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“Never,” I breathe, “I wasn’t strong enough to escape, but I’m here now.”
He slams his lips to mine, pushing me against the door, pressing his hard body into mine, and I moan when he slides his tongue into my mouth. He turns his head, changing the angle, and sweeps my mouth with his tongue as if he can’t get enough, and needs every inch.
Nash pulls back, appearing confused, “Why are your hands behind your back?”
I smile, “I made something for you.”
Pulling the canvas out from behind me, I hand it to Nash. It’s a painting I made with him standing before me with me on my knees, ready to serve him. He holds it in his hands, staring at it with an intense gaze. I’m not sure if he loves it or hates it. Suddenly, I realize how stupid this was, like a child giving away artwork as if it means something. It meant something to me, but it does mean it will to him.
“I’m sorry. Why would you want that? I’m such an idiot. I’ll take it back with me when I leave.”
He lifts his gaze to mine, “You will do no such thing. This is the second most beautiful thing I now own.”
“What’s the first?”
He tosses it onto the couch, “You.”
Nash picks me up, puts me over his shoulder, making me giggle, and carries me to the bedroom.
He sets me on my feet, “I want to see you as you are in the picture.”
I grab the hem of my T-shirt, pull it over my head, and drop it to the floor. When I unclasp my bra and let it fall down my arms, Nash groans, “Fuck, Princess. I missed you.”
I look away from him as I lower my skirt over my hips, “Eyes on me, Princess.”
Snapping my gaze to his, I drop the skirt to the floor, hook my thumbs into my panties and lower them before stepping out of them.
“Come here, Ivy.”
I cover my hands over the sides of my breasts that are marked by Matteo’s knife. The stitches have not completely dissolved, and it’s so ugly.
“Are you hiding what’s mine?”
“Nash, please,” I whisper.
I don’t want him to see me like this, but I know it’s not just a matter of time to heal. The plastic surgeon already told me I’ll have scars. It’s a fact of life now, but I don’t want Nash to think I’m ugly, which is how I feel.
He takes my hands and holds them behind my back with one hand, “You will not hide from me. What he did to you doesn’t change how I feel about you. It doesn’t make you any less beautiful. It doesn’t make you less mine.”
“My body is ugly, Nash. I’ve seen it. I have mirrors.”
He grabs my hair with his free hand and pulls my hair, forcing my head back, “You will not say that again. Do you fucking understand me?”
“Yes,” I whimper.
“Good girl. Get on the bed.”
I gaze at him quizzically, “I thought you wanted me on my knees.”
He leans in and runs his tongue up the side of my neck from my collarbone to my ear and whispers, “Apparently, I need to remind you how fucking intoxicating you are. Get on the bed. I will not tell you again.”
Nash releases me, and I go over to the bed as I try to control my racing heart. I lie down on my back, and he walks to the foot of the bed. Removing his boxers, he says, “Play with your pussy, baby.”
My eyes widen, and my cheeks flame, “What?” I squeak.
“I do believe you heard me, Princess.”
I lower my hand between my legs and rub my clit feeling wrong for doing it.
