“I will. Bend lower. I want to go deeper and come inside your ass.”
I fold my elbows and put my forehead on my gripped hands, holding on as he fucks my ass harder. The slap to my ass adds to the sensations rioting through my body. The incredible stretch of him in my ass, the delicious feeling of him in my pussy, and the heaviness of his chest on my back. They collide, and I shout his name over and over as he slams his hips against my ass, his balls hitting the top of my pussy. My body moves across the floor, his body propelling me forward. I fight to keep purchase of the ground, to keep my body upright. His hoarse grunts and the way he intones my name, he coaxes another orgasm out of me. Pleasure explodes. “Fuucckkk, Stefan! Right there, please, don’t stop!”
“Never.”
Seconds later, he pushes his fingers deeper, sealing my ass to his groin, and jerks repeatedly.
We both fall to the ground, dust from the floor tickling my nose. Stone turns on his side, pulling me with him. His cock is still inside me, and when he withdraws, I feel his stickiness. He wraps his arm around my belly and kisses my sweaty neck.
I sit up,using his body as leverage, still groggy from the incredible sex moments ago, and notice the easel for the first time. It’s covered in a drop cloth, much like my art was when I showed it to him. I look down at him, and he watches me twirling a strand of my dark hair around his finger.
“What is that?” I point at the large easel and hidden canvas.
“You.”
“Me?” I rear back. “What do you mean me?”He doesn’t answer me, and I poke him in the chest. “What does that mean?”
“It means it’s you. It’s what I made for you.” He nips at the finger I just used to poke him. I stand naked, heading to the canvas. When I pull off the drop cloth, I gasp, stepping back.
It’s large. Made of stitched-together pieces of lighter colored leather. But I know it’s not leather now. He told me what he does. It’s human skin. A canvas of human skin. The skin of the man who tried to rape and kill me. “It’s him, isn’t it? This is his skin?”
“Yes.” Stone gets up and stands behind, wrapping his arm around my waist, whispering in my ear. “I removed the skin from his back, chest, arms, and legs.”
He says it so matter-of-factly, and I can’t feel much pity for the man whose skin is providing the backdrop to a piece of breathtaking art. It’s me. My face is inked into the skin, risingout of flames that are part feathers, and right below my face is a bird’s head. Each line is drawn to perfection. It takes my brain a few minutes to process. “A phoenix.”
“I told you, Camryn Park, you’re my canvas. But you’re also my masterpiece.” He kisses my neck, pressing his lips to many of my scars. I lean against his naked chest, tears filling my eyes. Those kisses heal something inside me. I turn in arms and watch his eyes. “Say it again.”
He leans closer and bites my earlobe. “I love you. I love everything about you, Camryn Park. Your kindness to my mother. My sister. My niece. I love your fierceness. Your courage despite the fear of failure. “I love that you worried for a young girl. I love that you talk to yourself.”
I wet laugh escapes. “Stalking me again?”
“Always.” He responds unabashedly. “I can’t live without you.”
I face him, holding his face, looking up into his eyes. His eyes are full of tears again, and I wipe them. “You’re turning into a crier, huh?”
The slap to my ass and his muttered “Fucking Brat,” make me smile. I turn in his arms and face the art he made of me. “It’s amazing. Morbidly amazing. But I want that on my skin.” I point to the inked image. “I want you to tattoo it on my skin.” I face him once more and bring his hands to my breasts, then higher, above the scar from El Jefe. “Right here. I want you to ink me here.” I move his hand along my stab wound scars. “Cover his marks with your own. I only want to see your art on my body. Turn his evil into something beautiful, Stone.”
The Aftermath
“I no longer feared the darkness once I knew the phoenix in me would rise from the ashes.”—William C. Hannan
Epilogue
Three Months later
“You’re so fidgety and it’s not even your show.”
I laugh at Jacinda. The light has returned to her eyes after the ordeal we went through. She’s not like she was before, but then again, none of us are. There will always be some degree of shadows in her eyes, much like mine and Kami’s, I’d imagine.
Her tall, intense husband comes up behind her and smiles, holding her around the waist. The big, muscular man with white-blond hair and tattoos covering each hand looks at her adoringly. He reminds me of Stone with his tattoos and intensity. When he brushes aside her colorful locs and kisses her neck just before he whispers in her ear, she giggles, blushing. I know that blush. It’s what happens every time my man touches me. It’s the reason I’m so fidgety while I wait on the curb, dying to hear the familiar rumble of his powerful engine. I should be focused on the crowd of people walking through my gallery, oohing and aahing over the gorgeous art hanging all over the walls. It’s been four days since he left for a road trip north ona scouting mission with Riggs and Onyx, and I can’t wait to see him.
Jacinda’s twin, Julian, approaches with two glasses of champagne, handing her one, but I shake my head, refusing. I’m sick to my stomach with nerves and anticipation for tonight’s show. He had better not be late. I’ll kill him.
After Jacinda was rescued, she didn’t feel ready to host her show, wanting to mentally heal. Like me, her art was a part of that healing process. She finally told me yesterday that she was ready, and I couldn’t be more excited to host her new revamped show in two months. Her installations are even more complex, focusing on her captivity and exploring themes of imprisonment and freedom. She told me how cathartic it has been to create, leaning into the horrors of being held captive and assaulted. I touch my neck, a frequent habit, remembering how cathartic it has been for me to create something from my scars. I look around and spot Kami hanging out behind the receptionist’s desk. She looks so different from the night we were all kidnapped. Her beautiful twists are gone. She now wears it cut short, her black curls low to her head. I haven’t had the chance to ask her about it, as I didn’t want to push. I have a feeling it has something to do with the ten weeks she was held hostage in Canada. For a long time, even after I reunited with Stone, I didn’t think Riggs or Jacqueline would find her. We were all starting to lose hope when Quinten Jacobs, a man who works for Silas and Caleb Edwards, was able to locate her. By then, she was near death, starved and brutalized.
It’s been only two months since Jacqueline texted us that Kami had been found. The extent of her injuries is still unknown to us because, since she’s been back, she hasn’t talked about it. She is no longer the young girl I remembered. She was terrified of everything and withdrew into herself.
Jacinda and I have visited her at her new apartment a few times. There’s a shared bond over what happened. She doesn’t talk much, but Jacinda and I think that our presence helps her feel better. She’s also grown closer to the man who rescued her. And from what I saw earlier. Quinten wants more than friendship with Kami. I hope it works out because it would be nice to see my friend smile again. I can’t imagine what happened to her while she was being held. She’s just started therapy, and I’m proud of her. Jacinda also mentioned going to treatment for PTSD since she said she’s been having trouble sleeping.
