Page 82 of The Art of Obsession
I scowl, throwing an arm over my face to block him out. “It wasn’t poetic. It was humiliating. Impure. I hid it from my parents. But I never lived it down. I saw the looks when I was with them or walking down the halls, even singing in the sanctuary. I was always the “shunned” girl who turned the holy water red with her disgusting period.”
Cal pauses. His hand leaves my heel, and the next thing I know, he’s gripping my chin. “Time to open your eyes, Everleigh.”
I whimper and shake my head. “I can’t.”
“Must I remind you of your treasured intestines?”
Oh, god. My face flushes more.
Evie, he just painted your toenails red with your essence. At this point, dignity is overrated. Open those peepers!
Somehow, some way, I work up the strength to slowly blink my eyes open and meet his eyes. And despite the ever-presentcarnal glints, the darkness surrounding them is velvety and deep.
“Everleigh Elizabeth Lennox. There is nothing disgusting about you, your body, or your blood.
I blink up at him, the heat of embarrassment still simmering in my cheeks, but his gaze doesn’t waver. His fingers brush a stray lock of hair from my face, leaving a faint smear of crimson on my temple.
“That moment during your baptism?” he continues, his lips quirking into a wry smile. “An ill-timed, fucked-up prank of the universe, sure. But it was natural. It was your body doing what it’s meant to do. You were mortified, but the truth is, it was a reminder of your power. Your blood isn’t a curse; it’s life itself.”
I open my mouth to argue, but he silences me with a daggered look, leaning back to gesture toward me. “Do you even know what your blood contains? Nitrogen, phosphorus, potassium—the holy trinity of nutrients. The same ones you’ll find in those overpriced bags of fertilizer at the store. It’s why your menstrual fluid can be used to grow plants. Your body doesn’t just sustain you; it can nourish the earth itself. That’s not disgusting, Everleigh. That’s miraculous.”
Did he just turn your period into poetry? I think my uterus just swooned.
I stare at Cal, my mind spinning. “You’re saying my period is…miraculous?”
He smirks, a flicker of mischief returning to his eyes. “I’m sayingyou’remiraculous. And your blood? It’s just one more part of the masterpiece,mymasterpiece.”
I fixate on the ceiling, not wanting to look down yet. My skin tingles from the strokes of the paintbrush. Another deep pang throbs inside me, but my insides seem to grow hotter.
Before I can respond, he reaches into the nightstand drawer and pulls out a small handheld mirror. “Now, look.” I hesitate, but he coaxes me with a soft, “Trust me, sweet girl.”
Come on, sweetie. He just painted you like one of his “bloody” French girls. You know you wanna see it.
My breath hitches as I flick my eyes down.
Vines and roses, painted in shades of red and deep crimson, twirl across my thighs, my stomach, and my hips. The details are so intricate, so impossibly delicate. I almost forget about the medium he’d used. The roses bloom with life, and the vines stretch toward the edges of my skin as if they are growing in real time.
He transformed my breasts into roses with petals curling out ever so slightly with my nipples like the rosy buds. He even traced the outline of the anatomical heart carved into my chest.
“Cal…” My voice breaks.
He releases the cuffs, then seizes my wrist, and curves my one finger to the bloody artwork. “Touch yourself. Touch my creation, Everleigh Lennox.”
Fresh tears roll down my cheeks, but they are different. They feel healing as I trace a trembling finger over one of the roses.
“You’re art, Everleigh,” Cal murmurs, his voice like a brushstroke. “Every part of you. Even the parts you’ve been taught to hide or hate.”
I swallow hard, my throat tight with emotion. “It’s beautiful,” I whisper.
“You’re beautiful,” he corrects, leaning closer, his lips brushing the shell of my ear. “And don’t you ever forget it. Or…your intestines.”
Cal steals my breath when he stabs three fingers inside me, furiously rubs my clit, and sucks my breast, tonguing the nipple. The orgasm rips through me like a fierce wave, and as it crashes over me, I imagine the wave is made of my blood.
I’m still coming when he buries himself inside me, spearing me with his thick cock. After a hard fucking, he settles in for a slow one, thrusting deeply. The whole time, he traces his tongue along every vine and rose until he arrives at my center and licks me into oblivion. When he fills me again, unleashing his cum in me, the memory of what Cherry said returns to me. Too overwhelming to process right now.
That’s some next-level villain romance breeding kink…
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