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I’m panting. Drooling. Barely mentally capable of forming a sentence as pure bliss rips into my body. “You’re a self-centered piece of shit. You don’t know—fuck—a thing about art. And you sure as—oh my god, damn it—you sure don’t know anything aboutme.”
“I know this,” he whispers, moving closer. “You’re about to come on my fingers. The second I kiss you, that’s all you’ll need. Think I’m wrong?”
“Fuck off.”
And he slams his lips into mine. That kiss, that goddamn kiss, his mouth is like honey and heaven, his tongue invades past my teeth the way his fingers fuck deep into my soaking, dripping pussy, and he’s right, the asshole, the bastard, he’s right. I come like thunder on his fingers, moaning into his mouth as we kiss, as I lick his tongue and suck his lips, I moan and come and when I can’t take it anymore, I push myself back, gasping for air.
He’s slow about finishing. Gentle even. His fingers come out and I’m left panting hard—still covering my tits as if it matters at this point. He steps back, staring. The outline of his cock strains against his joggers. Thick, long, and so hard I’m surprised he hasn’t torn through yet.
“You are incredible,” he says and licks his fingers clean. “Every drop, incredible.”
“Yeah, totally,” I say, catching my breath, my knees shaky. “I’m the best. I just let my kidnapper get me off. I totally rule.”
He laughs, shaking his head, and moves past me into the bathroom. The shower turns on. “I’ll get you pajamas,” he says. “Get in and get washed.”
“Can you just go? I mean, I get we just did something extremely weird and intimate, but I need some alone time to process just how mentally insane I am at the moment.”
“Whatever you want, devil girl.” He lays out cotton shorts and a tiny t-shirt on the bed. “I have an alarm set for four hours. I’ll wake you when it’s time to get back to work.”
“Right. Work.” My reality reasserts itself. I’m a prisoner. He’s forcing me to paint forgeries for him, which is a big-time crime and could land me in serious trouble if we somehow got caught. None of this is normal or remotely okay. “Four hours should be fine, I guess.”
“It’ll have to be.” He turns away. “And, Hellie?”
“Yes?”
“I like the way you kiss. And I love the way you taste. But next time, don’t cover yourself.”
With that line, he gets the fuck out of there, leaving me alone.
I lean my head up against the wall.
“Asshole,” I say, staring at the ceiling. “God, what an asshole.”
Chapter13
Erick
Iwake her exactly four hours later.
Her taste is still on my tongue. Her moans are still in my mouth. For the last four hours, I’ve been sitting alone in my office, trying to get work done, failing miserably, thinking about nothing more than Hellie. My devil girl. My gorgeous artist. Every inch of her is a masterpiece.
“Time to paint,” I whisper, gently shaking her awake.
She tries to hit me with a pillow. “Fuck you.”
“Hellie. Come on.”
“Let me sleep.”
I want nothing more in the world than to crawl under the sheets and cuddle up against her. I want that warmth, her softness. I want to plunge myself between her legs, feel her beautiful wet pussy wrapped around my cock.
I am fucked up with desire at this very moment.
“Hellie,” I say, shaking her again. This time, I catch the pillow and toss it across the room. “Back to work.”
“Fine.” She stretches, groaning like a cat. “But I hate you so much right now.”
“You loved me four hours ago.”
