Shoe Addicts Anonymous

Chapter One Sex in a box. That's what it was. Spine-tingling, heart-stopping, decadent sex in a box. Lorna Rafferty pushed the tissue aside, and the heady smell of leather filled her nostrils, sending a familiar tingle straight through her core. The feelingthis thrillnever got old, no matter how many times she went through the ritual. She touched the tightly stitched leather and smiled. She couldn't help it. This was wicked pleasure at its sensuous, tactile, hedonistic best. It made her skin prickle from head to toe. She ran her fingertips along the smooth surface, skidding over the graceful arch, like a cat stretching under the midday sun; she smiled at the sharp but satisfying prick of the spike. Yes. Yesss. This was hot. She knew it was wrong, of course. Twelve years in Catholic school hadn't been for nothing: she'd pay the price for this indulgence later. Well, hell, she'd been planning on that for years. That debt was going to have to get in line with a lot of others. In the meantime, Lorna had these peep-toe ankle-strap Delman platform sandals to comfort her. She could walk right into the fires of hell if she had to, in shoes to die for. One of the only things she could remember about her mother was her shoes. Black-and-white spectators. Little pink sandals with kitten heels. And Lorna's favorites: long, slim satin shoes, with heels like narrow art deco commas, and tiny bows at the toe that were frayed slightly at the end from the years since her wedding. If she closed her eyes, Lorna could still picture her own small feet shoved into the toes of those shoes, the heels clapping treacherously behind her as she traipsed across a faded Oriental carpet in her parents' bedroom toward the fading blur of golden hair and big smile and the waft of Caron's Fleurs de Rocaille perfume that was her memory of her mother. Of all the things she knew or remembered about her mother, and all the things she didn't remember, Lorna knew one thing for sure: clearly the love of shoes was hereditary. She took the Delmans out of the box slowly, mentally shoving away the memory of handing over her credit card and waitinglike a gambler who'd bet it all on redfor the yes or no from that faraway Credit Card Roulette Approval Commission. This time it was yes. She'd signed the slip, promising (to herself), Yes, of course I'll pay for these shoes! No problem! My next paycheck will go to these shoes), while assuming an expression of one who pays their entire balance with every statement and whose entire life couldn't be repossessed by Visa at a moment's notice. Pfffft. She'd ignored the other voice: I shouldn't be doing this, and I will make a promise, here and now, to God or anyone else that if this charge goes through, I will never ever spend money I don't have again. Best not to think about the repercussions. If pushing away uncomfortable thoughts about money burned calories, Lorna would have been a size 2. She admired the shoes in her hands for a few minutes, then put them on. Ahhh. Magic. Pleasure that, treated properly, would last a lifetime. Pleasure she'd always be ready and in the mood for. So what if she'd had to charge them? By her next paycheck, she'd be able to throw some money at her debt. Withinwhata couple of years, maybe three, possibly four at the mostand that was assuming she wasn't all that strict with her spendingthe debHarbison, Beth is the author of 'Shoe Addicts Anonymous ', published 2007 under ISBN 9780312364687 and ISBN 0312364687.