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“Oh,” Emerson breathes. “Look at you. The most beautiful painter. The most wonderful piece. Please, Daphne.”
I don’t know what he wants, and then I do.
“Make me sorry,” I manage. “Make me cry.”
“Make you mine,” Emerson says, and then he moves.
It’s an explosion of pure muscle. He was being incredibly gentle before. So soft for me, even while he stretched me, made my flesh burn. Now he’s himself. Beyond himself. I feel priceless and defiled. I’m the part of his collection he’s allowed himself to touch and hurt and love.
Emerson leans forward over me, his hands coming down on either side of my body, and fucks me like he’s drowning. My vision flickers.
“Hold on,” he says, low into my ear. “It hurts, little painter. I know. Can’t stop. Relax. Pretend you’re painting. Yes. Yes. Yes.”
He gets his fingertips to my clit again and sets me off like a bomb. In seconds he’s coming too, throwing all his weight over me. Heat everywhere. He’s panting when he finishes. His hands are still deft. He takes my frozen fingers from the hook and gathers me up.
“You were so good for me,” he says on the way to the stairs. “You’re too good for me. You’re never leaving again.”
