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EMERSON
It shouldn’t turn me on so much to have her fight. I want her to an untenable degree. My cock throbs, the pulse so insistent it’s difficult to focus on Daphne’s eyes. They are at their most captivating, tear-filled and furious, and I can’t get enough.
I’ve never considered myself particularly kinky. Not before Daphne. She brought this out in me. I might have been satisfied by an occasional fuck with some nameless model who has a thing for money if I hadn’t met my little painter. A new part of my mind has come online. Its only responsibility is to fill my thoughts with images of Daphne.
Daphne fighting. Daphne subdued. Daphne sorry, marked by the consequences of her own actions.
And she should suffer the consequences of what she’s done.
She woke me up. Tore the coverings from my feelings. Ripped them out of sturdy protective frames and set them free. It’s more than the faint pain of an evocative piece. It’s the bloody, beating heart that refuses to be cut out, no matter how many times I try.
I want her.
I want to hold her down. I want to feel the way her body writhes as I fuck her. Again and again and again. Until she’s at her limit. Until she’s past it. I want her fists and her teeth. I want her to bite me. Mark me.
I want to do the same to her.
Daphne throws herself into me, her elbows flying, fists landing on my shoulders. The blows are too wild and her body collapses into mine. My little painter struggles against the fall, trying to get herself upright and keep going. The movement presses her against my erection.
She freezes, her eyes going wide. A doe, caught in a hunter’s sights.
“Emerson.” Daphne’s breathless. I’m at a threshold. A door cracks open and lets in a sliver of light.
“My body’s getting ready to fuck you.” I don’t move. Daphne doesn’t pull back. She doesn’t attempt to escape through the wall. She stays close. I know she feels it when my cock pulses between us. “And yours is getting ready to fuck me. You’re wet.”
“No.” It’s a lie. I can see the flicker in her eyes. Daphne Morelli is a stunning piece. Fucking breathtaking. With a playful nuance that drives me out of my mind. A dutiful daughter. A devoted sister. A humble painter. And at first she’s unassuming. You have to stand and watch, to see her in motion, in order to understand the use of color, the composition. You have to study her to see her depths. “I’m definitely not.”
“Let’s find out, little painter.” I take one hand from the wall and begin by tucking her hair behind her ear. Stroking down the side of her neck. I play with the neckline of my shirt, lifting it away so she can feel my breath on her skin. I work my way down to her elbow. To her wrist. A light squeeze of her hand, and I slide my palm up her naked thigh to her hip. Daphne trembles, her breathing shallow, and her head tips back against the wall.
“It’s not fair.” I brush my knuckles around to her belly button, then trace a path down and down and down.
“What’s not fair?” The pad of my thumb against her clit makes her shiver, but it’s just an errant brush on the way to where I’m going.
“That this feels good.”
I take her face in my free hand. With the other, I run my knuckles over the delicate skin of her inner thighs. “I know, little painter.”
“Stop looking at me like that,” she says, and spreads her legs.
She’s right. I’m a bastard. I’m an asshole. Because I keep my eyes on hers while I push my fingers into her sweet, wet flesh. It tugs a sound out of me. I expected her to be aroused. I didn’t expect her to be dripping.
I change my grip on her face. One thumb under her chin so I can hold her in place. Daphne’s doing most of the work for me, keeping her head back against the wall. She can’t help but respond to this. She likes it this way.
When I take my fingers away Daphne tries to angle her hips to follow them. She’s the picture of humiliation when I hold them up in front of her face. “Where is this from, little painter?”
She wets her lips with the tip of her tongue. My heart stops, then starts again. “It’s from me.”
“It’s from your cunt.” I add the slightest pressure to her chin. “Say it.”
Daphne goes scarlet. I could get lost in that color. I could watch her paint a study of it every day until I die. She clears her throat. “It’s from my cunt.”
I make her watch me lick it off my fingers. Daphne’s eyes flash. Anger grits her teeth. “You’re sick.”
“You taste good.”
“Because I’m your captive?”
“Because you’re sweet, little painter.”
