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As I began to read the artists, I quickly saw the CDs were in alphabetical order. Her organization was unexpected, and I chuckled to myself. Justine used to say I was neurotic for doing similar sorts of things when we were growing up. I made a mental note to tell her I wasn’t an oddity.

I glanced over my shoulder at the rest of the room, looking to see if Krystina had anything else in order, like the CDs. There were a few books on the antique white wooden desk in the corner, but other than those, there wasn’t anything that needed to be cataloged quite so precisely. However, everything about the room was neatly arranged.

The furnishings were older in style, giving the room a tastefully done vintage appeal. There were no clothes strewn about, showing Krystina had an appreciation for tidiness. Quotations written in black calligraphy were framed and hung cleverly around the room.

I stood and moved closer to the wall to read what some of them said. Krystina appeared to have a fondness for Maya Angelou. Every frame was filled with words by the poet, most of them being about strength, perseverance, and determination.

That’s an interesting piece of info I’ll have to remember for later.

Closing the door behind me with a quiet click, I left the bedroom and made my way into the kitchen. I knew Krystina would feel like garbage when she woke, so I began searching her kitchen cabinets with the hope of finding some ingredients to ease her morning pain.

I was pleased to find the kitchen fully stocked, showing me at least one of the women in the apartment liked to cook. The cupboards were well organized, with all the food labels facing front. I smiled to myself and was curious about which roommate was so meticulous. But then I recalled Krystina’s CD collection and immediately knew anyone who would go through the painstaking task of alphabetizing hundreds of CDs would surely strive for an efficient kitchen.

After collecting everything I needed, I filled the teakettle and set it on the stovetop. While I was waiting for the water to boil, I wandered around the apartment. I needed to learn more about the many layers that made up Krystina, and an individual’s personal space told a story. Her bedroom had only been the prologue.

The apartment was big by New York standards. And like her room, it was stylishly done, in an eclectic sort of way. Overstuffed furniture filled the main living space, the kind a person could just sink into and fall asleep. There was no formal dining room but rather a spacious breakfast nook in the kitchen and a large island with four bar stools on one side. The windows throughout the apartment bore no curtains, but it wasn’t necessary. The bamboo roman blinds would give all the privacy needed when they were fully closed.

Overall, the two women maintained a tidy space, with feminine touches throughout that gave the apartment a cheerful, lived-in look. The only things lying about were a few magazines, and a book set neatly on the coffee table. Curious, I went over to the table to retrieve the book.

Hmm…James Patterson.

Crime and mystery were a far cry from inspirational poems, and I wondered if the book belonged to Krystina or her roommate. I glanced down at the magazines underneath the novel. The top one looked like a woman’s gossip rag, the cover advertising the hottest male celebrities of the year and an article on how to get your man to commit. I pinched my face in disgust.

If I were a betting man, I’d wager the magazines did not belong to Krystina.

I placed the book down just as the kettle began to whistle. I hurried back into the kitchen before the noise could wake the sleeping beauty. I finished preparing the hangover remedy in no time, collected the remaining things she would need, and went back into her room to leave it where she would see it in the morning. The drink would be cold by the time she got to it, but it would still do the trick.

After placing the steaming mug on the nightstand, I glanced down at Krystina. She was still sleeping soundly under the lily-white comforter. I took a step closer and reached down to brush away a thin lock of hair that had fallen over her face. She hummed at my touch, and her dark lashes fluttered, but she didn’t fully stir. I slowly pulled my hand away, not wanting to wake her, and took a step back.

“Goodnight, Krystina. My angel,” I whispered.

I had driven the Tesla to Krystina’s place, but I decided to leave it on the street and retrieve it in the morning. I needed to walk, and I could only pray the crisp night air would help me clear my head.

The light at the corner of Thompson and Bleecker Street changed, signaling it wasn’t safe to cross. There was little traffic on the road, and I crossed despite the flashing red hand. Following pedestrian rules just seemed moot at this time of night. Not to mention I was too tired to really give a damn.

As I crossed over to the street that would take me into Manhattan, I thought about the past week. I analyzed every minute spent with Krystina, carefully going through it all like I was deciphering a playbook. There were too many uncertainties, and I had to put it all in order where it belonged.

Krystina had been throwing curveballs at me since day one. And while I may have struck out on a few, I had been able to grasp my mistakes and change tactics accordingly.

At least until tonight.

It was no longer Krystina who was taking me by surprise but myself. The rules in my own game had become blurred lines.

It didn’t seem possible that just a few hours earlier, I had Krystina’s ass in the air, beautiful and rosy pink from my hand. She had been arching and gasping, ready to lose her mind at the slightest touch. But I hadn’t taken her. Normally, my rationale would have been that every sub had to start somewhere. I’d been with new subs before. Some of them worked out well, but some only liked the idea of being dominated and failed miserably when trying to get their feet wet.

Tonight, Krystina had been willing. I’d seen it in her eyes. Definitely submissive, despite the way she held her guard and fought tooth and nail over every little thing. It had taken every ounce of willpower I’d possessed to push her away. My opportunity to teach her had been there, but it had seemed wrong. Somewhere along the line, I realized I didn’t want Krystina just to test the waters. I wanted her all in—completely and without any regrets. And not just for a one or two-night fling—I wanted it to be a regular thing.

However, after seeing the meticulous organization of her apartment, my reservations about whether or not we could be a feasible match grew even more. It appeared Krystina liked order and control almost as much as I did. I may succeed in uncovering her submissive side, but I wasn’t confident she could surrender complete control. This was a significant concern, and I wondered if she could trust me enough to let go.

She has to.

There could be no debate about it. For the longer I knew her, the more I found myself compromising my ideals to accommodate her, and there was very little left for me to give. I was capable of a compromise now and then, but I wasn’t able to relinquish total control. Doing so could be disastrous.

Maintaining restraint was an absolute necessity, as I could not allow myself that sort of vulnerability. The blood running through my veins didn’t leave me any other option.

Because, even in her drunken stupor, Krystina didn’t know how right she was.

She truly is an angel, and I am the devil.