He found the About the Author section in the table of contents. Nora Sutherlin lives in New England. Find her online at www.norasutherlin.com.

That was it? Just one line? Okay. He went to her website. Not much more there. Her bio had been updated to read, Nora Sutherlin lives in New Orleans.

Great. So the lady liked her privacy a little. He could respect that. How many cheating husbands had he caught because they were sloppy online with their social media pages, leaving geo-markers on, claiming to be on a work trip while their phone tattled on them? Just out of curiosity, he went back to her book, picked a chapter at random and started to read.

“Put your arms behind your head,” he said. “Clasp your fingers and keep your elbows open. Like a butterfly’s wings.”

She did as she was told. The move made her arch her back, thrust her breasts forward. He stood before her, inspecting her.

“Legs wider,” he said. He touched the floor with the tip of the riding crop in two places—here and there, showing her where to place her feet. She moved her feet wider apart, a foot and a half, and stood quivering in place.

“Very nice.” He raised the crop and tapped her left nipple with it. Then her right. He caressed the underside of each breast with the triangle of leather on the crop’s end. He ran the shaft of the crop down the sides of her body from each elbow to each ankle and back up again. It tickled and made her shiver. She would have given anything to feel his body against her right now. She craved it and with every passing second she craved it more. No doubt this was the intention.

He stepped close again. It was torture to be so close without touching. He brought the crop up between them and pressed the flat side of the tip to his lips. Then he pressed the opposite side to her lips.

“Think of it as a kiss,” he said when the leather lay against her mouth. “That’s all it is. Just a kiss from me to you.”

“Most kisses don’t leave welts,” she said. “I prefer French kissing.”

“Well, I’m English. This is English kissing.”

“Holy shit,” Cyrus breathed to himself. He glanced over his shoulder just to make sure nobody had heard him, or worse, seen what was on his phone. He scrolled a few pages ahead.

“Open your eyes,” he said, and when she did it was to find him holding the dripping tip at her chin. He didn’t have to tell her to take it into her mouth. He placed his hand under the back of her head and lifted it with all the gentleness of a nurse raising the head of a sick patient to drink some water. She did it willingly, wrapping the tip with her lips and sucking. A small burst of semen shot into her mouth and she swallowed it eagerly. It was merely a taste of what was to come…