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He fucks me the same way he ate me. Desperately. He didn’t think he’d get to do this again. He thought he might die out there, thought there was a good chance, and he spent that whole dark night staying alive for me.
And now—
And now—
“Your cunt is so tight, little painter. You feel so fucking good. You’re so wet when I fuck you like this. I can feel you struggling but you’re being—” He loses his breath. “So good. Don’t stop.”
Don’t stop what? The thought floats up. My body answers.
“I can’t come again,” I tell him, frantic. I don’t want to disappoint him. Can’t take it.
“You’re going to.” That easy confidence. It’s hard-won. I know that now. “I can feel you squeezing my cock. You’re going to come all over me. That’s your only purpose now, little painter. You belong in my collection, and what are you for?”
Oh god, it’s mortifying how hot that makes me. “To come for you.”
“You’re the most beautiful piece. You’re stunning like this. You feel—you feel—” He’s lost for words. Emerson’s rhythm shakes itself apart, going wild. It takes my breath away. He comes with a feral grunt, fucking through it. It’s pure heat and so much that I can feel it overflowing. Somehow I get my arms around his neck and manage to hold on. It’s like waves, like being tossed by the sea, but then he collapses down next to me and pulls me in close.
It’s warm here. Safe, wrapped in his arm, against his body. I’m too exhausted to be conflicted about it. Emerson catches his breath. It takes less time for him. He settles, body relaxing, and I could cry at how relieved he must be.
“Perfect,” he murmurs. It takes a heartbeat to realize he’s finishing his sentence, half-asleep. “So good. All I wanted.”
I drift in the sound of him breathing, slow and even, for a long time.
It’s near evening when I wake up. I’m slightly stiff from the long nap—and from last night, probably. Emerson stirs when I wiggle my toes.
“I need something from you,” I say into the calm around us.
He rests his palm on my hip. “What is it, little painter?”
My heart twists. I’ve never heard his voice like this before. Warm and sleepy and relaxed. Maybe I shouldn’t say anything. Maybe I should just drift away again and not ask the question.
Except I feel a certain clarity now that I’ve had a minute to rest. I don’t want to leave here. That’s not it. But if I’m going to stay, I need something else.
“I need to send a message. I need you to let me talk to my brother somehow. A letter or a call—something.”
His hand flexes. “Which brother?”
I think he means this as a bit of a joke. To put me at ease, maybe. But Emerson already knows which brother I’m talking about.
“Leo.”
“The protective one.”
“He’ll be—” I thought I could say this without getting caught up in my emotions, but once again, I am wrong. “He’ll be really worried about me. He’s my favorite, and he’s going to be beside himself.”
It feels like a betrayal to describe exactly how worried he’ll be. How pale and sleepless and wrung out. Leo’s worry and grief almost killed him when Haley was gone. I don’t even want to imagine him like that again, much less say it out loud, so I don’t. I’ve seen Emerson with his brother. He has to understand this, at least a little.
I’m facing away from Emerson, but his attention settles over me like a second blanket. He’s fully awake now. No doubt about that. Awake and watching. Or at least thinking.
Fear squeezes at my lungs. He’s going to say no, and that will be the end of the argument.
“I don’t need to leave,” I say against that fear. “I’m not asking you to set me free. I just want a phone call. I need to tell him that I’m okay.”
His fingertips flex over my hip. Thoughtful. Possessive. Not angry. This is the longest silence of my life.
“You can call.” My breath flees from my lungs. That’s not what I thought he was going to say. “But I’m staying with you.”
“Okay. That’s good. I mean—” It’s not great to be supervised for a phone call, but I don’t mind, as long as I get to make it. “That’s good.”
