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Saskia scooted to a sitting position. She remained silent as he rubbed the cream into the welts on her chest. He screwed the lid back on and dropped the container back into the first aid kit. She watched as he crossed to the other end of the room, opened a drawer, and pulled out a short cotton nightgown. Saskia could tell from across the room that the fabric was soft and cool and breathable. He helped her into it and then pulled back the covers on the bed.
“Get in.”
She slid under the covers, and Quill turned out the lights and joined her. Saskia drifted off to sleep in Quill’s arms, certain something had changed between them for the better.
17
But nothing changed. It was as if Quill had let his guard down with her for one beautiful moment and then pulled it right back up again. Almost immediately, he’d pushed her away, back into the gallery, isolated from him. As if she’d never spent a night in his bed. Or as if it didn’t matter that she had, or maybe he’d found her in some way lacking the same way he seemed to find everything she put on canvas lacking.
Anyone else who didn’t meet his expectations, he could have sent packing, but she knew too many things that could ruin him, she hadn’t signed an NDA, and well, what were the odds he trusted her not to report him for what was essentially kidnapping?
He’d at least started painting with her again, but that same distance permeated the work between them. The only sign of intimacy was the accumulating stack of finished paintings in her image. It was the only real connection between them, the only sign that he felt something deeper when he looked at her.
Beyond that, he’d grown even more distant than before. The only sex or kink they shared was in preparation for a new painting. He was willing to fuck her to capture her on canvas but not for the experience itself. What did that say about her? What the hell did it say about him?
It was even worse with her work. With his, at least there was a sign of life in the finished piece, but when she painted, Quill maintained his distance. He gave no sign of either pleasure or disappointment. And no longer did he give her any direction. No tirades. No pep talks. Just a gaping void of nothing, a space she couldn’t seem to fill with anything to regain his interest in her as an artist.
Quill glanced at her newest painting. A still life. BDSM furniture, but still she was regressing. She kept moving farther from the material instead of closer. She wondered if some part of her did this intentionally, to force his hand, to force any extreme reaction out of him. Anything that felt alive like his paintings. She was baiting him.
But he gave no sign that he cared one way or the other about her creation. Instead, he said, “Nolan will be here in an hour. You should probably get ready.”
Saskia flung her brush down, but still he didn’t react. “Do you really want me to fuck him?”
Why? For what possible reason could he want this? He’d seemed weirdly jealous of Marcus. How could passing her around more help anything? She was perfectly happy to just be his. To truly deeply be his. Why couldn’t she just be his? Why couldn’t he just let her in? She’d only agreed to sleep with Nolan because Quill seemed to want her to. She grasped onto anything he wanted like it would be the last raindrop before an endless drought.
Quill moved closer, the whisper of intensity peeking around the edges of his features. “Yes. I want you to fuck him. And I’m going to watch the whole thing on the cameras. I want you to give yourself to him in any way he demands. I want you to be my whore. It’s the only investment that’s paid off.”
She flinched, unsure which stung more, the words themselves or their icy delivery. Once again, she wanted to hate him. Saskia was sure if he were anyone else in the world, she’d hate him. But no matter how much easier it would be and how much she wished she could flip a switch and be done, Quill continued to loom large in her mind, and the hope of something real with him lingered on.
“He wants you to meet him out on the terrace. You can wear a swimsuit. Lacy left one in the bathroom for you. There will be drinks waiting by the pool.”
Quill turned to leave.
“Wait. Does he know who I am yet?”
“I haven’t told him.”
An hour later, Quill was nowhere to be found. In fact, everyone at the main house had made themselves scarce. A red bikini had been left in the bathroom and a matching sarong.
Nolan was in the pool, a piña colada in one hand, when Saskia arrived. She’d taken advantage of the sarong for as much cover as possible. Which was ludicrous. He’d seen everything in excruciating detail already.
It seemed almost comical for someone with such strong male features to be holding a yellow girlie drink with a pink straw. And yet there he was. He’d already downed one and was working on his second.
“Saskia,” he said, his eyes widening in surprise.
She couldn’t believe he’d actually remembered her name. When she’d met him at the fund raiser, she’d been sure that if she were to meet him again the very next day he would have scrambled to remember it and likely wouldn’t have even gotten the first letter right.
“Nolan,” she said in reply.
“Great, we both remember each other’s names. We’re off to a fabulous start. Join me.”
Nolan wasn’t wearing swim trunks. They floated forlornly in the deep end of the pool like a tragic accident. His erection was visible even from above the surface of the water. He made no comment on the bikini or the fact that she was getting into the pool with him still wearing it.
He handed her a piña colada when she reached him.
Saskia took a sip. “Wow. That’s strong.”
“It’s a lot of rum, very little mix. I imagine that was for your benefit.”
