Page 42 of The Art of Obsession
Cherry’s voice breaks the silence.You know, if you’re not careful, you might actually start to appreciate this.
I shoot her a glare, though it lacks real heat.More like restraining-order worthy.
Her lips twitch into a mischievous smile.Good luck with that. I’ll just be over here, admiring the view. And by ‘view,’ I mean that bed. You should try it out. Looks comfy.
She flits away, makes a show of fainting on the bed, and starts touching herself…no doubt masturbating to Acheron again.
I ignore her—and ignore the heat flooding my system—and move to the bookshelves. Each tome feels like a secret, a story waiting to be uncovered. Curiosity flickers like a small ember I can’t extinguish.
From somewhere beyond the one-way glass, I know he’s watching. I can feel his gaze like a weight on my shoulders, heavy and possessive. I can almost hear his smug voice in my head.Look at her, my Little Quill, taking it all in. Exactly as I knew she would.
I hate him for being right. I hate him for knowing me so well. But most of all, I hate that a part of me—however small—feels a twisted sense of gratitude for the care and thought that went into this room.
“This isn’t over,” I mutter, more to myself than to Cherry.
She chuckles, her wings fluttering slightly.Oh, sweetie, with Acheron, it’s never over. It’s only just beginning.
I lose myself in the books, so engrossed, I don’t notice Acheron until his shadow overthrows me, his body heat suffocates me, and his deep, velvet voice croons, “Boo.”
I spin around, wishing I could stop the liquid gold butterflies in my stomach and the inner muscles contracting. “Acheron…” I breathe.
“How doesmy exhibit meet with your historian’s eye?” he asks, folding his hands behind his back and lowering his head toward me. “Or are you too proud to admit your approval?”
I snap.
My blood catches fire as I narrow my eyes upon him. “I might not lift a finger to anything in this room, butyou’renot antique.”
I lunge for him. Hands striking. Nails scratching. Teeth gnashing and biting. I get one solid punch to his jaw, and his head snaps back before a low growl rumbles in his chest. I freeze at the daggered look in his eyes. It congeals my blood. His very mask seems to harden to steel.
“I let you have that hit, Little Quill…” he says while rubbing his jaw. “It’s all you’ll get.”
Balling my hands into fists, I attack again—only for him to grip me by the hips, lift me into his arms, then promptly dump me on the bed. I cringe, groaning from the feeling of the blankets chafing my still sore backside.
The second I try to scramble away, Acheron is there, seizing my wrists and pinning them above my head, pressing them to the headboard. That’s when I realize he fused chains to each end of the board, chains with leather cuffs. I’m still writhing and kicking when he locks my wrists in the cuffs, then gets between my knees, giving one thigh a sharp slap. I yelp and clench, struggling.
I jerk and buck, but it’s useless. Acheron is too strong. I swallow hard as he undoes his red tie, then binds it around my eyes. I snap my teeth but don’t get his skin. My world is plunged into darkness. Then, I feel something cold lock around my throat. Oh, god, no! It’s a metallic collar, and it keeps my head immobile.
All my breath withers. Now that I’m in his exhibit, will he fuck me? Will he take me now? Just like this?
Could be worse!Cherry interjects, and I envision her propped on my forehead, ruffling my hair.Some guys send flowers, and let’s admit, you hate getting flowers. This is luxury captivity. You’re practically royalty!
I’ll be sure to write a glowing Yelp review for the five-star prison.
Acheron slams his mouth down on mine. An instinctive whimper escapes my throat. At first, I try to bite him, but he commands me with the power of his jaw. I feel the muscles there, forcing me to open until he stabs his tongue inside and decorates the inside of my mouth with it.
My searing bottom combined with the kiss conspires against me. Hot liquid fills my pussy, wetting my folds and the thin fabric of the vintage lace underwear. Acheron flares his nostrilsas if he can smell my arousal. My nipples bead with desire, pushing against the nightgown.
“You are mine, Everleigh Lennox,” he says above my lips, and I bite down on my lower one, relying on the sharp splinter of pain. “My art,” he clarifies. “And now, I will begin.”
“Begin what?” I whisper, holding my breath.
He pauses, rubs his lips along mine, and purrs darkly, “Creating.”
18
“You get off on the pain, don’t you?”
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