Page 78 of For a Goode Time Call…

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Then, at college and professionally, I’d often had to get up even earlier, four thirty some days.

Awful.

I stared longingly at my bed, rumpled and probably still warm. It’d be so nice to just climb back in.

But no.

No.

This was the first day of the rest of my life.

Screw Ink and his ultimatums and his rejection.

I didn’t need him.

Sure, I wanted him. Sure I needed his heat and warmth and safe arms and his…

Huge cock.

I giggled, because the thought came up, and I had an image of him, naked in the moonlight, on his back, hard and beautiful and sliding easily and silkily through my fist…

My mouth…

My sex.

Stop, stop, stop, fucking stop, Cassie.

Bad girl. Thoughts of his cock won’t help.

And he wasn’t right.

He just wasn’t…wrong either.

And, girl, it’s okay to want him, but you can’t have him right now, because you have your life to get back on track.

Which means being able to walk without a damned limp, at least. Plus a few other things.

But, baby steps first.

Before I can dance, I have to able to move smoothly. Walk. Run. Bend. Squat. Lunge.

Then I can leap and spin and roll to a handstand and to a forward somersault.

And to do any of that, I need a habit. A pattern. I need my muscle memory to kick in. Something familiar to rely on.

And my whole life, that bit of familiar has been a five a.m. wake up, followed by coffee. Then a few minutes to think and clear my head. Some stretches, some warm-ups.

I’ll start there.

For me.

Not for Ink.

It’s not for him. It has nothing to do with him, or with anything he said to me.

I’m still mad. And I have every right to be. Mostly.

I think.

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