Masters of the Shadowlands 7 - This is who I am by Sinclair Cherise Page A

trembled. Working out in the gym so long that every muscle in her body ached like a sore tooth. Her husband had called it “having a mood on her” and had attributed it to her being female.
    Her lips quirked. A good spanking might have saved her all sorts of effort. But Frederick had never wanted to discuss sex. The few times she’d asked him for something different—a swat, some roughness, to hold her down—he’d been disgusted.
    More customers came in, browsing the basket section. Actually, Frederick had been more than simply disgusted; he’d implied she had a mental problem. Her pen scribbled dark clouds along the edge of the paper. She’d never tried to talk about sex again.
    But maybe she was mentally unstable. Dismay splattered over her happy mood like a cold rain. She’d told herself the flogging at the Shadowlands would be the last time. Insisted on it. But then she’d let Sam spank her. Whip her with his belt.
    What had she been thinking? A normal person didn’t visit BDSM clubs and definitely didn’t let a man spank her. A little kink was one thing. Needing to be hurt was entirely different.
    This had to stop. She wasn’t going to let herself be a masochist.
    But…what about Sam? She closed her eyes, remembering his hard kiss before he’d left her bed. If she continued to see him, he’d give her the pain she craved, and she’d never be able to stop. Like a drug dealer, he fed her addiction.
    This must end . No matter how she felt about him, she couldn’t keep sleeping with him. Not tonight. Not ever. The realization, the resolution, hurt something deep inside her.
    “Miss?”
    Linda pasted on a smile for the young woman. “That’s a lovely piece.” She rang up the sale of the carved candlestick and managed to chat with the Canadian and her friend.
    As the two women walked out, Linda reached for her cell phone. Her hand shook. Need to do this. Don’t be a coward . She punched in Sam’s number.
    “Davies.” His dark, rasping voice sent her hormones bubbling into instant carbonation.
    “It’s Linda. I’ve been thinking. The graffiti guy seems to have stopped. I don’t think you need to waste your time driving here every day.” Even as she said it, her chest tightened.
    Silence.
    “Sam?”
    “You saying you don’t want to see me again?”
    The disconcertingly blunt question stabbed through her, and she smothered an instinctive no . He deserved better than a stupid excuse. She was being cowardly. Tangling her fingers in her hair, she yanked. Be honest . “Sam, you mean a lot to me. And I really, really appreciate the time you’ve spent, helping me.” Holding me . “We’re friends, and I’ll always be grateful.” She closed her eyes, pulling in a slow breath. “God, I feel as if I’ve been using you. I didn’t mean to.”
    “But…”
    “But I don’t want…want to do what we did. I can’t be like that. I need to be normal.” Her pen scribbled over the hand she’d drawn, blotting it out, each black line adding a fresh slice of hurt.
    “ Normal .”
    Tears blurred her eyes at the disgust in his voice. “Yes.”
    “Girl, no one is normal. Even the ones who try to appear that way.”
    “That doesn’t matter. This is—”
    “I understand. All too well.” He paused. “How about I come over and we talk?”
    “There’s no point.” And he’d look at her with those perceptive blue eyes, say her name, and she’d cave. She would. A vise of guilt squeezed the breath from her. She’d do anything to keep from hurting Sam—anything but continue on the path they were going down.
    “I see.” Ice covered the gravel of his voice. “I think you’re wrong, girl, but you’ll find that out yourself.”
    “Yes. Then this is good-b—”
    “Mebbe. Doesn’t sound like you know what you’re doing.”
    She did, didn’t she? “But—”
    He’d disconnected. Well . That was that. As she straightened, she looked down at her paper. Black scribbles had blotted out the flowers