and crossed her legs in the micro-miniskirt that showed off the mesh stockings and stiletto heels. “I earn ten thousand dollars an hour.”
“Great. You can take care of us both when we’re old and gray and our boobs sag.”
“I’ll buy us plastic surgery so we’ll never look older. We’ll never get old and gray.”
* * *
Sighing, Madison left the room behind and descended the stairs. A shower seemed the most neutral decision. She stayed in there awhile, leaning against the wall, letting the spray roll over her. When at last she reached for the soap, lathered it up and ran it over her skin, her mind went to Logan’s hands. Resting on her lower back, closed over her wrist . . . her throat. She laid her fingers in the same place and closed her eyes. With the water drumming in her ears, it seemed safe, isolated, to think about it. To want his hands on her again. He surrounded a woman with his presence, his strength, those penetrating eyes. All the things she’d sampled from the Master with Vanessa, Logan offered as a full course meal.
She thought about the box she’d left on the kitchen table. In an uncertain mood when she arrived last night, she’d lifted the lid only long enough to fish out the key and drop it in a filled ice tray, telling herself that didn’t commit her to anything. Would he ask her about it, next time she came into the shop? She didn’t like feeling obligated. But he’d offered it to her as a way to help her. What else was she going to do today?
Dressed in a terry cloth robe, running her hands through her damp hair, she went to the kitchen to get a cup of coffee. As she added sugar and cream, she studied the box, then propped her hips against the counter, sipping from the mug. After a few moments, she sidled over to the box and folded back the lid. The cuffs were on top of the card deck. Noticing a folded note in between the two, she put her cup down.
Opening it, she saw what she assumed was Logan’s unexpectedly neat, even handwriting. Just like an old-fashioned schoolmaster. It was insanely easy to envision him with queued hair, tight breeches and a long coat. Take away the fancy computer at the front of his store, and she could see him standing in the same spot three hundred years ago, behind an antique register and a carved wooden counter. His woodworking shop had possessed power tools, but also a lot of hand tools, so she thought he wouldn’t feel out of place at all.
She’d be the student sneaking glances at his groin in the snug breeches and getting her knuckles rapped. Or kept after school and held firmly around the waist, clinging to his side as he applied that ruler to her backside. He’d make her pull up her skirt so it marked her skin through the thin drawers . . .
Thinking of her room upstairs, she wondered if Logan liked to play dress up. Did he wear leather and chains at his club? A pirate shirt and boots? The ridiculous thought intrigued her far more than it should. She turned her attention to the note.
Relinquish control—on your own terms.
Relinquishing control made her feel like she was trapped in a bucket, waiting for the bottom to drop out. A counselor who treated her for depression in her teens suggested she try to make a B instead of an A, saying she needed to stop trying to control everything, be a perfectionist in all she did. Fortunately, her mother had decided that was an asinine idea, but in this case, Logan wasn’t advising loss of control through a lower level of performance. He was presenting her with a way to see the store differently, help her excel with it. A pretty unorthodox way, granted, but as she’d realized yesterday, her traditional sales experience didn’t mean squat there. It was an erotica shop, not Radio Shack.
Still, she hedged. She should return the box to him, say thanks but no thanks.
She left it there and went into Alice’s home office. For the next few minutes, she riffled through some estate paperwork. The idea of
“Great. You can take care of us both when we’re old and gray and our boobs sag.”
“I’ll buy us plastic surgery so we’ll never look older. We’ll never get old and gray.”
* * *
Sighing, Madison left the room behind and descended the stairs. A shower seemed the most neutral decision. She stayed in there awhile, leaning against the wall, letting the spray roll over her. When at last she reached for the soap, lathered it up and ran it over her skin, her mind went to Logan’s hands. Resting on her lower back, closed over her wrist . . . her throat. She laid her fingers in the same place and closed her eyes. With the water drumming in her ears, it seemed safe, isolated, to think about it. To want his hands on her again. He surrounded a woman with his presence, his strength, those penetrating eyes. All the things she’d sampled from the Master with Vanessa, Logan offered as a full course meal.
She thought about the box she’d left on the kitchen table. In an uncertain mood when she arrived last night, she’d lifted the lid only long enough to fish out the key and drop it in a filled ice tray, telling herself that didn’t commit her to anything. Would he ask her about it, next time she came into the shop? She didn’t like feeling obligated. But he’d offered it to her as a way to help her. What else was she going to do today?
Dressed in a terry cloth robe, running her hands through her damp hair, she went to the kitchen to get a cup of coffee. As she added sugar and cream, she studied the box, then propped her hips against the counter, sipping from the mug. After a few moments, she sidled over to the box and folded back the lid. The cuffs were on top of the card deck. Noticing a folded note in between the two, she put her cup down.
Opening it, she saw what she assumed was Logan’s unexpectedly neat, even handwriting. Just like an old-fashioned schoolmaster. It was insanely easy to envision him with queued hair, tight breeches and a long coat. Take away the fancy computer at the front of his store, and she could see him standing in the same spot three hundred years ago, behind an antique register and a carved wooden counter. His woodworking shop had possessed power tools, but also a lot of hand tools, so she thought he wouldn’t feel out of place at all.
She’d be the student sneaking glances at his groin in the snug breeches and getting her knuckles rapped. Or kept after school and held firmly around the waist, clinging to his side as he applied that ruler to her backside. He’d make her pull up her skirt so it marked her skin through the thin drawers . . .
Thinking of her room upstairs, she wondered if Logan liked to play dress up. Did he wear leather and chains at his club? A pirate shirt and boots? The ridiculous thought intrigued her far more than it should. She turned her attention to the note.
Relinquish control—on your own terms.
Relinquishing control made her feel like she was trapped in a bucket, waiting for the bottom to drop out. A counselor who treated her for depression in her teens suggested she try to make a B instead of an A, saying she needed to stop trying to control everything, be a perfectionist in all she did. Fortunately, her mother had decided that was an asinine idea, but in this case, Logan wasn’t advising loss of control through a lower level of performance. He was presenting her with a way to see the store differently, help her excel with it. A pretty unorthodox way, granted, but as she’d realized yesterday, her traditional sales experience didn’t mean squat there. It was an erotica shop, not Radio Shack.
Still, she hedged. She should return the box to him, say thanks but no thanks.
She left it there and went into Alice’s home office. For the next few minutes, she riffled through some estate paperwork. The idea of
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