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watching his 42-inch flat-screen, a plush chenille throw in a creamy white draped over his sofa for when he really wanted to get cosy. He was comfortable with his apartment. Most importantly, he wasn’t swarmed by memories every time he walked through the door. He’d left all visible reminders at the brownstone.
    Well, not every single one. The photo albums Marianne had made for him were in the bookcase. Albeit on the lowest shelf in the farthest corner, where he really had to make a point of looking to see them, but they were there nonetheless. Tonight, they felt like a magnet. Drawing him. Taunting him. Daring him to walk the path of memory. Something he definitely wanted to avoid.
    Which was where the whiskey came in. It was supposed to be dulling the ache. It wasn’t helping and he was growing increasingly frustrated. He didn’t want to think about Marianne tonight and he definitely didn’t want to think about Her. The whiskey was supposed to drive all thoughts from his brain. It was his go-to solution on days like today, where everything was too raw, too close to the surface.
    He wasn’t an alcoholic, though it had been touch and go there after Marianne had passed. In fact, he rarely drank at all any more; he generally didn’t need it. The loneliness had sunk into his marrow, altering his DNA so that it was just a part of him now and not something to dwell on.
    Tonight, though, all he saw was her, Claire Ryan. He should have let her leave, then he wouldn’t know her name, the fact that she lived five blocks down the street, was 5’ 3” tall, weighed 115 pounds and had opted to be an organ donor. Damn driver’s license. If he’d let her go, she just be another nameless customer who might or might not walk back through his door. But what she wouldn’t be was this persistent itch under his skin.
    He never lost his temper. He prided himself on his restraint and discipline. It had been essential in the military and it had been even more so in his relationship, but he’d behaved like a complete ass tonight. It was bad enough his body had forgotten he was a grown man and not a teenager who’d never seen tits before, but to literally be standing there dripping simply because she called him sir, unintentionally at that, was too much to deal with. It had been so long since he’d had any kind of release he’d almost forgotten what an erection felt like, but clearly his body was waking up and it was damned unwelcome.
    Blowing out a hard breath, Evan got up, pulled the red leather album from the shelf, and brought it back to the couch. Marianne had been a secret crafter; she didn’t make a production out of it, but she loved to hand-make gifts for people. This particular album was one she’d taken special care with. It was her gift to him on the first anniversary of her submission to him.
    The photos were artistic and highly erotic. She’d taken the vast majority of them by herself, posing for various shots in the ways he demanded when they were together. He’d loved for her to be corseted and on her knees waiting for him, her head bowed. She’d captured that moment perfectly. Another favourite was watching her masturbate. He’d be close enough to smell her arousal as she fingered herself or went to town with a dildo. Each one of those moments was captured in black and white, giving them a haunted mystery that was so reflective of Marianne in the depths of her submission.
    She was a joyous, vivacious woman, with an open smile and an infectious laugh, but when she submitted to him, it was as if all the deep recesses of her soul poured out and she offered up to him her fears, her inhibitions, and her unwavering faith. The only photos of her smiling were the ones that showed Evan penetrating her. She always smiled when he was inside her. The contrast between the two sets of photos was always startling. It was as if his possession of her provided her what she needed to embrace the totality of her heart. He’d