Emerson watches.
He doesn’t jerk away, no matter how hard I hit him. He doesn’t look wounded or nervous or tired.
He looks…
Fascinated.
My heart crumples in. For one beat, I’m slammed with pure recognition. I’m hitting him. I’m hitting him, and he’s so far outside his body that he’s watching this like a movie.
No.
It’s worse than that, isn’t it?
He’s watching like all my rage is nothing but paint splashed on canvas.
My hand flies out to slap him again. This time, Emerson catches the hit in midair and pushes it down like he’s deflecting a butterfly.
“Stop.” My throat is raw from crying and swallowing screams. “Stop looking at me like that.”
“Like what?” Emerson’s so close I could lean in and kiss him. It wouldn’t take any effort at all. Instead I punch his chest again. “Little painter.”
“I’m not a painting. There is no frame.” I hurl his tone from earlier back in his face. There is no cage. Bullshit. He’s the cage, and he always has been. “If you’re going to look at me, then look. Stop pretending you’re not awful. Stop pretending to be good.”
Emerson blinks, but otherwise my words seem to have no effect. It’s not fair. Every time I look at him, I feel like running to my easel so I can paint. It feels like a tidal swell of energy. Like the thrill of stealing away into the night with him.
All my thoughts spill like wasted paint, swirling into each other until I can’t tell any of them apart. I can’t tell which comes first. The shame or the violence or the need.
Or maybe it’s all of them together. Deep enough to drown me.
They all come out through my fists. I’ll hurt him or die trying.
4
EMERSON
It shouldn’t turn me on so much to have her fight. I want her to an untenable degree. My cock throbs, the pulse so insistent it’s difficult to focus on Daphne’s eyes. They are at their most captivating, tear-filled and furious, and I can’t get enough.
I’ve never considered myself particularly kinky. Not before Daphne. She brought this out in me. I might have been satisfied by an occasional fuck with some nameless model who has a thing for money if I hadn’t met my little painter. A new part of my mind has come online. Its only responsibility is to fill my thoughts with images of Daphne.
Daphne fighting. Daphne subdued. Daphne sorry, marked by the consequences of her own actions.
And she should suffer the consequences of what she’s done.
She woke me up. Tore the coverings from my feelings. Ripped them out of sturdy protective frames and set them free. It’s more than the faint pain of an evocative piece. It’s the bloody, beating heart that refuses to be cut out, no matter how many times I try.
I want her.
I want to hold her down. I want to feel the way her body writhes as I fuck her. Again and again and again. Until she’s at her limit. Until she’s past it. I want her fists and her teeth. I want her to bite me. Mark me.
I want to do the same to her.
Daphne throws herself into me, her elbows flying, fists landing on my shoulders. The blows are too wild and her body collapses into mine. My little painter struggles against the fall, trying to get herself upright and keep going. The movement presses her against my erection.
She freezes, her eyes going wide. A doe, caught in a hunter’s sights.
“Emerson.” Daphne’s breathless. I’m at a threshold. A door cracks open and lets in a sliver of light.
“My body’s getting ready to fuck you.” I don’t move. Daphne doesn’t pull back. She doesn’t attempt to escape through the wall. She stays close. I know she feels it when my cock pulses between us. “And yours is getting ready to fuck me. You’re wet.”
“No.” It’s a lie. I can see the flicker in her eyes. Daphne Morelli is a stunning piece. Fucking breathtaking. With a playful nuance that drives me out of my mind. A dutiful daughter. A devoted sister. A humble painter. And at first she’s unassuming. You have to stand and watch, to see her in motion, in order to understand the use of color, the composition. You have to study her to see her depths. “I’m definitely not.”
“Let’s find out, little painter.” I take one hand from the wall and begin by tucking her hair behind her ear. Stroking down the side of her neck. I play with the neckline of my shirt, lifting it away so she can feel my breath on her skin. I work my way down to her elbow. To her wrist. A light squeeze of her hand, and I slide my palm up her naked thigh to her hip. Daphne trembles, her breathing shallow, and her head tips back against the wall.
“It’s not fair.” I brush my knuckles around to her belly button, then trace a path down and down and down.
“What’s not fair?” The pad of my thumb against her clit makes her shiver, but it’s just an errant brush on the way to where I’m going.
“That this feels good.”
I take her face in my free hand. With the other, I run my knuckles over the delicate skin of her inner thighs. “I know, little painter.”
“Stop looking at me like that,” she says, and spreads her legs.
She’s right. I’m a bastard. I’m an asshole. Because I keep my eyes on hers while I push my fingers into her sweet, wet flesh. It tugs a sound out of me. I expected her to be aroused. I didn’t expect her to be dripping.
I change my grip on her face. One thumb under her chin so I can hold her in place. Daphne’s doing most of the work for me, keeping her head back against the wall. She can’t help but respond to this. She likes it this way.
When I take my fingers away Daphne tries to angle her hips to follow them. She’s the picture of humiliation when I hold them up in front of her face. “Where is this from, little painter?”
She wets her lips with the tip of her tongue. My heart stops, then starts again. “It’s from me.”
“It’s from your cunt.” I add the slightest pressure to her chin. “Say it.”
Daphne goes scarlet. I could get lost in that color. I could watch her paint a study of it every day until I die. She clears her throat. “It’s from my cunt.”
I make her watch me lick it off my fingers. Daphne’s eyes flash. Anger grits her teeth. “You’re sick.”
“You taste good.”
“Because I’m your captive?”
“Because you’re sweet, little painter.”
“Don’t play games with me.”
“Fine.” I stroke my fingers between her legs again, collecting more of her slickness. “I’ll paint, then.”
I swipe her desire across her cheekbone and Daphne gasps. For a moment she really does look like a painting. Shock in oil on canvas, trapped in a frame, her own juices silvery on her skin.
And then she flies into motion. Bursts out of her canvas captivity. I brace for blows but she’s not punching, she’s crashing. Daphne throws her arms around my neck and locks her legs around my waist.
“Don’t play with me.” It’s almost a snarl, the most adorable, sweet snarl. “Don’t play games.”
I put her on her feet. Daphne resists, clinging to me until the last second. I have to peel her hands away in order to get her shirt over her head. I barely have time to discard my pants before she launches herself at me. I take her back to the wall with more force than I intended. Her head knocks against the hard surface but she bends her neck, unfazed.