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“He’s stretching that tight hole, little painter. And you’re taking it.” Sin adds another finger and I grit my teeth. Emerson has a bruising grip on my ass. He leans forward, just slightly, so that it pushes me back onto Sin’s fingers. Two of them. Tears gather and fall. “Beautiful.” Emerson’s voice goes low, intimate. “Clench on his fingers,” he says next, and I do. It hurts. Sin’s fingers are thick and deep, and when my muscles work, Sin groans.
“He’s not done,” Emerson says.
Sin pulls his fingers out, but they’re immediately replaced with something thicker. And harder. “Oh,” I say. I’m hazy with pleasure and pain. With the clamps hurting my nipples and Emerson’s cock filling me. “Oh, oh. I can’t.”
“He’s going to fuck it in and out of you until you can,” Emerson says. “It’ll hurt your hole, I’m sure. But it won’t be too much. I promise, little painter. You’ll be exactly as sorry as you want to be.”
I hold onto his shirt for comfort, bury my face in his collar, and sob.
It feels so wrong. It feels so good. It hurts. Whatever Sin is using stretches me, getting wider and wider until I’m sure I can’t take it, I can’t, I can’t, but then it pops in and stays in place. My hole throbs around the invasion.
Emerson lifts my face from my shirt.
His brothers have come around behind him so they can all see how sorry I am.
“Jesus,” Will hisses. “That’s gorgeous.”
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper.
Will leans over Emerson’s shoulder and puts his hand over Emerson’s. He tilts my face up another inch and licks one of the tears from my skin. Will squeezes my chin tight, like he wants to do more, and lets go. “Her tears taste as good as they look on the piece.”
Sin cracks a wicked smile. “I’m sure she’ll feel better soon.”
Emerson tips my face down. He searches my face. Drinks me in. And then he kisses me again.
In the sharp kiss, I feel the last of his control break. “I’m going to fuck you like this, little painter. I have to fuck you like this.”
“Please,” I breathe.
And then he has control of my body, control of my hips, and he’s fucking me. I ride him the best I can. Struggle with it. But we find our rhythm. It’s impossible not to, with him. Even when I fight him I still find it. It’s like the rhythm of painting. It’s embedded in my soul. I can’t pretend it’s not there.
I don’t see his brothers move, but the next thing I know, there are hands. Hands toying with the clamps as Emerson fucks me. One of them pulls the toy out of my ass and pushes it back in in a steady, teasing rhythm as my muscles flutter around Emerson. He’s the center of the world, but his brothers are still part of it. I’m being watched. I’m being treasured.
They toy with me, lifting my chin so Emerson can see my neck. They tug at my hair. Twist at the clamps. I don’t know who the frame is anymore. All I know is that I’m the art.
Emerson grunts, and then he yanks me in for a kiss. A huge wave of pleasure appears in the distance. I can feel it in the tips of my toes. Little tremors, working their way up. The hands on my body prepare, too. They touch and brush and squeeze, and then—
Then—
One of them takes the clamps off.
Blood rushes back into my nipples, ripping my orgasm free. I sob it out all over Emerson. He holds me tight, holds me down hard, as he comes too in hot, hard bursts. I’m so full. Of him. Of the toy. I’m so sorry. I’m so happy.
“Little painter,” he says. “Daphne.”
I reach the other side of the wave and keep tumbling. I’m still falling when someone—Sin, maybe—eases the toy out of me. It’s not a frightening dark. It’s a good one. It’s soft. I land on Emerson’s chest and nuzzle into him, shaking as hard as I did in the cave. My vision is blacking out. But it’s okay to let go and fall asleep. I can’t stop it.
“I’ve got you, little painter. It’s all right. I’m not letting go.”
Emerson’s voice is the last thing I hear.
