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The morning after my husband spanked me, my ass was pretty sore. But I
didn’t want Logan to think I was soft. A girl has to keep up appearances
after all. Wouldn’t do to let him think he didn’t have to bring his A-game
next time.
Next time.
Yeah.
There was going to be a next time. When I said, “fuck it, let’s hurt each
other,” I meant it. The idea was terrifying, but I was powerless to stop
myself. I was a spring-loaded switchblade of pent-up lust and he’d pushed
my button. Getting cut was an inevitable risk.
My studio had once been a haven of creativity. Now it was a dead
weight of options. A big canvas I was too terrified to choose a subject for,
unfinished work that had nothing to say, a living space I didn’t live in but
would return to soon enough.
For now, I was in stasis. The art could wait. I had a dinner with Mike
and Twyla in two nights and I was tired of every article of clothing I had. I
didn’t feel like that person anymore. I could buy whatever I wanted, but the
thought of shopping was almost as boring as the act of shopping itself.
Opening my purple armoire, I ticked through the hangers and came to
the silver dress I’d stolen from the locked closet at Papillion a million years
ago. I pulled it out. Too dressy for dinner, but a gorgeous thing. The beauty
was in the fit and fabric, but the concept was tame. It wasn’t daring at all. It
lacked.
I’d never seen my father’s clothes as anything but perfect. Maybe I was
grumpy. Maybe I’d missed something.