Page 100 of Frayed Bonds

I want to whine about how I’m now expected to paint when the fabric between my legs is slick with arousal. My need for him grows every second as he sits there watching me.

“Can you help me with these cans?” I ask bending down to try and open one of them.

“If you keep bending over like that, I might think about leaving you to struggle.”

“And I might think about finding a new boyfriend.” I stand up and fold my arms across my chest. I know I don’t look intimidating especially since I’m standing in front of him practically naked.

My words seem to be enough of a threat because within minutes, all the cans of paint are popped open and Ambrose is standing looming over me with a darkness in his eye that screams a lot more than lust.

He grabs my jaw, moving my face to meet his eyes. “I’m not a jealous man, Valerie, but for you, I’d burn the world. Do not threaten me with another man again,” he says before roughly letting go of my face and turning back to the chair.

Without thinking, I dip my hand into the bucket of gold paint and flick it so half of it lands on the canvas and the rest of it splatters across the back of Ambrose's crisp, white shirt. He stops in his tracks and shakes his head. “Okay sweetheart if you want to make a mess, let’s make a mess.”

He spins around and stalks towards me, and instantly I start regretting my smart-ass attitude. Grabbing the backs of my thighs he lifts me so my legs wrap around his waist as he connects our lips. They move in sync for a short while until he begins fighting for dominance. A hard smack lands on the back of my ass and leaves me gasping, giving him the prime opportunity for his warm tongue to slip into my mouth.

My hand runs up his back and into his hair, gripping it lightly. “Oh shit,” I pull back from the kiss and whisper, looking up at his hair covered in gold streaks. He looks like a Greek God and I have to stop the drool from leaving my mouth. “I’m so sorry-” and then his lips are on mine immediately, cutting my sentence short, silencing me.

Squatting down, he gently places me on the canvas. “How much weight can this thing take?” he asks frantically, his voice hoarse with need as he sits back on his haunches, working on undoing the buttons of his shirt. I reach up and help hoping to speed the process up.

“We should be good, just don't stand on the centre parts.” The words are barely cold on my lips before he is on top of me again. His hips grind into mine while we both continue with the last few buttons. They come undone quickly, revealing his near-chiselled abs and the large array of tattoos perfectly on show. They are all like miniature artworks gracing his skin, each telling a different story. The more I see of them, the more I learn not only about the tattoos but also about Ambrose himself. He breaks the kiss to toss his shirt and it gives me the perfect opportunity to gawk at the stunning man in front of me.

“Pick a colour,” he says, his voice rough with lust.

“Purple.”

His eyes scan the room before landing on the can above my head. A wicked smirk flashes across his face and he scoots back slightly before his lips drop to the hem of my panties.

My hands are immediately in his hair again, his lips start trailing wet kisses up my stomach and as he reaches the cusp of my breast he slips his hand behind my back to undo my bra swiftly. I try to push back every insecurity I’ve ever had as Ambrose's eyes nearly bulge out of his head. “Mio Dio, you’re so fucking beautiful,” he whispers against my chest like a prayer.

His lips envelop my hardened nipple causing my eyes to roll back. As he sucks down on the one, his other hand twists and flicks the other causing me to cry out in pleasure.

His kisses trail further up, grabbing both of my wrists, he pins them above my head. A coolness spreads down my hands and arms and I look up watching as Ambrose drips purple paint all down the length of my arm before his hand wraps around my throat and he grips me in place. The cool metal of his rings sears against my skin, contrasting the heat rising to my face.

“You won’t be able to remember your name, let alone the idea of another man when I’m done with you,” he says, eyes boring into mine before he connects our lips in a rough kiss.

His free hand reaches down between us, I’m completely oblivious to it until he starts to rub me through my panties, drawing out a throaty moan from me.

“You’re so wet, sweetheart, is this all for me?” He asks as his hand slips under the damp fabric. His finger makes direct contact with my clit. I frantically reach for something, anything, to grab onto to stabilise myself and accidentally tip one of the smaller cans of red over. A mixture of a moan and a groan escapes from me as I’m filled with both frustration and pleasure all at once.

His finger entering me draws my eyes back to him. “Focus on me, I asked you a question sweetheart. Is this all for me?” Another finger enters and he starts pumping at an animalistic pace.

“Mmhhh-yes. Yes,” I moan out.

“Sorry, I didn’t get that, sweetheart, who’s pussy is this?”

His thumb rubs against my clit and the friction feels heaven-sent. I grip onto his shoulders trying to pull him closer, wanting, needing more.

“Are you going to come, pretty girl?” His lips are next to my ear, gently sucking on the sensitive skin. His other hand, the one drenched in purple, grabs on my nipple and pinches. I can feel him everywhere, smell him everywhere and it's the most beautiful sensory overload I’ve ever felt in my life. I can feel the pleasure begin to build in my core as his lips lower to my neck.

“C’mon, tell me, sweetheart, who's pussy is this?”

“Yours,” I moan out as my orgasm drowns me, pulling me under like a wave. Ambrose's fingers draw out the intense feeling until they slowly come to a stop, allowing me to come back down to Earth. I lay spent on the canvas and it isn't until I feel the canvas dip that I look up and notice Ambrose standing to remove his belt.

“Can I do it?” I ask, looking up at him. He stops his actions and nods. I look around and dip a stray brush in the teal, slowly I drag it across the canvas until I’m kneeling in front of him. “Sorry about your Prada suit.” I fake a pout and smear the remainder of the purple paint on my hands all over his pants, grazing them up his legs until I reach the waistband. The thick print of his cock straining against the stiff fabric makes me shift nervously in my spot.

“It’s Armani, but close enough, sweetheart.”

I fiddle with the button and zipper but eventually manage to undo them and tug his pants down, as I reach for the waistband of his underwear he stops me.

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