Page 84 of The Art of Obsession
Ever since the intruder’s failed attempt and the incident with the hitmen, I’ve become more cautious in screening my clients, even Dorian. No room for error—no cameras, no hidden tech. I bring in specialized radar to sweep for anything that could compromise the integrity of the exhibit, ensuring there’s no risk of being filmed or betrayed.
Their recent whereabouts, associates—everything has been checked for any connection to the car crash. Dorian, of course, was performing that night, too, capitalizing on the opening left by my canceled tour, a calculated move I can’t help but respect, even as it leaves me wary.
If anything, it strengthens our partnership with me granting him a higher pedestal. He is using his newfound wealth to express his gratitude with these VIP passes.
Dorian leans forward slightly, his body language casual, but his eyes are calculating. I know he’s fishing for information.
The exhibit. My lips curve faintly at the thought. Tonight’s centerpiece will be unlike anything I’ve ever unveiled. A guest of honor, stripped bare in every sense, her vulnerability laid out for the world to see. And her authenticity as the levels of her pain and pleasure are tested unlike ever.
“And my VIP pass?” Dorian tests me. “Does it come with a simple introduction this time?”
I straighten, my eyes locking on his, narrowing. “No,” I say grimly. “No talking. No touching.”
His smirk widens, as though amused by my adamance. “Still the consummate protector, I see.”
I incline my head, my tone taking on a diplomatic edge. “Allowing such a thing would compromise the exhibit. She must not feel she’s performing. Knowing nothing of her audience is essential.”
Dorian tilts his head. “Fear is a powerful motivator, then?”
“Precisely,” I answer solemnly. “Her vulnerability is necessary. When she is stripped to her soul, the exhibit reaches its full potential. When she understands that I alone may possess her, protect her—it’s the only way to guarantee the level of authenticity required for success.”
Dorian grins like a crafty fox. “You’ve always had a taste for the theatrical, Acheron. I imagine tonight’s exhibit will be no exception.”
I don’t respond immediately. Dorian thrives on reaction, on the subtle flinch of discomfort or the crack of uncertainty. I give him neither.
Instead, I rise, the heat rolling off my skin like smoke from a fire. Dorian’s gaze follows the movement, eyes deepening as though dissecting my next move.
“Tonight,” I say, my voice low but firm, “you’ll see something you’ve never seen before. A masterpiece that goes beyond anything either of us has attempted.”
He tilts his head, the predator’s curiosity piqued. “Looking forward to it, Acheron. Andher.”
I pause at the door, glancing back at him. The steam curls around us, thick and oppressive, but I lock eyes with him and warn, “She’s not for you, Dorian. Not now. Not ever.”
His laughter follows me as I step out of the steam room, sharp and knowing, like the echo of a challenge accepted.
CAL
Everleigh is still asleep when I lift her by her hips and impale her on my cock.
Her sharp gasp and wide eyes greet me a second later.
“Oh, god, Cal!” she cries out, giving me life at the same time with her pussy feeding on my dick, clenching all around it. Always so fucking tight.
“Take it, Little Quill. Fucking need you,” I murmur against her ear, breathing in her hair. The heart I carved into her skin peeks from beyond the sheer silk chemise, silvery and puckered.
“It’s happening tonight, isn’t it?” she asks, breathless, tilting her head and offering me her neck.
“Don’t concern yourself.”
“Just tell me.”
“No.”
“Why?”
Gripping her chin, pulling her gaze back to me, I narrow my eyes on her and warn, “Cause I fucking need you. As you. Nothing less. Nothing more. Everleigh “Little Quill” Lennox. Just as you are.”
Dropping her chin, I lift her up and bring her down hard on me, spearing her deep and capturing her mouth to consume her scream. She opens for me, moaning into my mouth and squeezing her inner muscles around my length.
