Page 28 of Knot Just for Show

“Sorry! Sorry!” I bluster—hands already rattling at the doorknob.

Roxy lays a hand over my jittery fingers and forces me to a stop, looking down at me with those striking mauve eyes.

“Girl, take some deep breaths—you may have signed up for more than you bargained for…but, it also might be in the best way possible.”

Chapter Ten

Ursula

Hazy yellow light filters in through the floor to ceiling windows of the laundromat—the translucent, mustard, plastic roman blinds making deep ochre scores of light across the far wall of gleaming front-load dryers, the scent of detergent thick in the air.

I’m sitting on top of one of the tall metal washers—its coin tray screwed shut, a softly glowing screen blinking with symbols I can’t seem to make out.

Vaguely, I become aware of a body moving toward me—hands gently running over my denim-clad kneecaps, hips eddying into the open space between my open legs so that I can’t get down from my place atop the washer—the quiet whooshing of the water filling its large tub running beneath me.

Ronan, his face already pressed against my neck and out of view, lets his hands creep up the outside of my thighs, the worn cotton of his t-shirt and the skin of his toned arms honey golden in the greasy yellow light from the windows, the overhead lamps with their chipping, celluloid shades.

His fingers find the hem of my sweater and my eyes dart to the door—the sign flipped to ‘CLOSED’.

Ronan lifts my sweater until the soft angora neckline covers my eyes—my arms tangled in the fuzzy softness—a makeshift blindfold.

Eager, greedy—his hands find my breasts—his lips press against my clavicle—then purse around a nipple as he lays my back against the wall, my legs still dangling over the edge of the dryer.

“Ronan,” I sigh contentedly as the washer begins to shudder gently beneath me.

“I need you. Right now,” he rumbles, his hands working the brown leather braid of my belt—unbuttoning my jeans.

I don’t have time to worry about my soft belly—or the gentle pink and lavender traceries of my stretch marks; I can hear Ronan already fumbling with his own belt buckle as my slick pussy pulses—exposed.

I gasp as I feel the pressure of him against me. I moan as he enters me—my breath hitching as his knot presses gently against my slick lips—my throbbing clit.

Just when I think I’m going to completely lose my mind—I’m somewhere else; the honey gold of the Coin-Laundry and Ronan long gone.

I’m standing alone in front of a seemingly endless white wall; crisp, bright light projected at a sofa-sized canvas daubed with paint in different shades of red and orange hanging directly before me.

I pant, surprisingly out of breath.

Did I…? Did I just blank out? Where am I?

The Gallery, my mind supplies—as if it should be obvious. All questions about who’s gallery—where it is, when I got here; it all fizzles into nothingness—the rightness of my being here settles down around me as a pair of arms wreath my waist from behind.

Though I’d usually protest such a thing—my companion’s hands gently run over the soft curve of my stomach—his fingers gliding over the satin of my dress; his hands warm and gentle against me.

“Beautiful,” Lysander’s voice murmurs from just behind me, his lips pressing to the round of my shoulder—then the side of my neck.

“I don’t know…” I tilt my head to the side—to get a different perspective, but also to allow Lysander unfettered access to my throat, the soft curve of my jaw. “I just might not be a modern art person,” I sigh, my voice trailing off as Lysander’s hands slip gingerly across the cool satin draped across the curve of my hips—his hardness pressed against the cleft of my ass as he presses closer against me.

“I wasn’t talking about the painting,” he purrs. Then stars crowd my vision as his hands begin to move slow and languid beneath the loosely draped bodice of my dress.

Before I know it, my face is pressed against the white eggshell paint—my nose practically against the edge of the massiveabstract painting—my skirt hiked around my waist, Lysander’s face buried in my hair, as he fucks me against the wall.

Suddenly the room kicks off sideways, my vision spinning and splitting—as if I were looking through an old red plastic view master—clicking the shutter lever down on one scene, the little film disc flipping to the next image as my vision begins to clear.

No longer cheek to cheek with a gallery wall, I am seated before a small round table—crisp white linen draping its modest surface.

In my hand is a small fork—an empty plate still smeared with traces of a glossy purple sauce, stares back at me.

“How was it?” Mavren’s voice rolls, sweet and sonorous across my skin, and I can’t help but shiver.

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