Today, Florin was going to paint me nude.
The last time he’d asked me to visit his studio had been a gentle introduction to his world. He asked me to get comfortable with his studio, so I could be in my “most natural self” when he painted me.
His studio was eclectic and beautiful, with massive French windows that let light stream in from every angle. We’d talked for hours about art, about pottery, about the creative process. We talked and talked until talking turned into touching, and then we made love on the mattress where his models posed. Five times. Each time more intense than the last.
Sex with Florin was passionate and maddening. He knew how to pleasure a woman in ways that didn’t even seem possible—his mouth, his hands, his entire body dedicated to my pleasure. Just thinking about it now made my panties wet.
Since that first studio visit, Florin had spent every day with me. He’d spoiled me with shopping sprees at the most exclusive boutiques—Chanel, Dior, Hermès. He’d taken me to places I’d only dreamed about: private viewings at the Musée d’Orsay after hours and champagne picnics on the grounds of Versailles.
But today—what today held, I had no idea.
I was wearing only a Versace robe dress, and underneath, the most expensive black lingerie Florin had bought me. La Perla, he’d said. The best.
Butterflies danced in my stomach.
I couldn’t believe I was the world’s most sought-after artist’s muse. What would today bring?
How exciting could life become?
I thought of Mark. I thought about his lie woven just so he could sleep with Simone. And instead of feeling hurt, I felt a twisted sense of gratitude. Thank you, I thought sarcastically, for the best idea you ever had—opening up our marriage.
The studio was warm, late afternoon sun pouring through those massive windows.
In the center of the room, Florin had arranged satin sheets and pillows in deep reds and purples. They spilled across the floor like liquid luxury.
I stood on the sheets in my robe, nervous but also feeling something else. Something powerful.
Right now, I wasn’t a wife. I wasn’t a mom. I wasn’t the woman who made lunches and drove carpools and managed PTA fundraisers.
I was just Amelia.
A woman whose body had borne two children. A woman with curves and stretch marks and soft places. A woman who was not perfect, but who was being celebrated for all her imperfections by a man who wanted to worship her.
This young, beautiful, artistic man who could have any woman in the world, but who saw something in me that no one else did.
Florin emerged from behind his canvas, wearing paint-stained jeans and a white linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up. His hair was tied back in that slick ponytail that made his face look even more sculpted.
“Amelia,” he said softly. “Are you ready?” I blushed, and nodded. “Amelia, I want to capture you in your sensuousness. In all your femininity.”
He paused, his gray-blue eyes intense. “You mentioned that day at the grocery store that you like it rough. That you like when your husband dominates you.Is that true?”
I nodded again, heat flooding my face.
Florin’s stare was enough to capture me completely. I suddenly wanted to be dominated by him with an intensity that made my knees weak.
“So today,” Florin said, his voice dropping to that commanding register, “I’m your master. You’ll do what you’re ordered to do. Is that understood?”
“Yes,” I whispered.
My panties were completely soaked.
“Take off your robe.”
I obeyed, my hands trembling slightly as I untied the belt. The red silk slipped from my shoulders and pooled at my feet, becoming one with the satin covers and pillows on the floor.
I stood there in my black La Perla bra and panties, Florin looking at me intently from across the room. The silence between us was charged with anticipation.
Slowly, Florin walked toward me, each step deliberate. When he stopped just inches from my face, my knees started trembling.
