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He unwrapped it and Regan set it atop the fireplace mantel. The painting was calledBlack Iris III—an iris, painted in extreme closeup, its petals a lurid purple, so dark they almost look black. And the flower was open, blooming, wide and trembling.
“A boy never forgets his first O’Keeffe,” he said.
“Yes, because it looks like an enormous engorged cunt.”
“It’s a very nice enormous engorged cunt.”
She looked at him, eyebrow slightly raised. “I think that’s the first time I’ve heard you say the word ‘cunt’ in my presence.”
“Might be the first time I’ve ever said it out loud. When you’re the son of Spencer Godwick, you rebel bynotbeing rude.”
“I like it. You should say it more. Use it in a sentence.”
“Now?”
She nodded.
“Ah…I would like to do very nice things to your cunt.”
“Now a question.”
“May I please do very nice things to your cunt?”
Regan came to him, stood in front of him. “Yes,” she said. “You may do very nice things to my cunt.”
“I serve at your pleasure,” he said almost reflexively.
“Yes, yes you do.” She put her hands on his shoulders and leaned back, smiling at the portrait of Lord Malcolm. “Did you hear that, Malcolm? I’ve turned your great-grandson into a whore. Who are you prouder of? Him or me?”
Arthur sighed. He really wished she would stop talking to the painting. It wouldn’t be good if it started talking back…
She cupped Arthur’s crotch. “That’s more than a third. I suppose having Great-Granddad here isn’t as much of a mood-killer as you thought.”
She kissed him, and no amount of wounded male pride could keep from kissing her back. She wasn’t cruel to him so much as she was just…cold. And the colder she was to him, the more he wanted to warm her. And the more he wanted to warm her, the colder she was to him. Even this, hanging his great-grandfather’s portrait was cruel, made him feel vulnerable, exposed. She alone knew how much he loved being exposed.
He returned the kiss, pushing his tongue into her mouth, tasting her.
“You like this so much,” she murmured against his lips, laughing between kisses. “You like being treated like this and I love it. I love it and you hate it.”
“I hate that I love it,” he said soft as a penitent giving his confession. He wrapped his fingers around her long pearl necklace and lightly, lightly, oh-so lightly tugging on it to make sure he had her attention. “But I like that you like it.”
If only she liked him a little. Maybe? She smiled, a real one, not mocking and it was gone as fast as it had come. “Get on your knees,” she commanded.
She said it, so he did it. He released his grip on her pearls and went down onto his knees. As soon as he was there, he realized this is where he’d wanted to be all along.
“You whore,” she said, tilting his chin up so he faced her. “Did I make you like this? Or were you like this before me?”
“I was like this before you, but I don’t want to be like this after you.”
“Why not? You’re enjoying it as much as I am.”
“I just… I don’t.” If he could have waved a wand to make it go away, he would have waved it like a drowning man signaling for help. Once Regan was done with him, who would treat him like this? Who could he trust to tell that he needed it? How would he find someone who made him feel the things Regan made him feel?
“Who told you this was wrong?” she asked him.
He shot her a confused look. “I don’t understand.”
“Someone must have gotten it in your head that this, what we’re doing, is wrong, bad, the sort of thing real men don’t do? Who was it?”
