Page 12 of The Art of Obsession
One leather-clad finger lifts my chin, drawing my eyes deeper into the mask. My lower lip trembles with fear and a misplaced lust from the memory of him kissing me.
“What now?” I glare. “If you’re going to have your way with me, just get it over with, so all this can be done.”
He tilts his head, the edges of the mask shifting, betraying his amusement. “Oh, sweet Everleigh. Do you think I’d waste our first night together in a place as uninspired as this?” I hold my breath until he continues, “When I have my way with you, it will be in a setting worthy of the masterpiece you are. But…” He trails the finger along my jawline before tapping my nose as if scolding a child. “You disrespected my work, and there must be a cost. Ruining my art demands correction, discipline. Beauty must be shaped, after all.”
My blood runs cold. What does he mean? Discipline.
Before I can ponder more, he takes my hand. My spine prickles, needling me with the sense that this is a test. If I try to bolt or fight, that strong hand will do far more. My heartbeat picks up as my mind wars over the options, the risks. But I can’t escape.
Until I know what this correction is, I resist the urge to fight or flee. Instead, I follow him into the sitting room. The nude sketches are still scattered on the table, and I wince, remembering how I woke up with him fingering me, my mind in a haze.
The haze is clearing, bringing a heightened awareness until I notice another sensation…far more uncomfortable…coming from my overloaded bladder.
He pauses before the sofa.
I flick my eyes to those glinting pupils in the black expanse of his eyes. “Are you going to bend me over the couch and spank me?”
“How adorably delicious are your thoughts, Little Quill.” I pale, but he moves on quickly, “To answer your question, no, my punishment plans do not include your bottom…tonight. At least not in that manner.”
He retrieves something from his coat pocket. My breath hitches at the gold quill pen. A knot gets stuck in my throat as I soak in the sight. French Victorian Edwardian. Fully hallmarked on its feather curve end.
“Th-that’s a…five thousand dollar quill.”
I’m clenching, Evie. Fucking clenching!
I ignore Cherry as my stalker says, “Good. You will be eager to use it for its intended purpose.” I hold his gaze as he gestures to the couch and my leather journal I dropped earlier. “You will open your book and write the phrase “I will not destroy Master’s art” one hundred times or until you come.”
“Until Iwhat?!”
He captures my chin again, voice gravelly, “Art may be messy at times, but rest assured, I always take great pains to care for my work. Since you will be working hard for some time with the crackling fireplace, I insist you must not overheat in such stifling clothes.”
My eyes go wide, and I freeze at the touch of his fingers at the buttons on my skirt. “You have some sort of teacher-on-student fantasy?”
He snickers, undoing the first two buttons.
You said it this time.Cherry blows a raspberry.Not me. And you’re more fucked up than
me right now.
Why?
Because he’s almost down to the last button. And you’re not moving.
Shit. As soon as his hand collides with my underwear, I jerk. His whole mask seems to harden. I choke when he firmly grips my skirt and yanks me forward until I can feel his massive hard-on through his pants.
“The time for escape is over, Everleigh,” he reminds me through gritted teeth.
“It’s not…I mean…I have to go to the bathroom.”
“How fitting. This will be a fair test for me to appraise how well you respond to my command…and my attentions.”
He’s not going to let me pee? A deep flush spreads through my cheeks and lower, but he drops my skirt before I can process, pooling it around my feet. I clench my eyes shut, rubbing my thighs together, utterly mortified by how I’m squeezing my inner muscles, making me more aware of my bladder.
He starts on my shirt. I put up a weak protest, squeezing my arms together at first. But all it takes are those vampire-like eyes narrowing, piercing, for me to surrender.
“Such a sweet girl,” he commends me, seducing me. Every molecule of my blood is burning, overheating my center. “Such a lovely frame. Somewhere between petite and slender, your contours and angles are an artist’s wet dream. Your skin is the purest alabaster waiting to be carved and cut by my hand. The delicate curve of your collarbone, the subtle dip of your waist,the soft planes of your stomach—all perfectly balanced, like the strokes of a master’s brush. Fragile yet elegant.”
I shiver as he clutches my hips, black gloves against white skin. I try not to dwell on the carving and cutting reference. Or my body tingling.
