[work] | Playboy Swing

It was higher off the ground than she expected. Her feet dangled. The leather was cool against the backs of her thighs. Leo stood, walked behind her, and pushed. Gently at first.

So she sat on the swing.

Leo was already on the couch, drink in hand, watching her with that lazy, proprietary smile. He was a playboy in the classic sense—charming, wealthy, emotionally unavailable, and possessed of a roving eye that had somehow, miraculously, settled on her for six months. He collected experiences like vintage watches, and tonight, he wanted to collect this one. playboy swing

"I'm going to be sick," she said.

Mia laughed, a practiced, musical sound. "You know I'm not a 'kitten.'" It was higher off the ground than she expected

She should have walked out then. The red flag was the size of a bedsheet. But Mia was thirty-two, divorced, and tired of being the sensible one. She’d married a man who made spreadsheets for fun. Leo was the antidote: risk, spontaneity, the terrifying thrill of not knowing what came next.

But then the angle shifted. Leo had a remote in his hand. He pressed a button, and the chains began to slowly twist, rotating the swing in a lazy spiral while it continued its arc. The city spun. The mirrors multiplied her reflection a dozen times, a dozen Mias, all of them dizzy, all of them his. Leo stood, walked behind her, and pushed

Her stomach lurched. "Leo. Stop."