Page 62 of Good Girl

A switch flicks inside of her that causes her back to straighten and for a little of that confidence to return. Eyes filled with determination, she slips her hand into my own, and I close my fingers around hers, marveling at the size difference. I’m not a giant man, but she feels so small and breakable in my grasp.

I tug her to me and guide her to sit on my thigh, her perch there slightly precarious.

No need to make things too comfortable for her.

“Show me what you’ve drawn,” I instruct, wrapping my arm around her lower back so that I can lay my palm on the bare skin of her thigh.

Emmy wiggles for a moment before lowering the papers from where they are pressed against her chest. With the first glimpse of the image on top, my heart squeezes. The raw talent on the page is astounding.

I raise my free hand and hold it close to the papers. “May I?”

She looks down at her hands in her lap and silently nods, making my heart ache for her. Sharing something you created is never easy; it’s like carving a slice out of your heart and handing it over to another person, hoping they won’t rip it to shreds.

I fan out the four sheets of paper—one for each of us. The sketches are still life, with elegant line work and shading. I’m not even sure if she knows what techniques she is using, but these drawings are…

“Who taught you how to draw?” I ask as I graze my fingertips over the curve of a female’s ass, stopping where the strands of a flogger bite into her skin. A male hand holds the handle of the flogger and ends just above the forearm.

The scene is reminiscent of yesterday, but the female isn’t restrained. Her face is away from the viewer, with long dark hair flowing down to the floor over the spanking bench. Her legs are stretched up on tiptoe, ass tipped up like she is leaning into each strike while her arms hang freely.

“My art teacher in high school,” Emmy replies.

“Have you taken other lessons?”

I discover more details the more I look—stripes from previous lashes, a teddy bear discarded on the floor, the grain of the wood in the legs of the spanking bench. And a scribble of a signature in the bottom right-hand corner.

E. Nicholas.

Another clue for Xavier to exploit.

Carefully, I pick up the sheet and pass it to Derek. There is no need to ask Emmy if it is his—there isn’t anyone else it could belong to.

Emmy shrugs. “I’ve watched a few YouTube tutorials.”

My eyes connect with Derek’s as he takes the paper, and I widen my eyes at him, trying to convey my thoughts. But, fuck, I don’t even really know.

A few fucking YouTube tutorials?

Emmy is talented. Raw, unpolished, but talented.

I’m going to move heaven and earth to get her into some classes. They may not be with me, but they will be with someone I trust. Even if this thing between the five of us doesn’t work out, she deserves the chance to learn, explore, share her art with the world.

I pick up the drawing clearly meant for Hudson. Two headless bodies, one male and one female, fully clothed. Where the man has trousers on, she is wearing a short dark skirt. Her arms are pinned between them, his chest pressed to her back, and his hand is shoved beneath the waistband of her skirt, ruiningthe smooth contour. The buttons of her blouse strain, and the delicate edge of lace peeks through.

Again, there are details—the folds in the fabric, the eyelets on his leather shoes, his free hand wrapped around the column of her neck, tilting her neck back.

I offer Hudson the drawing, and he takes it, his eyes going wide as he takes in her gift to him.

A blade between two breasts, with a fine line of blood rolling down the sharpened edge, is next. There is a tiny freckle on the right breast, a quarter inch from the areola, and it's then that I know for sure the woman in these pictures is Emmy.

The blade is older in nature, with a decorative pommel. The male hand that grips it obscures the pattern around the handle, but the sections on either side of the hands indicate a circle pattern.

Carefully, I slide the page across the table toward Xavier. His face is as stoic as always while he accepts, his eyes so focused on the image, I’m fairly certain he has forgotten that we are here.

The last image is for me, and I have no idea why, but I’m finding it difficult to look at it.

Emmy has drawn the kinks of my friends perfectly. And in each and every image, she is finding pleasure. My scene has yet to happen, so besides brief discussions and seeing my ropes, she can’t have any idea if what I want will interest her.

Not one to let things linger, I turn my attention to my drawing and suck in a breath.

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