That’s what Mia told herself the first time she walked into the glass-walled room overlooking the Manhattan skyline. The swing hung from a reinforced beam in the ceiling, a leather-and-chain affair that looked like it belonged in a very exclusive dungeon. To her right, a mirrored wall reflected her hesitation.
He pushed her again, harder. The arc widened. The room tilted—ceiling, window, floor, mirror. She saw herself: hair flying, legs parted, mouth open in a surprised O. She looked like a painting of a fallen woman. She looked like his fantasy. playboy swing
"No. You're the one who wanted to see the real me." He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "This is it. This is the playboy swing. Every girl who lasts more than a month gets a ride." That’s what Mia told herself the first time