He didn't. He was watching her with that collector's gaze, cataloging her reactions. "You're fine. I've got you."
But that was the lie, wasn't it? The playboy swing wasn't a test of trust. It was a test of surrender. He wanted to see her vulnerable, unmoored, at his mercy. And he wanted to be the one who decided when the swinging stopped.
So she sat on the swing.
Leo was already on the couch, drink in hand, watching her with that lazy, proprietary smile. He was a playboy in the classic sense—charming, wealthy, emotionally unavailable, and possessed of a roving eye that had somehow, miraculously, settled on her for six months. He collected experiences like vintage watches, and tonight, he wanted to collect this one.
She unhooked her own legs. She found the floor. She straightened her dress, walked to the door, and paused. playboy swing
Mia laughed, a practiced, musical sound. "You know I'm not a 'kitten.'"
"Your turn, kitten," he said, gesturing to the swing. He didn't
It was higher off the ground than she expected. Her feet dangled. The leather was cool against the backs of her thighs. Leo stood, walked behind her, and pushed. Gently at first.