Page 69 of The Blue Rose
“This is your punishment for kicking me earlier.”
My punishment for kicking him?He wants my body to go into shock from coming back-to-back. I wouldn't call that a punishment, but as my body bows even more, the pain of coming undone mixed with the unrelenting pleasure is too much. I agree, this is a punishment, but I love it.
After he sucks every last drop, he doesn’t give me time to move before he thrusts his cock hard and deep, making me yelp from the sudden intrusion. I’m wet and sore, my muscles weak and numb, but him filling me is exactly what my body craves.
My pussy clenches around him, pulling him deeper with every thrust. My breath catches in my chest, my eyes shutting closed.
“Fuck! You’re so tight and wet. I’m balls deep, and your pussy is so greedy it wants more,” he groans.
His thrusts quicken, and I wrap my legs around him, grabbing his ass with both hands and pushing him further in. He palms my ass, lifting me slightly, and hitting a spot deep within me, making me see stars. I move my hips, matching his momentum. He leans down and bites my neck hard enough I know he’s leaving his mark, and I do the same. Piercing his throat, he comes undone inside me, hitting just right, and I come for the third time.
He rolls off me, laying on his back and breathing hard. I turn to look at him trying to catch my breath as well. He rests hishand on his head, staring at me. “You look beautiful, especially with our paint mixed all over your body.”
“You don’t look so bad yourself. We made paint magic.” I say, propping my head up on my hand. “How about we take a shower? Then I have something I want to show you.”
“Oh, yeah?” he asks, wiggling his eyebrows at me?
“Not like that!” I playfully slap his chest.
“Are you going to tell me a secret, little vixen?”
I bite my lip and look away. “Actually… yeah.”
He sits up. “Really?
I look back at him shyly. “Yeah, so let's take a quick shower before I chicken out.”
He lifts me in his arms and takes us to my shower, turning it on and stepping in. I watch as the colors swirl down the drain, getting hypnotized by how they all blend seamlessly. The last color to disappear down the drain is the red, and it makes me think of my paintings and what I am about to show him.I was going to paint him an example first, but he distracted me with his beautiful cock.Guess I’m skipping right to showing him my nightmares.
Finally clean, we make our way back to my studio. I stop in front of the closet I keep my paintings in. Taking a deep breath, hand shaking as I turn the knob.
Aster stands behind me, his eyes showing no emotion, not even curiosity laces his features. I fidget with the paintings before I pull out a couple, making sure the image is turned towards me. “Turn around and close your eyes.”
He obeys instantly, and I grab the rest of the paintings, even the blue rose one, and display them all side by side, on the floor, leaning against the wall. I take a deep breath, calming my nerves. “Okay, you can turn around.”
I hold my breath as I watch him take in my paintings. He observes each of them, something like recognition crossinghis features. He moves down the line, stopping to touch one painting. It's of a faceless man over a faceless woman, her body painted and holding a blue rose on her stomach. A lot of my paintings, not all, look like that one, each faceless woman has a different painted outfit on, all holding a blue rose. Some of the paintings are more gruesome, in some the faceless man is torturing the woman.
If anyone were to see these they would think of the Morbid Monet, if they knew who he was. How it is painted is how he lays his victims. Where they’re painted isn’t where they’re found though, but still eerily similar. Since these paintings began, I always felt connected to the Morbid Monet. That’s why I’m so obsessed with him and keep every news article about him.There’s no way I’m actually dreaming of his actual kills.
He gets to the blue rose painting and starts counting every rose in the lineup. He looks at me, his eyes blazing with shock and awe.
“These are my paintings I’ve never shown anyone, not even Jessica,” I say, playing with my hands. He turns his head silently asking a question. “When I have a nightmare, well, I don’t think of them as nightmares. I’m fascinated by them, a whole scene plays in my head, like I’m watching the scene play out in front of me. Every time I have a dream I feel compelled to bring it to life and paint it.”
I can’t look him in the eye,he's not talking. Why isn’t he talking?
“I started painting these when I was fourteen years old, I don’t know why, but part of me loves that they happen. Look,” I say, walking over and pointing down at one of the girls. “Isn’t she beautiful? You can’t see her face but look how her body lays there. There is just something sobeautifulabout it.” I point to her chest where her heart is. “Look here, you can see the red like she has a bleeding heart. Makes me wonder if her love forthe faceless man is what made that happen…” I mumble more to myself than to him.
He grabs my hand gently, but firmly, tugging me through the house. “Come with me.”
Is that seriously all he has to say? Why isn’t he asking me any questions? Why has he been silent?He was staring and touching the paintings like he was transfixed by them, so he should saysomething.
“Where are we going?” I ask as he grabs my keys and walks us out the door.
“It’s my turn to tell you a secret.” he says, not looking at me, but ahead and walking with purpose.
I look up at him, mouth parted, and a shocked face. He places me in the passenger side of my car, then peels out of my drive to wherever his secret is.
TWENTY-FOUR
