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He had done something that turned me into some kind of primal beast that enjoyed getting put on my knees, that reveled in the power, the ferocity of his thrusts behind me.
In that moment, I’d loved it, and I hadn’t wanted him to stop.
I wanted more. I wanted him to ravage me, mark me, claim me.
I wanted him to show the world that I belonged only to him.
Even now, thinking about it—the sensation of his fingers digging into my hips, his teeth at my neck, and his cock slamming into me—my heart raced, my cheeks heated, and my core, even sore as it was, pulsed with need.
I had so much emotion, anger, shame, and need, I required an outlet. Maybe this was the inspiration I needed to create something worthwhile. I went to Rose’s studio. She loved art as much as I did, but unlike me, she had talent, so Daddy kept it well stocked for her.
Occasionally, I would get it in my head that it wasn’t that I had no talent, it was only I had yet to find the right medium for my talent to express itself. It was ridiculous. Nevertheless, what was it they said, hope springs eternal?
Rose had all types of tools and supplies in her studio, everything from watercolors to ceramics. Whereas I had not found a medium I was even passable with, she had yet to find one where she didn’t excel. I loved her, but sometimes I loathed her a little, too.
The soft pink walls were covered with her watercolors of Central Park in the spring, pen and ink still life studies, even a few oil-painted sunsets over the New York skyline that were just breathtaking.
My favorite was when she did a whole series of paintings of random people she saw in the park or from her window. The way she portrayed each figure with so much personality, they felt real. Rose also kept a bottle of turpentine uncapped in this room. Just enough that it permeated the room with a permanent odor that our mother couldn’t stand. She never came in here, and the studio became our refuge, the best place to hide, paint, read, or just be unbothered.
Scavenging through the drawers of pencils, brushes, and markers, I came across charcoals. The resulting thick dark lines and gradient shading I could get might be exactly what I needed to express my swirling negative emotions. I grabbed the set and a fresh sketchbook and set to work.
There was only one image in my mind, only one thing I could picture, the only thing I had thought about since the night of the opera.
Luc Manwarring’s sexy, smug, infuriating face.
His strong chiseled jaw, regal Roman nose, and serious brow. I tried to draw the intensity of his eyes. They were dark, but more than that—there was something behind them, a strength that went beyond that of money or breeding, a possessiveness that was primal in a way I couldn’t quite capture. Several tries later, I was surrounded by piles of balled-up paper, and I gave up on capturing his eyes.
Frustrated, I threw down the paper and the charcoal and collapsed on the chaise lounge.
Closing my eyes, I visualized my subject.
I pictured his intense cobalt eyes and how they seemed to stare into my soul like he could read every impure thought in my mind. I thought of that sexy smirk, then I thought about how he looked up at me from between my thighs.
His lips were painted with mischief from the sinful smirk he gave me as I tried to catch my breath. He looked like the Devil, smug and satisfied, knowing he had me thoroughly entangled in his trap.
I wasn’t going anywhere. I couldn’t run, and what was worse, he made me question if I even wanted to.
Just recalling the way he looked was enough to make my blood heat and my core ache for more.
I pictured Luc sitting next to me on this couch. His hand would be on my thigh, trailing up my inner thigh, and slipping under my dress. The room was suddenly stifling.
“You have been such a good girl for me,” he would whisper in my ear. “I’m going to give you a little treat for behaving.”
His hand would move to my panties, and he wouldn’t even take them off, just push them to the side so his fingers could slide between my lips, searching for my clit. He would run small circles over it, gently, not enough to make me come, but enough to make me ache for his cock.
I brought my own hand to my thigh and pushed my skirt up a bit.
My eyes fluttered open, glimpsing the cloudless blue sky visible through the windows as I bent one of my knees and trailed my fingers over my clothed core, simply enjoying the little shivers that flowed over my skin. My panties were damp. Those things he’d whispered in my ear while we danced… had the way my hand brushed against his cock been an accident?
He was doing something to me, changing me in some profound way that made me yearn for things I didn’t know I should even want. I had been taught sex was for men to enjoy and for women to tolerate.
For the first time, I understood why women did such stupid things for the men they wanted.
I slid my fingers into my underwear and tried to mimic the way he touched me. It felt good, but not electric, like when he did it. I wanted it. I wanted him, but at what cost?
My eyes slid closed again as I focused on how it felt when he touched me. When I touched myself, I was always gentle, soothing as I coaxed my body to its release.
Luc didn’t coax anything; he demanded my pleasure. He moved my body, then manipulated it to give him exactly what he wanted, and I hated it.
