late morning lectures, they’d go out for breakfast.
Face it, he simply liked her company—and they’d spent much of last week’s spring break together.
To find a submissive whose kinks matched his own was damn rare. Kelly had enjoyed a minimal amount of pain for a minimal amount of time. At the clubs, with her permission, he’d occasionally flog or whip the masochists who begged, but the satisfaction for him was minor and mostly from knowing he’d helped someone who’d needed the relief.
He’d far preferred the deeper bond of playing with Kelly, even if she was a lightweight.
With Valerie? Being able to play longer, to fill all her needs for pain, submission, and arousal…that was heady stuff.
It was way too damn easy to fall for her.
But she’d been burned in the past. He was going slow, letting her get used to being with him. To sex with a Dominant.
She was worth the slow pace.
Natalia finished cleaning her brushes and put everything away neatly. When she’d moved in with Olivia and kept this tiny apartment as an art studio, she hadn’t worried about being messy.
But now she was once again living and working here, she had to keep it tidy.
For a moment, she studied her latest painting of a marshy area by the Hillsborough River shrouded in a thick fog. The hues were a mournful blue, and the cypress trees almost gray.
The image captured her spirits perfectly. Here was loss; here was loneliness.
Her doorbell rang, and she jumped and spun around as her hopes lifted…and died. The Mistress wouldn’t be at the door.
After checking the peephole, Natalia opened the door. “Mama, what are you doing here?”
“Mija, the neighbor caught a huge tarpon when he was on a fishing charter. He gave us most of it, and I thought you’d enjoy some, too.”
Any little bit would help her budget. “I really would. Thank you.” She hugged her mother.
Her mother tucked the wrapped fish into the fridge, then sniffed the air. Despite the open windows, the turpentine scent lingered from cleaning the brushes, as did the much nicer fragrance of oil paints. “You’re still drawing, I see.”
“Of course. It’s what I do.” Even more than before since she no longer had anything better to do most evenings.
Her mother sat down, frowning at her. “I know you’d like to make a living from your art, but Natalia, you’re not being realistic. Painting isn’t a career choice—it’s a hobby.”
How many times had they had this conversation? “It’s a career to me, Mama. This is what I do and what I want to do with my life.”
“Bartolo is still willing to take you back. You’ll have a job in a nice clean office, regular hours, and he’ll give you the time and money to take accounting classes. He wants you to work for him, mija.”
“I know he does.” Natalia tried to keep her disgust out of her voice and failed. “Because he can employ family cheaper than he can get a real accountant.”
Even worse, she’d have to listen to her uncle and cousins bring out their tired homophobic jokes about lesbians and gays. Cousin Tadeo would drag in guys to hit on her in hopes of turning her straight. For her own good, of course.
“I won’t work for him. However, I am taking a couple of college classes.” She smiled brightly. “Art classes.”
“Art won’t put food on the table.”
“Eventually, it will. I believe that.” Why couldn’t her family believe in her? Because she was the youngest, so they all had to tell her what to do? Because she was too quiet to make a scene like her older sisters?
Her defiance hadn’t been a loud one. Instead, when Bartolo began pressuring her about her choices and her family deliberately interrupted her painting time, she’d simply found this apartment and moved out.
“However, I’m also working as a clerk in a beach store. It’s really fun.” She gave her mother a straight look. “Oddly enough, it pays just as much as Uncle Bartolo was paying me.”
“Natalia…”
“No, Mama. I’m sorry he’s harassing you about my choices, but they’re my choices. I’m an artist and a lesbian. I’m not going to change to make your brother happy.”
Her mother sighed tiredly. “No, you shouldn’t have to change. A child must go her own way. And a mama will worry. That is our prerogative, sí?”
Natalia laughed. “I suppose.”
“Are you still seeing Olivia?” Mama walked over to the wall, studying the paintings.
“No.” The word was a smeary black stripe across the day’s brightness. “We’re not together