Page 66 of Doomed
Careful not to smudge my artwork, I trail my nose along the column of her neck, breathing in her sweetness. The brush in my right hand traces down her spine, making her arch toward me, her nipples almost pressing into me.
“Art should hurt, shouldn’t it?” I murmur against her neck. “Beauty through suffering. Isn’t that what pretentious types always say?”
She moans as I add purple to her skin, creating patterns that flow seductively across her tits. The vulnerability in her eyes drives me wild. I stroke myself harder, watching her watch me.
“You’re enjoying this,” I accuse, painting a line down her inner thigh. “Being my canvas. My creation.”
Bianca gasps, “Knox, what are you doing to me?”
And it’s a good fucking question. What the hell am I doing?
I pause, brush hovering over her skin, paint dripping slowly onto the floor between us. My cock throbs painfully, demanding I take her right now. Still, a foreign restraint holds me back—an unfamiliar sensation I don’t recognize in myself.
This isn’t me. Knox Blackwood doesn’t give safe words. Doesn’t create intimate artistic spaces for women. Doesn’t spend weeks obsessing over someone who repeatedly tells him no. I take what I want and discard what bores me. That’s who I am. Who I’ve always been. Bianca’s ability to alter that with so little effort confounds me.
But goddamnit, I’ve been fucking enraptured with her from the moment we met. That day in the gallery, when she looked at me like I was another rich asshole to tolerate—Christ, no one looks at me that way. And when she slapped me? I should’ve been furious. The only fury in my body was from my cock as it strained against my zipper, demanding entry to her body immediately. Her indifference to me set my blood on fire, and that fire burns hotter every time I touch her.
The paint drips between my fingers as I stare at her, bound before me, half-covered in colors I chose specifically to complement her skin. Blue for her fire, gold for her worth, crimson for what she does to my blood.
“I don’t know,” I admit, the words surprising me as they leave my mouth. “This isn’t—I don’t do this.”
Her eyes widen slightly at my confession. I’ve shown her my true self more than once now, and it terrifies me. The urge toretreat behind my carefully crafted, stoic cruelty, to make this just another fuck, pulls at me. But looking at her—her fierce eyes challenging me, even while bound—I can’t bring myself to cheapen the effect she’s had on me.
I set the paintbrush down, my breathing ragged as I stare at the colorful patterns adorning her skin. Her earlier words echo in my mind—the way she compared her desire to ocean tides and brushstrokes, the poetry that fell from her lips as she begged for me. No woman has ever spoken to me like that. Never made me feel valued beyond my appearance, status, or family name. Bianca, she couldn’t care less about those things. She fought her attraction every step of the way.
“Fuck,” I mutter, my hands trembling as I reach for the silk scarves binding her wrists.
I unfasten one wrist, then the other, my fingers lingering on her pulse point. She watches me with brilliant eyes that see too much, that pierce through the mask I wear. The real mask, not the one from the Hunt.
Without speaking, I scoop her into my arms. The paint smears between us, marking us both as I carry her to the bed. I lay her down carefully, positioning myself above her, between her thighs. Her skin glistens with sweat and paint, a living canvas, one that responds to my touch.
When I slide inside her this time, it’s different. Slower. More deliberate. I watch her face as I fill her, searching for intimacy.
“What are you doing to me?” I whisper. It’s not rhetorical anymore—I genuinely don’t understand what’s happening.
Her eyes lock with mine, wide and clear, effortlessly seeing everything I’ve always kept hidden. And fuck me, there it is—that same confusion, that same fall, reflecting back at me. She feels it too. This thing neither of us expected.
I’m falling for her. And judging he way she’s looking at me, the way her pussy welcomes my cock, she’s falling too.
We move together in a rhythm that feels too intimate, too real. My brain is screaming at me to pull back, to protect myself, but my body, or maybe even my heart, won’t listen. I’ve never felt this—this ache that goes beyond wanting to fuck someone.
Then suddenly, she rises up and captures my mouth with hers.
For the first time since we met, Bianca is kissing me. Not responding to my kiss, not yielding to my demands—she’s offering herself to me out of her own desire.
Her lips press against mine with a hunger that matches my own, her hands clutching at my shoulders like she’s afraid I might disappear. The kiss is desperate, passionate. Her tongue slides against mine, and I groan into her mouth, overwhelmed by the sensation of being wanted—truly wanted—by this woman.
I break the kiss, needing to see her face, needing to make her understand what’s happening here.
“You’re mine,” I tell her, my voice rough with emotion I didn’t know I possessed. “Not just for the Hunt. Not just for the twelve months that fucking follow.”
I grip her face between my hands, forcing her to look at me, needing to make my intent crystal clear.
“Forever, Bianca. You’re mine forever. I will not let you go.”
The words should terrify me. I’ve never wanted to be with anyone forever. But with her, it feels like the only truth I know.
For a moment, she stares at me, her eyes wide and searching. I brace myself for rejection, fearing she will laugh at my declaration or push me away.
