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My bag drops on the ground, the contents spilling out.
Shrieking, I swing my elbows and kick for all I’m worth. The smell of a complex, masculine cologne and a faint undertone of wine tells me who grabbed me even before Leon says, “Stop fighting.”
The quiet anger in his voice stills me. A chill runs over my body, making the hair on my arms raise. My adrenaline spikes. It rushes like a drug through my veins, overriding any sensibility my anger hasn’t already erased.
I need the fight. I need the outlet. Not just for tonight. For my whole life. For everything bottled up inside me. But I don’t do it with punches and kicks any longer. I willingly submit myself to the violence, letting someone else take over the fight.
He carries to me a sleek sportscar I don’t recognize. He usually drives a Harley to work. Lowering me to my feet behind the car, he wraps his fingers around my nape and pushes my upper body down on the trunk. His intention becomes clear when my breasts press flat on the cool metal. He’s going to honor his promise, and he’s going to do it right here in the open.
The idea of someone walking in on us both terrifies and perversely excites me. Voyeurism is a frequent theme in my drawings. So is being constrained, but when he bunches the hem of my dress in a fist and pulls my dress over my hips, I instinctively struggle again.
Easily grabbing both my wrists in one big hand, he presses them on my lower back and exposes my backside. A part of me believes he won’t go through with it, but I’m quickly proved wrong when he pulls my lacy panties down to my thighs.
I freeze.
The compromising position is humiliating. A hot flush of embarrassment travels over my body. Clenching my thighs together, I try to hide my nakedness. He brushes a warm palm over my left globe, inviting an unwanted shiver, before repeating the caress on the other side. The gentleness confuses me, but not for long. When he brings his hand down again, a sharp slap reverberates in the air as the sting penetrates the skin of my left glute. My breath catches. The burn lingers. He’s not playing. He means business.
My muscles pull tight. It makes the bite of his palm as it lands on the other ass cheek worse, the burn somehow penetrating deeper. It hurts, but it also feels strangely good. He follows up those initiating slaps with a succession of fast slaps that sets my skin on fire and lights a different kind of heat between my legs.
For the first time, I’m not the creator of the scene but the woman on the receiving end. I’m the canvas and he’s making the drawing. A few seconds longer, and I could be floating in space tied naked to the deck of a ship. I don’t care who may walk out of the restaurant any longer. At least his car is parked against the wall and he’s blocking my body with his. All I can focus on is the fire under my skin and the desire darker than any of my drawings that hums in my lower body.
I only realize I’m out of breath when he tells me in a low voice, “Breathe.”
Turning my face to the side, I press my cheek on the hood and look at him from over my shoulder. His expression isn’t angry or heated. His features are perfectly schooled. Controlled.
It grounds me. However fucked up that is, it makes me feel safe. I gave up my control, letting someone take over my fight, and it leaves me needy. When he caresses the heated skin of my bottom, goosebumps run over my body. I can’t help the moan that escapes as he traces my crease with a finger. My scalp tingles. I’m extra aware of my body while the surroundings melt away. Shamelessly, I tilt my hips forward, trying to find the friction I need by grinding myself on the car. It doesn’t matter that he sees this weakness. This isn’t me. He’s the one who draws the picture. He decides who I am.
A groan sounds from deep in his chest. “Fuck, Violet.”
Pushing a leg between my thighs, he kicks my feet apart as much as my underwear allows. I’m open to him now. He can see everything, but I let him. A dark part of me wants him to see. To touch.
“Should I let go?” he asks.
I’ve long since surrendered. He knows it as well as I do. He doesn’t have to pin my wrists against my back, but I shake my head. As long as he constrains me, I don’t get to make choices. The responsibility is his. How this ends is up to him.
