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He’s painting. Something small. Not very complex. Soft motions over the nerves.
“You’re beautiful when you give in to me,” he murmurs. “Relax a little more. Yes. There. You’re more precious than I realized, little painter. It’s a problem for me.”
He’s making me feel like a human wave, all wet and pleasured, but he won’t take it to the peak. That’s good, I think. It means he’ll be patient. It means this will last.
“Because you don’t want to keep me?”
“Because I can’t give you up.” I take more of his fingers. “You deserve someone better, but I’m not better. I’m not good at all.”
I want to disagree with him, but he’s taking his fingers out and adding a third. Emerson moves his hips, giving himself a little friction as a reward for his patience.
“Keep breathing.” It’s an order I struggle to follow. “You’re squeezing my cock as tight as my fingers. It feels so fucking good, but you have to let go, Daphne.”
“What if I can’t?”
“Then I’ll fuck my fingers in and out until you can. Ah.” A shiver. It’s an answer. His body to mine. “You like that.” Emerson pauses to think. “If you won’t relax, I’ll stretch you until you can’t stop crying and you have no other choice. You’re filthy, aren’t you? How about this? If you can’t relax, I’ll take my cock away.”
I go as pliant as I can. I don’t fall, because of the pillow. Because of Emerson. The hook. But it’s easier for him to stretch me.
He groans. The sound is all wordless praise. It takes him a minute to speak again.
“I hated when you were away,” he says. “I couldn’t stop, little painter. I almost came to find you and bring you home.”
“I wanted.” My mind struggles for words. “To go with you.”
“If you stay, I’ll ruin you. One day, you’ll wake up, and you won’t be able to paint. This house won’t be enough for you. I won’t be enough. You have to know, Daphne. You have to decide with your eyes open.”
“That’s not going to happen. You wouldn’t let that happen.”
“Make me a promise.” Emerson’s voice is tight now. Too carefully even to be anything but suppressed emotion.
“Anything.”
“Promise me you’ll tell me if the colors start to fade. If you can’t pick up your brush. Promise, little painter.”
It’s hard to focus with his fingers stretching me like this. “Why?”
“You’re the only piece I love. I won’t risk your art, but I won’t stop you from risking it. If that’s what you want. If that’s what you need.”
“I need you.”
“Promise me.”
“I promise. Will you—will you keep me in your gallery? Please, Emerson.”
He takes his fingers away, his chest catching. “I’ll keep you in your frame forever. Take a deep breath, Daphne, and let me in.”
There’s so much pressure at my hole that tears run down my cheeks. He’s too big. I can’t. But then he’s stroking my clit and making the smallest adjustments to my body and I realize—
I realize—
I have to do this. Because it’s dirty and wrong and good and because Emerson sees himself like that ocean on fire. He sees himself like a prison. A wrecking ball. He thinks he takes up too much space and breath and life.
I push back as hard as I can. He curses. Shudders. “Slow down, little painter.”
“I want it to hurt.”
I get what I wanted. I ride the edge of pain all the way to the end. I’m gasping for breath by the time I’ve taken all of him. Emerson’s shaking. Tears fall to the blanket. My knuckles are white from gripping the hook.
