Page 40 of Painter's Obsession

“I’m not feeling too well,” she says, lifting the cup of Moscato to her lips. The faint clink of the glass against her teeth draws my gaze to her mouth. She takes a slow sip, the sweet liquid coating her lips, before setting the glass down with trembling fingers. “I think I need some sleep.”

“Maybe I can help,” I say, taking a deliberate sip of my scotch. The amber liquid burns pleasantly down my throat, grounding me in the moment. I push back my chair and stand, my footsteps deliberate as I close the space between us. My hands grip the wooden back of her chair, fingers pressing into the smooth grain as I pull it back, the scrape of its legs against the floor like a whispered warning. I kneel in front of her, placing myself just within her line of vision.

“I’m helping you relax. Pressure points on your feet are the best to stimulate,” I say, my voice steady as I grab one heeledfoot, slipping the black stiletto free. Her golden skin radiates warmth under my touch as I begin to rub, my thumbs pressing into the arch of her foot. I wish it were covered in crimson, slick with her life. Red has always been my color.

“Fuck, Ren,” she breathes, her body falling limp against the chair. Her black skirt rides higher, revealing a sliver of pink lace panties. Blood rushes south, thick and insistent, but I hold back. Not yet.

I continue to knead her foot, the white polish of her nails contrasting perfectly against her skin. My eyes flick up to her face. “Tell me about your childhood?” I ask, needing every crack in her armor—every detail that will help me destroy Byron.

Her brows knit together as she struggles to form coherent words, the sedative already dulling her thoughts. “I don’t know... it was pretty...” Her voice trails off, a soft groan slipping from her lips as I apply slight pressure to the sole of her foot.

The silk of her blouse shifts as she moves, exposing the curve of her breast. She squirms lightly in the chair, as though trying to fight off the pull of the drug.

“It was pretty?” I prod, leaning down to place a kiss on her white-tipped toes.

“It was okay for me,” she breathes, her voice faint. “We struggled financially.” She pauses, her lips parting as if searching for words. “But Byron had it harder.”

Her hand moves weakly to her forehead, an almost unconscious attempt to ground herself. My hand travels up her leg, fingers brushing against her soft inner thigh.

“Byron,” I murmur, his name slipping from my lips like a prayer or a curse. Thoughtless. Consumed. He’s everything I want to destroy, and everything I crave.

But she doesn’t notice. She’s too far gone now, slipping under, her body pliant beneath my touch.

“He didn’t get along with Dad,” she whispers, a faint moan breaking through as my fingers graze the damp fabric of her panties.

“So wet, baby,” I say, my voice low and deliberate. My eyes catch her glassy gaze, the pupils dilated as the sedative drags her deeper into submission. “Tell me more.”

“Mom died,” she breathes, the words catching on her lips. “Dad was harder on Byron.”

My thumb circles her clit, applying pressure as I slide a second finger inside her. Her body arches, her heat tightening around me with every motion.

“Is that so?” I ask, my tone deceptively soft. “Did he hit Byron?”

She nods weakly, her breath hitching as I curl my fingers inside her, coaxing her body into further submission.

“How about you?”

She shakes her head, her movements sluggish, her lips trembling as she moans. “Only...” She gasps, her back arching further, her cunt tightening greedily around my fingers. “Only Byron.”

“Fuck, can we stop?” she whimpers, her voice barely audible.

“Stop this?” I ask, leaning into her as I grab her plump bottom lip between my teeth. My other hand moves to my pocket—showtime. I click the button that activates the feed to his screen. Pulling away from her lips, I trail my mouth down her neck, savoring the warmth of her skin. Her head drops back against the chair as the sedative pulls her deeper into slumber.

She’s mine, just as her brother is.

My Thorn and my Rose.

I pull my turtleneck over my head, the fabric slipping free in one fluid motion. Glancing over my shoulder, I lock eyes with the camera and wink. I want him to see, to understand.

Returning my attention to the needy cunt in front of me, I unbuckle my belt and toss it aside. Her limp body is easy to manipulate as I guide her off the chair, bending her over the edge of the table. Her pencil skirt hikes up as I position her, exposing the plump curve of her ass. From my pocket, I pull out a condom.

Breeding her would be tempting, but the last thing I need is her questioning my honesty—or the mess of my cum leaking from her. No, everything must remain precise, controlled.

Her head turns to the side, her cheek pressing against the cool surface of the table. I’ll spare him the sight of her fully exposed body, but he can see mine. That’s enough for now.

I finish removing my pants, letting them fall to the floor. Using my teeth, I rip open the foil and roll the goatskin condom down my length, my eyes flicking back to the camera.

I wave, a slow, deliberate motion.All eyes on me.

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