Page 604 of End Game

He exhales.

The second is harder.

Then the third.

I build gradually, alternating sides and placement, watching color rise beneath inked skin.

Micah has more tattoos than unmarked space in some areas of his thighs, which makes monitoring response more complicated. Not impossible.

His skin warms.

His breathing deepens.

His fingers curl against the table.

“Color?”

“Green.”

I increase intensity.

His body handles the paddle easily.

Not without reaction, but without strain.

By the time the heat is well established, his shoulders have dropped almost an inch.

Interesting.

I stop.

He turns his head slightly. “What?”

“You're relaxing.”

I trade the paddle for the flogger.

The falls are soft leather, designed more for warmth and sensation than punishment. I have used it on Cami before in a completely different context, enough to make her laugh and complain that I was ruining her ability to wear shorts without questions.

Micah takes the first strike with no visible reaction beyond a breath.

Then another.

Another.

I increase force.

His head lowers.

For a moment I think I have found something useful.

Then he says, “Ronan.”

“Yes?”

“This isn't enough.”

No frustration—just information.