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“Don’t play games with me.”
“Fine.” I stroke my fingers between her legs again, collecting more of her slickness. “I’ll paint, then.”
I swipe her desire across her cheekbone and Daphne gasps. For a moment she really does look like a painting. Shock in oil on canvas, trapped in a frame, her own juices silvery on her skin.
And then she flies into motion. Bursts out of her canvas captivity. I brace for blows but she’s not punching, she’s crashing. Daphne throws her arms around my neck and locks her legs around my waist.
“Don’t play with me.” It’s almost a snarl, the most adorable, sweet snarl. “Don’t play games.”
I put her on her feet. Daphne resists, clinging to me until the last second. I have to peel her hands away in order to get her shirt over her head. I barely have time to discard my pants before she launches herself at me. I take her back to the wall with more force than I intended. Her head knocks against the hard surface but she bends her neck, unfazed.
Her teeth sink into the skin at the curve of my shoulder, nearly my neck. A visceral bite, down to the muscle, down to the bone. I pull her in closer, but she doesn’t recognize it at first. Thinks I’m pushing her away. She fights, fingertips digging in at my shoulder blade. Her teeth. Her nails. An invisible wire pulls tight between them, roping in my aching cock, and a groan escapes.
Daphne lets go. Her head comes up, eyes wide, as if she’s done something unforgivable. Fuck that. I snatch her wrist out of the air and put her hand back where it was. Push down harder. Cover her mouth with mine.
She makes a sound of angry relief and kisses me back. Her cunt is so close to my cock. I can feel her slick heat. I find it with my fingers. “Give it to me.”
Daphne’s thighs flex. “Take it,” she challenges.
Her hips put up a token resistance when I angle her over me. She’s holding on tight, but not as if I might drop her. As if she doesn’t want to be put down. It’s a rush of data, like seeing a thousand individual brush strokes. A glimmer of fear in her eyes. The hitch of her chest. Her soft, untouched nakedness. Every breath is electric. I move her by inches until wet flesh meets the head of my cock.
With a hiss, she lets gravity help her. One inch. It’s like we’ve never fucked before.
“That’s it, little painter? That’s all the fight you have?”
Daphne arches against the wall, taking another inch of me. “I’ll never stop,” she pants. “Never stop fighting.”
I brace one hand on the wall and hold her up with the other. I’m in it now. In the world. Nothing between me and this onslaught of sensation. I want to thrust into her like an animal, but I won’t. Lust wraps itself around my hips and tries to override me.
“Good. I like it when you battle me. I like it when you struggle.”
She sinks down another few inches. “Not. Struggling.”
“Oh, but you are, little painter. Give me more.”
“No.” Her hips circle, bucking under my hands, and she works herself down onto me. “No. I won’t. I’m not going to fuck you.”
“Don’t you dare.” She’s so close that it’s difficult to get my hand between us, difficult to stroke her clit. Difficult. Not impossible. At the first brush of my knuckle she clenches around me. More wet heat. “Don’t you dare come.”
“I won’t.”
Her body is making a liar out of her again. She’s desperate for my touch. It’s painted in her muscles every time I circle her clit. Her pussy flutters around me. Daphne takes one arm from around my neck and slaps her palm against the wall. It only brings her closer. Her hips circle. She’s like a vise. Tighter than a fist. Her eyes close, but then she opens them again. A little breath. Another one. It’s thrilling, the whiplash of her feelings. This is what I wanted to see. All her darkness, all her emotion, on her body instead of on the canvas.
On her body in addition to the canvas.
Daphne fought me, but she’s begging silently for something else.
Authority. Permission. I’m the monster in the room, and I’m the only one who can give her what she needs.
“You’re art,” I murmur, and she tips her face closer. “Nothing but canvas. Nothing but a piece in my collection. Art doesn’t fight, little painter. It does what it’s told.”
The tip of her tongue comes up to the roof of her mouth. Tell. That’s what she’s going to say, but she can’t bring herself to do it.
“Be brave,” I order. “Be good. Let me see what I paid for.”
It starts in her body, in the quick pulses of her cunt around me. Daphne’s nails hook into me. Her dark eyes stay on mine as she comes. Her heat is everywhere, hips rocking against me. The begging becomes a sound. A pleading moan. My little painter doesn’t know what she’s begging for.
I do.
