“Sit.” Arrick pushes me down on the long mink-colored fabric couch and then scoops down to unbuckle my shoes. I sink obediently, lifting cold, aching legs as warm hands encircle my ankles, and he slides down to rest himself on his thighs. Lifting one foot at a time onto his knee, he unlatches me from my self-inflicted restraints and sets my burning feet free.

I swear I love my shoes, but sometimes they kill me. Whoever said fashion isn’t pain is a liar. He takes my shoes and ...