Page 79 of Last Resort (The Collector Trilogy 3)

“Is this what sorry feels like?”

My face burns like the ocean I painted. “Yes.”

“I think it should hurt a bit more. Don’t you?”

I nod against the blanket. I know Emerson won’t do anything I can’t handle. My skin feels supersensitive, like the moonlight is made from paint, settling over my skin.

“I couldn’t hear you, little painter.”

“I said yes.” He sweeps his thumb up to the crease of my inner thigh. My muscles want to snap shut, trapping it, but that’s not how he arranged me. “I do think it should hurt more. To be sorry.”

Emerson drags his thumb over my slit. “Sorry for what?”

“For missing you as much as I did and not coming home right away.”

He exhales, and the blanket tugs underneath me. Emerson’s hands run down my spine. Around the curves of my shoulder blades. The curve of my waist. It’s almost like he’s painting them. Memorizing them, like I’ve been memorizing him.

Fear wells up. He doesn’t need to memorize me. I’m going to be here with him.

The sound of his belt buckle pushes that fear away. I can only see the outline of him from this position. Then his legs press up against mine, and I don’t care about seeing anything.

Emerson lines himself up and pushes in, hard and impatient. He didn’t want to wait this long. He pulls me back onto him.

It feels.

So good.

Hurts a little, because he’s thick, and he’s not taking his time. I feel every inch of him as my body readjusts. Emerson hisses as I clench down on him. Pushes forward again. He allows himself a few thrusts, but then he tilts his hips and stays inside.

I can’t go anywhere like this. His body makes an indestructible frame behind me.

“You didn’t—you didn’t have to tie me for this.” I rock back against him, but Emerson holds me still with his hand on the small of my back.

“That’s not why I brought the rope, little painter.” A frustrated groan breaks through my teeth. Emerson’s flexes inside me along with his laugh. “No, Daphne. You don’t want me to hurry.”

He’s right. I want this to last as long as possible. I want it to last forever.

Emerson reaches for something. A pillow, which he wedges under my hips. I really can’t move. It’s wrong to let a man pin me like this.

And it’s right.

Something clicks behind me.

“What—” The answer is lube. It’s cold, and slippery, and makes contact with the last part of me Emerson hasn’t taken. The shivers come on fast, like he’s pulled me out of the ocean.

“Are you afraid?” His finger circles my hole, and his cock pulses inside me. Damn him for using his entire body as a trap. I can’t escape. I can’t even want to escape.

“Yes. It was hard when—when Sin—”

“When Sin put that toy in this very small place. I remember. This will be significantly more difficult. If you don’t want to give it to me, you should say so, little painter.”

I’m as molten as my painting. Desperate. Terrified. “I do,” I whisper. “I want to give you everything.”

He pushes two fingers in up to the knuckle.

I’m already trapped, but I freeze. I can’t breathe. I’m going to get in so much trouble for this. It’s definitely wrong. Forbidden. It’s different from a toy. There’s more coming after. How am I supposed to survive it?

Emerson’s hand moves gently over my hip and glides between my legs. His fingertips brush my clit. He’s—

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