"Answer me this, Syl. What do you want me to do to you?"
Sylvia blinked up at him. "Isn't it obvious?" she whispered. "I want you to make love to me. God! I sound pathetic!"
She covered her face for a moment.
His eyes held hers, intense, unblinking.
"And there in lies the problem," he said. "I don't want to make love to you, Syl. I want to discipline you."
"You mean like a submissive?"
"Now you're getting it."
Sylvia's pulse drummed at her throat.
Reese took a step back, reclaiming his boundaries.
"Good night, Syl."
"Since when?"
Reese stopped mid-step.
Finally, he pivoted slowly. "Excuse me?"
Sylvia walked toward him. She stopped barely a foot away.
"When did you first feel this way?" she demanded, softer now.
Reese took his time answering. His gaze flicked over her face—her flushed cheeks, her swollen eyes, her trembling lip, the bare vulnerability written all over her.
"A long time ago," he finally said. "You used to sneak out a lot to drink."
