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“You want me to be your boyfriend, huh? A little arm candy to show off,” I tease.
“Well, youaremy husband.” She pats my chest and smirks. “Remember?”
And fuck, those few words nearly bring me to my knees.
My hand is falling asleep tucked behind my head while I’m lying on the couch, staring up at the ceiling. I listen to the final ashes of the fire crackle in the stove, providing the faintest orange glow while the rest of the room is shrouded in darkness.
Effie went to bed a few hours ago after painting all day. I wish I could blame not being able to sleep on the lumpy couch under me, but I know that’s not true. It’s the woman curled up under the quilt upstairs. I imagine her wrapped in the white sheets, and I bet she would look like a water lily with silvery-white petals if the moonlight hit just right.
I don’t know where we go from here. There’s nothing keeping us apart anymore. No family rivalry, no heist, no fiancé or arranged marriage. Only the sins of our past.
She’s mine by law but not mine by soul. Not fully. Not yet.
She was for a few precious moments in the lake. I could feel her breaking open, letting pieces of her soul drift out to me, trusting I would catch them. She wanted to be ravaged as much as I wanted to consume.
I perk up at the sound of footsteps upstairs. I listen carefully to see if she’s just going to the bathroom. She isn’t.
I lay still for another few minutes, my heartbeat growing heavier, louder, like it’s drawing me to her. I throw back my blanket and head upstairs in nothing but sweatpants. I find her in her makeshift studio, bathed in moonlight and the same shirt of mine she wore yesterday. Her bare legs are on display and my fingers itch to brush the smooth skin, hoping goosebumps raise on her skin at my touch.
She turns her head as I slowly approach. I move unhurried as if she’s a mirage that might dissipate if I go too quickly. “Can’t sleep,” she says and tugs on the shirt neckline.
“Me either.” I close the distance between us and sweep her face up with a finger under her chin. “What’s in that pretty head, princess?”2
She pulls her bottom lip between her teeth and swallows slowly. “I’m lost, Finn.” My finger trailing up her jaw stops in its tracks, her voice so despondent it makes my whole body cold. Her eyes fall back to her canvas of abstract swatches of bold colors and gold paint.
“I feel like I can’t trust myself when it comes to you.” Like a physical blow, her words make me take a step back, dropping my hand. “I’ve never had anyone I could trust, until you. But then what my family did to yours…we went to war, and I didn’t have you anymore, but I always had myself. Now, I’m not sure I do.
“Sometimes I feel like a body, bartered and bought, not a person. What happens when you realize you’ve been sold damaged goods? Will you still want me?”
My throat constricts and any reply dries up. Words fail me, nothing seems adequate. No apology big enough. No comfort strong enough.
I don’t know what compels me, but I step up to the easel and squeeze some gold paint on a palette. Picking up the first brush I see, I swipe it through the paint and lift the hem of the shirt until she pulls it over her head.
My heart slams against my ribcage seeing her completely bare on the stool. She curls inwards and wraps her arms over her breasts. I don’t tell her to uncover herself. I don’t tell her I need to see. I kneel at her side, facing the curve of her hip and thigh as she sits with one leg crossed over the other.
I remember the stretchmarks I saw our first night here and thinking I’d never seen anything more beautiful. She tenses when the cold paint touches her skin but relaxes under the brush strokes. I trace each line until her hip is striped in gold.
I move to her other side and highlight each mark and scar with adoration. She sharply inhales when I kneel in front of her and nudge her knees apart. I gently lift her leg and set it on my shoulder, gathering more paint on the brush before tracing the stretch marks on her inner thigh. I place her other leg on my shoulder and her hands fly to fist my hair for balance. I can feel the heat of her cunt and smell her arousal, making me groan and run my nose up her thigh before painting her stripes.
Once I’m done, I press a kiss to her pussy, hoping she can feel the reverence in it. She shudders as I drag a long, wide stroke from entrance to clit. I look up at her, her teeth notched in her bottom lip and make sure her eyes are on me. “Tell me all the ways I’ve hurt you.”
She stays silent, and I lap her pussy again with a slow and heavy drag of my tongue. Then I hover a breath’s width from her sweet heat, waiting.
“You manipulated me,” she breathes, and I take another purposeful lick, pausing again at the top until she speaks again. “You forced me.” Another heavy stroke.
She sniffles, and I rub circles into her thighs. “That’s good, princess. Keep going.”
“You humiliated me…” My tongue drags from bottom to top.
Another grievance, another apology.
And we continue like this until her thighs are shaking on either side of my head and her raspy, close-to-tears voice has turned to breathy moans. Her fingers pull on my hair, and I groan into her.
“Finn…”her voice floats out, and I know what to do next.
I carefully set her feet down and stand, grabbing her hand and pulling her off the stool. She trails behind me, her hand feeling so small and trusting in mine. I position her in front of the full-length mirror by the small wardrobe.
“Look at you, a fucking masterpiece.” I stand behind her and skate my hands over her shoulders and down her arms. She leans back, settling against my warm chest, and I melt at her trust. Laying my arms over her shoulders, I cup her breasts and fill my palms with them. I tease her nipples, rubbing a thumb over each one, and she rolls her head to the side and onto my shoulder.
