He even laid out the panties he wants me to wear, which are white lace, and new, high-heeled Prada sandals—I love them.

I’m getting spoiled. I sigh and pull my straightened hair over to one shoulder as I wait for him.

Because of the plug, I’m avoiding sitting, so I’m trying really hard not to snoop around.

Really hard.

My eyes drift around the large room and focus on the art. The room’s warm lighting is almost the color of the foam on cappuccinos. All of it is unique, different. And it’s all his. My mom has never owned more than a painting or two at a time. Her decorator used to come and switch them up every couple of years.

But this art is large, vibrant. It sucks you in. Most of the paintings are oil and abstract, although he does have some charcoal nudes in the bathroom.

Taking a deep breath, I peer at his nightstand. Screw it. He’ll never know, and I want to know what makes him tick.

I walk over and look over my shoulder, which is stupid. The door is locked, and it’s just me.

A rush of adrenaline runs through me. Is this bad? It feels bad. What if I find a diary? Would I read it?

“Fuck, yes, you will,” I whisper, tugging open the drawer. I don’t know what I was expecting, but definitely not a gun.

“Holy shit.” I straighten up. It’s in a holster, but that is a gun. I swallow and lean down to look at what else he’s got. Pens, a ton of condoms, and a box.

Again, that nagging feeling sweeps over me. Is this bad? Am I crap? Because I’m completely invading his personal property. Not moving, I simply stare at it.

I should shut the drawer.

I should.

“Stop, he’s got a butt plug in your ass. You’ve earned the right to look.” Not even caring that I’m talking to myself—it soothes me—I take the velvet sapphire box out and smooth my fingers over it. It’s about the size of a small shoe box with a latch.

If this box was really important, it would be locked, I reason with myself. The snap clicks open easily.

“Shit.” I take a breath and exhale, slowly sitting down on the bed to look inside.

Sketches? Interesting. I pull out a handful. There have to be more than a hundred on all sorts of paper, in ink, crayons, and pencil, and they are… stunning.