Page 44 of The Art of Obsession
She purses her lips but says nothing to that. No, she fucking melts for me.
One final flourish, I encircle her ankle with the delicate pattern and set the candle aside. My fingers trace the hardened wax, testing its texture, ensuring every line is as perfect. Fine flushed lines hint from the edges of the wax.
“There,” I say, leaning back to admire my work. “You’re ready to be unveiled.” I remove the collar and blindfold, savoring the moment.
When the fabric falls away, her eyes meet mine, wide and luminous and stormy with emotion. She glances down at herself, taking in the intricate designs. Her lips part, but no words come out.
“Well?” I ask, my voice laced with curiosity and pride. “How do you find your first design upon my most treasured canvas, my lovely Little Quill?”
Her gaze snaps back to mine with awe and fury. Those gray eyes turn luminescent, a glassy gaze. “You’re a sadist,” she says, but her voice is softer now, tinged with something she’d never admit aloud. “You get off on the pain, don’t you?”
I smile and brush my hand against her cheek. “I get off on the result, the true soul that shines from beyond the pain. And your pain, Everleigh, is unforgettable.”
I don’t let her retreat. “Do you understand what this means, Little Quill?” I ask, my fingers tracing a hardened vine of wax along her shoulder. “Every line I’ve drawn, every stroke of heat and care—it binds you to me.”
Defiance still burns within her as she stabs out her chin. “You don’t own me, Acheron.”
“Don’t I?” I counter, amused. “Look at yourself. Look at what we’ve created together. Tell me it doesn’t stir something deep within you—something primal, something undeniable.”
Her eyes flicker downward, taking in the patterns once more. The anger in her gaze softens, replaced by a hesitant curiosity. I brush my fingers along the patterns, and her eyes follow.
“You’re sick and impossible.” She presses her lips to a tight seam, but I catch the sparkle of worship in her eye.
“And you’re irresistible,” I reply, leaning closer until our breaths mingle. “A perfect contradiction, just like this.”
“What do you want? Forgiveness?”
“I wouldn’t dream of asking for forgiveness,” I say, quite amused. “But perhaps, in time, you’ll see the beauty in what we’ve created. And how our bonds are unbreakable.”
She glares at me, but the fire in her eyes is tempered by something deeper. Unbinding her, I take her hand, guiding her fingers to trace the intricate designs along her chest.
“Feel it,” I urge. “Every line, every curve—it’s a reflection of you. Of your strength, your resilience. And yes, your surrender.”
She pulls her hand away abruptly, her cheeks flushing. “Don’t…don’t make me want it,” she pleads, shaking her head, but those tears escape, streaming down her cheeks.
“I will make you want everything,” I reply, my lips curving into a knowing smile. “Becauseyouaremyeverything.”
Tension thickens the air between us, filled with unspoken words. She betrays herself anytime her gaze strays to the designs. And when her fingers twitch, when she inhales and lowers her fingers to follow the patterns on her stomach, I smile in deep approval.
Those fingers wander lower. My jaw clenches. Before she can touch her thatch of curls, I seize her hand and click my tongue. “Naughty girl,” I scold her, enjoying the warfare in her stormy eyes.
“Oh, god!” she cries out as I stab my finger into the edge of her opening, drenching the fabric. I grip her hands with my other hand before she can struggle.
“Look at you, dripping all over my finger, all over this lace and silk like a wanton, little slut,” I compliment her.
She thrusts her hips and shakes her head in wild denial. “I’m not a?—”
“Myslut. Own the fucking title, Little Quill.” I go deeper, straining the fabric. My cock throbs with every breath, every whimper, every plea she gives me. “There is no shame.”
“Only because you’re shameless,” she snipes. Fucking love that spirit. Gets me so goddamn hard.
While I continue to torment her center, I blow hot breath against her lips and say, “For research purposes, of course, tell me what you thought of my wax worship, what youfelt. And remember, Everleigh…” I grip her jaw in warning. “I will know if you lie.”
Her fingers hover over the faint impressions on her skin. Wax and heat. Pain and pleasure. My art, my claim. I see the conflict in her eyes—how she wants to hate it, hate me, but she can’t. Not entirely.
She’s captivated. I see it in the way her fingertips linger over the intricate designs. She’s marveling, trying to decipher the why of it all. Why her?
I chose her because she’s chaos wrapped in porcelain. Because she burns and breaks and feelseverything. The only one who could perfectly understand and worship my art. The only one who could be honored as my ultimate masterpiece. She is to me what the past is to her.
