, wretched tears spilling. A cool palm rests against my wounded ass and squeezes firmly. I jerk, cursing him and then crying harder.

“I want the name, little girl.”

“No more!” I snap, trying to keep my voice steady as I cry. He’s a fucking monster.

“Tell me what I want to know.”

“Enzo,” I lie. “He wanted you incapacitated.”

“No. And lying’s a bigger mistake than trying to drug me.”

A flurry of blows causes me to spiral out of control. I scream and tear at the blanket. I curse at him and call him names and screech like a banshee.

Trick keeps going until the pain burns so deep I can’t stand it. I break down into sobs, begging him to stop, promising to tell him everything.

He pauses. “So tell me.”

Sobs break the words apart, but I manage, “Milt Schager—he told me—C Crue’s—trafficking girls. Younger than sixteen! I saw—how could you?”

“Who’s Milt Schager?” he asks calmly.

“Fuck you,” I rasp.

“Calm down. C Crue isn’t involved in human trafficking. Never has been.”

“You’re lying.”

“I don’t need to lie.”

“So what are you involved in?”

“Plenty of things, but not human trafficking. Innocent women and children are off limits. It’s why we broke from Frank Palermo in the first place.”