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“Evocative,” I say, the same way I would if I were visiting Michael to assess a piece or attending a private showing. “I’m particularly interested in the use of color.” I step closer and run a knuckle over the red in her cheeks. Then I skim that same knuckle on the tender flesh of her inner thigh. “And shadow.”
Daphne wriggles, testing her bonds. It’s difficult to be still. More difficult to be constrained in a frame or a closet, but she’ll manage it.
“You’re enjoying this.” I study her, slowly, leisurely. “Your face. Your eyes. It’s all there, little painter.”
“Why are you doing this? Why do you want me like this?”
I smile at her, and she blushes harder. “Because you love it. And because I love it, too. And because this is what happens when art tries to escape. This is what happens when something slips from my grasp. I have to teach it to stay put.”
“I’m not going to try again,” she protests.
“You’ll learn anyway. Better for you, I think.”
Light flashes through her eyes. It’s a game. I’m not going to hurt her in any way that would echo what happened to her before. I still don’t have those details, but I don’t need them. Her flinch at the beach was enough.
Here, the context is entirely different. I won’t punish her for her little escape attempt.
Not yet.
But I am going to teach her a lesson about what it means to be art. My little painter was so free outside of her frame, and she didn’t know it.
“I wonder what my painting would look like in response to pain.”
Daphne’s eyes go wide. Fear. Closer to the surface now. “I don’t know about that. I don’t think I’m supposed to—I’m not supposed to—”
“Like it?” I lean in and kiss her. She kisses me back. Dark. Sweet. Fuck. Daphne tries to get closer, but she can’t do that either. “What about the good kind of pain?” I ask into her mouth.
“Is there a good kind?”
My little painter tries so hard not to be innocent, but she is. Daphne Morelli is innocent to the core. Someone kept her like this for me. “There is good pain, little painter. You could try it. You could let me see it on your face. And if you didn’t like it, I wouldn’t do it again.”
Oh, this—this is what surprise looks like. A sparkle in her eyes. Brows slightly raised. A tendril of hair falls onto her cheek, and I brush it back. “You wouldn’t?”
I let her see the answer in my face. Sometimes words are worthless.
“Show me,” she says, her voice barely audible. I’m so hard I want to fill her with cum. Paint her skin with it from her tits to her toes. But I have to be patient for the sake of the game.
I take one of her nipples and roll it between my fingers, then pinch. Daphne gasps, her head knocking back against the wall.
“Give it a minute,” I coax, but I don’t give her a minute. I lean down and follow the pinch with a bite.
Daphne makes a low, shocked sound that transforms itself halfway through into a moan. She pulls at the rope on her wrist.
She doesn’t tell me to stop.
Not when I torture her other nipple in the same way.
“I don’t like it,” she pants.
“Then consider it a punishment. If you’re telling the truth, little painter, consider it a lesson. But you aren’t telling the truth.”
“How would you know if I was lying?”
An open invitation.
I put my fingers between her thighs and find her heat.
“This is how I know. You’re soaking wet.”
