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is?”
    Zoë followed the trajectory of his finger with her gaze. From her reading, she was pretty sure she was seeing an actual St. Andrew’s cross but she wasn’t about to admit the level of her knowledge, academic or otherwise. “It’s a cross of some kind...Sir.” How strange it felt to call this man who was of her own generation, a colleague she’d worked with as an equal, “Sir”. And yet, as odd as it was to admit, each time she said the word, it sent a jolt of excitement directly to her cunt. She eyed the cuffs dangling from the corners of the cross, adding, “It’s a restraining device.”
    Dylan nodded. “Correct. It’s called a St. Andrew’s cross. You’ll see one in most BDSM dungeons. It’s ideal for quick, thorough restraint. It’s handy when you don’t have the ability to suspend your slave from the ceiling.”
    He pointed upward, and Zoë experienced a small shock and another jolt to her cunt as she took in the large eyebolts screwed into the thick support beam. Her imagination instantly placed her beneath it, her arms stretched taut overhead by ropes secured to the eyebolts, her body spread and exposed for whatever diabolical torture this man might devise for her. A shudder moved through her frame at the image, and Dylan’s lips curled into a cruel, sensual smile, his gold-flecked eyes glittering as if he, too, were imagining her there.
    Still holding the riding crop, Dylan strode to the whip rack and selected an ominous-looking black whip with a long, wicked tail. He flicked it suddenly, and the resulting sonic crack startled Zoë to such an extent that she dropped her arms from their position behind her head, her right hand instinctively flying up to cover her mouth.
    Dylan regarded her with a shake of his head. “Bad girl.” He strode to her in a few quick strides. Before she could react, the riding crop smacked against her bare ass three times in quick, stinging succession.
    She yelped in outraged surprise and jumped away. “Hey! What’re you doing?” she demanded, the words leaping out of her mouth before she could stop them. “Oh!” she blurted. “I’m sorry, Sir!” Hastily she resumed the at-attention position, her face hot with humiliation, her bottom tingling painfully from the crop.
    Dylan regarded her for several silent moments while she struggled to regain her composure. “Why did I correct you, Zoë?” he finally said.
    The heat in Zoë’s face intensified, but she knew she had to reply. “Because I fell out of position, Sir,” she forced herself to say, surprised how difficult it was to admit failure. “And I spoke out of turn.”
    “Will it happen again?”
    “No, Sir.”
    “Good girl.” He moved closer, so close she could smell the soap on his freshly-washed skin. “Tell me, Zoë,” he said softly. “Have you ever been restrained? Cuffed with your arms overhead, completely vulnerable and defenseless?”
    Another shudder moved through Zoë’s frame, and she swallowed hard as she struggled to collect herself. “No, Sir.” Her eyes slid involuntarily toward the back wall where the rope and chain hung, waiting.
    Dylan followed her gaze, and a slow, sensual smile lifted his lips. The smile recalled to her the kiss of the night before—his mouth claiming hers as his fingers roamed her body. Her heart was beating fast, and the pulse of it throbbed at her clit.
    As if privy to her secret desires, Dylan slowly shook his head. “Not yet, Zoë. You aren’t yet ready for that level of restraint.”
    The surge of relief at this pronouncement was nearly overcome by a strange disappointment. Stunned at her own reaction, but nearly powerless against it, Zoë had to press her lips together once more to keep from blurting, “ Yes, I am so ready ,” like some petulant child being denied a privilege. She stood silently, confusion roiling through her.
    Dylan reached into his pocket and pulled out a silky black sash. He held it in one hand, running his fingers along