Hanging from the bedpost was a black leather riding crop with a crimson handle. Heat rose up Mel’s body. For a fleeting moment, an image of the woman wielding the whip played in her mind. She tore her eyes away and pushed the thought out of her head. But she was suddenly hyperaware that she was alone in the room of a domineering woman who she felt an undeniable attraction toward. One who owned a whip.
