Chapter 25

HANNAH

Matt stared at his own handwriting with a mixture of shock and bewilderment.

EXHIBITIONISM

Even upside down, the heading was legible. As for the entry itself, I knew most of it by heart: I want to fuck her with an audience. I want to see her embarrassment. I want to make our most private act a spectacle.

I took another gulp from my wineglass. My arm shook.

“You called Shapiro?” Matt paled. “For these?”

“Y-yes. But look.” I separated the NDAs, one signed by Rachel Mox, the other signed by Nicole Williams. “None of the initial language was specific to—”

“So you didn’t tell him anything about this?” He pointed at the journal.

“No. Not even a hint, I swear. I called him and said that I was planning a surprise for you, and could he draw up two NDAs preventing the participating parties from spoiling the surprise. That’s it. I kind of said it was like … a big wedding gift.” I cringed.

Matt almost smiled—a twitch of his lips—and then his expression darkened.

“Okay. Ah, I need…” He stood and began to pace between the table and the flat-screen, gesturing. “I need more, Hannah. Give me more.”

If not for my massive anxiety and Matt’s almost about to be rage, I would have admired him. Serious Matt was a thing to behold. His every motion was measured and tense; his gaze sharpened fearfully, as if he could see into the soul of a problem … and tear it out.

“I’ve thought a lot about this,” I stammered, “and I w-wanted to do it. For you. But also for me. I got thinking about how, and where and when, and…” I poured out the story of Mission Exhibition, which had grown from an idle curiosity into a full-fledged plan.

My voice wavered at first, but as I continued talking, it evened and strengthened. I explained how I had visited Dynamite after work—not once, but three times—and observed the girls. I singled out a woman who seemed to relish the work, asked to speak with her privately, and asked for her discretion.

“You trusted her to be discreet?” Matt butted in. “Even that conversation could have been damning. People recognize you, and they know we—”

I held up a finger. Shush.

“I had her sign an NDA before we spoke in detail.”

He narrowed his eyes, but he looked impressed. “Go on…”

“Well, it was kind of a leap of faith. I asked if she or anyone she knew was into, uh, alternative lifestyles … or entertainments. I told her about our experience in the back room at Dynamite. She picked up on my meaning quickly.”

He snatched the NDAs off the table and scrutinized them.

“Is this why we’re here? Do I want to know how much money was involved?”

“It’s only why we’re here if you want it to be.” I paused. “Four hundred each. I let her set the price. Shapiro sent the paperwork as PDFs and I added in some specific clauses.”

“And Nicole is…” He sounded exasperated and incredulous. “Is who?”

“A friend of Rachel. She’s a swinger, not a dancer. I don’t know them well, but they took the paperwork seriously and they understand what we want.”

“Which is?” The NDAs fluttered onto the table. Matt drew close to me, his legs touching my knees. Denim against skin. I shivered and gazed up at him.

“Nothing but a silent audience,” I said.

“Finish your wine.”

I blinked and drained the glass. He touched my cheek.

“Where are they now?”

“I got them a room for the night. They understand we might not call. I’ve paid them for their time regardless.”

“You trust these people?”

I nodded.

“Nicole is a paralegal. She told me so and I double-checked online. She’s into this lifestyle; she appreciates the need for privacy. Plus she has something to lose. Rachel … I trust her to understand that she can’t afford the type of lawsuit we would bring if she breached our contract.”

Matt smirked, one golden eyebrow arched.

“How cutthroat, little bird. And so cunning.”

“I’ve learned some things from you and your family.”

His eyes widened, his smirk fell—then he laughed.

“Fair enough. You thought of everything, did you?”

I lifted my chin, a little shock of pride racing through me.

“Yes,” I said. “I did.”

His hand fell, his fingertips leaving cool trails down my cheek. I must have been blushing from my hair to my toes, but I felt calm. The sort of calmness at the center of a storm.

He walked toward the door and stopped.

He shoved his hands in his pockets and stared at the carpet.

I was past wondering if I really wanted to try this, or what it meant about me that I was willing to try. Matt had shared his fantasies with me freely. After the night I gave him the whip, his journal lived on our bedside table. It was no longer a secret or an object of shame, but an open invitation to his mind.

I reread it when I was alone. I let it excite me. I let the strangeness and wildness of his desires sink into me; and his self-criticism, I treasured that, too.

What’s wrong with me? I’m ashamed of myself. Confused by myself.

Oh, Matt … I ached to hold him when I read those words. He was the freest man I knew, but something—maybe regard for me—constrained him.

Tonight, I didn’t need to rethink my decision.