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“We’re going to play a game, little painter.”
She whips her head around, startles, her cheeks flushed. “What?” Her eyes drop down to what I’m carrying in my hands. “Is that rope? I told you—I told you not to play games with me.”
My god, she’s sweet. “You like when I play games with you. We’re going to play one now.”
A hint of wariness sparks in her eyes. “What kind of game?”
“The kind you’ll like.”
“I don’t like games at all.” She is lying. It’s the way she lies when I’m fucking her. Flushed cheeks and parted lips and shallow breaths. “I don’t think it’s a good idea to play with each other like that.”
But I see the curiosity in her eyes. I see how much she wants it. It gives depth to the room around her, pairing up with the dying light from outside. I’ve found it again. That dark, sweet intensity from her paintings.
It occurs to me, belatedly, that playing any kind of game with her will mean telling her more about me. There’s a cruel irony in that. I regretted it, and now I’m offering up additional access like a goddamn fool.
So be it.
Daphne watches me the way I watch her. As if nothing else exists in the world. Her eyes are bright and awake. She trusts me. My little painter can’t help it. That helplessness makes her angry. It makes tears well in her eyes. But she likes that, too. She likes complexity. Contradictions. She’s an artist, after all.
“You know perfectly well, little painter, that whatever else is between us, I’ll make you feel good.”
She bites her lip, flicks her gaze down to the rope in my hands. “Are you going to use that? In this game.”
“Yes.” I already have her answer. It’s in her body, if not her words. She’s leaning in, the little hummingbird. “Take your clothes off.”
Daphne lifts her chin. A little defiance adds dimension to the game. She is, however, unable to disguise the naked desire in her eyes. With quick movements she strips her sweater over her head to reveal a tank top with no bra underneath. That goes, too, without Daphne so much as breaking eye contact. Her leggings. Her socks. Her panties. It’s not a striptease. It’s an answer. She’s breathing harder once all her clothes are gone.
“Now what?”
I hold out the rope.
One more moment of trembling hesitation. It makes me hard as a fucking rock. Daphne’s eyes burn into my face. Into my soul.
And then she holds out her wrists.
I always knew she would, but relief crashes in just the same. She’s still, aside from her fluttering breath, as I bind her wrists together. It’s not particularly rough rope, but it is rope nonetheless—no satin bullshit for her.
“Wiggle your fingers.”
She does.
“Now come with me, little painter. I’ll show you where you belong.”
I take her wrists in one hand, the extra rope curled into my palm, and lead her to the stairs. And then I guide her down, taking care that she keeps her balance, taking care that she doesn’t fall. “I don’t want my piece damaged,” I say as we go. “Valuable art has to be transported carefully.”
“You must do that all the time.”
“Not pieces like you.” I mean to shut up, I really do. “You take more care than all the pieces I’ve ever moved. I think about it constantly. Every second I’m awake, and most of the time when I’m sleeping.”
Daphne blushes. “You do?”
“Yes, little painter.” Will I ever learn the virtue of silence in moments like these? Probably not. “That’s why you’re here.”
My house is larger than is necessary for one man. There are many rooms Daphne has never been inside. I lead her past several of them on the way to the gallery. We pause outside the door. Aside from my office and my bedroom, this is one of my favorite rooms in the house.
I haven’t wanted her to see it until now.
I push open the double doors and take her inside.
