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.

Mia laughed, a practiced, musical sound. "You know I'm not a 'kitten.'"

He pushed her again, harder. The arc widened. The room tilted—ceiling, window, floor, mirror. She saw herself: hair flying, legs parted, mouth open in a surprised O. She looked like a painting of a fallen woman. She looked like his fantasy.

"Do you feel it?" he asked from somewhere behind her. "The loss of control?"

Her stomach lurched. "Leo. Stop."

"No. You're the one who wanted to see the real me." He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "This is it. This is the playboy swing. Every girl who lasts more than a month gets a ride."