WHEN I LOOK UP again, the paintings in my foyer, my Madonnas, bring a mirthless smile to my lips. The idealization of motherhood. All of them gazing at their infants, or staring inauspiciously down at me.
It will only ever be Ana. The sun, the moon, the stars – they rise and set with her.
I have a general and creeping sense of happiness. It’s quite unsettling.
You’re a sadist?” “I’m a Dominant.” His eyes are a scorching gray, intense. “What does that mean?” I whisper. “It means I want you to willingly surrender yourself to me, in all things.” I frown at him as I try to assimilate this idea. “Why would I do that?” “To please me,” he whispers.
Veneration. It’s as if he’s worshipping me. He.
All that is mine is now yours. I give you my hand, my heart, and my love, from this moment on, for as long as we both shall live.
For me, photos like those.
You know, you’re topping from the bottom.
Now Moist Editor, SIP.
Except his apartment is an art gallery, not a home.
I’m very singular, driven. I like control – of myself and those around me.
Quiero que se me trague la tierra.
Yes,” I croak, and clear my throat. “Yes.” There, that sounded more confident.
It’s called Spem in Alium, a forty-part motet by Thomas Tallis.
Chopin. A prelude. Opus 28, number 4. In E minor, if you’re interested,” he says.
After all the vomit, he’s still here.
Only Christian Grey could sound so calm and so threatening at the same time.
I would move heaven and earth to avoid feeling like that again.
Descriptive linguistics is a hard limit for me.
I rarely wear makeup – it intimidates me. None of my literary heroines had to deal with makeup. Maybe I’d know more about it if they had.
My specialty is being the black sheep of the family. No one has any expectations of me, I make sure of that. Always. I.