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Sloane pretends the booth doesn’t impress her. She’s lying. Her attention moves over every detail—the black velvet walls, the wide cushioned bench, and the antique mirror mounted above the counter. Dozens of red bulbs surround the glass, filling the room with enough light to see without destroying the illusion. There are no cameras. No audience. Only Sloane and me. Callum will remain outside because I told him he could either respect my scene or spend the rest of the night locked in the equipment barn.

Rhys laughed. Callum did not. Sloane faces the mirror. Her hair is tangled from the chase. Her cheeks are flushed. The hem of her white dress is streaked with dirt. She looks thoroughly ravished already. Rhys had one fucking scene with her. Greedy fucking bastard.

“Come here,” I say.

She meets my reflection.

“Make me.”

My cock hardens. I expected a playful submissive. I didn’t expect her to be fucking suicidal.

“You’re standing in a locked booth with a man wearing a Devil mask.”

“And?”

“And you should consider being polite.”

“What happens if I’m not?”

I cross the distance between us. Sloane tries to turn, but I press one hand between her shoulder blades and bend her over the counter. She gasps. The red bulbs illuminate her reflection—wide eyes, parted lips, breasts pressed against the wood. My body settles against hers.

I leave enough space for her to move if she wants. She doesn’t. She arches. A deliberate invitation.

“You’re trouble,” I murmur.

“You chose me.”

“I have terrible judgment.”

“That isn’t the only terrible thing about you.”

My hand slaps against her ass. The crack echoes through the booth. Sloane jerks against the counter. Her eyes flare.

“That was one.”

“One what?”

“One opportunity to apologize.”

“For telling the truth?”

Another smack. She bites her lip.

“Color?”

“Green.”

I rub the sting through her dress.

“Pain scale?”

“Three.”

“Do you want more?”

Her gaze locks with mine in the mirror.

“Yes.”