Page 31 of A Touch of Dark
“She’s in pain.” The voice doesn’t sound like me. Broken and monotone; the drone of a sleepwalker in the midst of a nightmare. “But…”
“But what does she feel?” Damien is impatient in his prompting this time.
“She…likes it.” I hate the assessment even as it leaves my mouth. “Her mouth is open,” I find myself saying, almost to justify the reaction to myself. “She winces when struck, but she’s licking her lips. She’s not pulling away from him.”
If anything, her hips arch into every blow. When the man pauses his assault to swipe a hand through her hair, she shivers into the contact.
“She enjoys it, but she’s still afraid.”
“Why?” Every quietly uttered question reminds me that I’m not alone. He’s there, listening, sensing.
“Because she likes it too much.” The man starts to strike her again. With every lash, her entire body quakes, and her teeth capture her lower lip. I recognize the look, admittedly in a different context. “She can’t move away. Even if she wants to.”
“Oh?” His voice is even softer. “And how can you tell that?”
How? The same way I can look at his paintings and know that, despite the rumors, they aren’t part of some money-making scheme.
“Because it’s written on her face.”
A rush of cool air alludes to the door opening and a woman walks in, balancing a bottle of wine on a tray and two glasses. Without batting an eyelash, she sets the tray down on the table before the couch and pours from a bottle that I assume is twice as expensive as whatever he served me earlier.
When she leaves, I don’t wait for Damien’s say so to snatch one of the glasses for myself, and then I return to the window, bracing my free palm flat against the glass. My outstretched fingers form a frame, the man and woman trapped between them. Tiny puppets enacting a sick fantasy for the other people no doubt watching them from other private rooms.
“Do you bring all of your subjects here?” I ask the man behind me.
“No.” The word lands harshly. “I seek different things from different people.”
“And what do you seek from me?”
I already know the answer. Nothing. He merely wants me to stop pretending that I could ever see anything in his art beyond the surface. I’m a superficial bitch—how dare I believe otherwise.
“Tell me what you see,” he commands rather than answer my question. “Describe it.”
“He’s kissing her.”
I never stopped watching them. There’s no rhyme or reason to their act. No rehearsed movements or enticing grins given to their audience. It’s just them, locked in a room, forced to confront their darkest desires.
“He doesn’t want to,” I add as the man rams his tongue between the blond’s lips. “He wants more, but he’s holding back for her. To reassure her.”
“Of what?” Damien wonders.
“That…” I shy away from voicing more. This is wrong. My eyes dart to the door, but in the process, I catch sight of the man on the couch, his posture rigid, his attention focused solely on me. Reluctantly, I mutter, “That he’ll only ever give her what she wants.”
“And what does she want?” His question lands more ominously than it should. I’m his pawn being maneuvered like a piece on a gameboard. Checkmate. He seeks surrender.
As for the woman? She wants…
“Freedom,” I whisper.
She is on her back now, being herded against the pole, which provides enough stability for her to climb to her feet. The man watches, his whip at the ready. Without warning, he lashes out, striking her across the hips. She leans into the wicked caress, her eyes fixated on her partner, swollen. Begging.
My breath fogs the glass the longer I watch. In all honesty, I’ve never witnessed something like this before. Sex in its rawest, truest form. No lights. No cameras. Just lust and inhibition.
And Damien.
“My terms,” he says as the couple finally collapses against each other, panting and spent. The curtains draw together, obscuring our view until I’m faced with pure darkness. “I require discretion.”
“Of course.” I grit my teeth, feeling my lips contort into a sneer. “Because the first thing I want to do is tell my father that I’m consorting with you. He warned me that you’re a liar,” I add, merely to twist the knife. “And a criminal.”
