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My head fell back as I leaned into the touch. The canvas was probably wondering why it was getting half-assed strokes, but screw it—the painting wasn't the only art I was creating. Pleasure rippled through me, a stark contrast to the cool breeze that played with loose strands of my hair.
Biting down on my lip, I focused on the sensation building lower, the dirty thrill of knowing he was out there watching, the sick fuck. Every stroke of my brush was mirrored by the circling of my fingertips, each a taunt to the shadows I knew hid his eyes. My breathing hitched, the threatening climax coiling like a viper ready to strike.
"God, you'd love this, wouldn't you?" I groaned to him, to the empty air—because even though he was silent, I felt his presence like a damn ghost.
My body tensed, the orgasm ripping through me with the ferocity of a Chicago storm. And just like that, I peaked, shuddering against the easel, barely keeping the colors on the palette from becoming an abstract mess on the ground.
Pulling my slick fingers from the confines of my jeans, I glared at the canvas, my chest heaving. "Fuck your subtlety," I spat out, and dragged my cum-covered fingers across the surface. With a flourish, I completed a heart, the point swirling into a twisted mockery of tenderness. It was a fucked-up symbol, a perverse echo of what he'd taunted me with on my windowpane.
"Beat that, you voyeuristic bastard," I muttered, the remnants of ecstasy lingering like the taste of forbidden fruit.
The sun dipped lower, casting long shadows across my canvas, transforming the riverside into something more sinister, more apt for the scene I'd just played out. Betrayal, revenge, sexuality—they were the real colors I worked with, splashed across every choice I made.
"Let's see you turn away from that," I whispered, almost daring him to push this game further. Because deep down, where the darkness held sway, I craved the chase, the madness of it all.
And whether he knew it or not, he was making a masterpiece out of me.
I snapped a photo of the defiled canvas, the heart with its swirly point – my obscene gesture to the shadows. The perverse satisfaction bubbled up inside me as I typed out the caption with a smirk plastered on my face.
Did you a favor and spiced up the design. Maybe next time, stick to your coloring books. XOXO
Before I could second-guess myself, I hit send.
The message disappeared into the ether, towards him - my personal poltergeist in the machine. My phone felt like a live grenade in my hand, the screen an unpredictable portal. There was a rush in baiting the beast, a twisted game of tic-tac-toe where every 'X' was a step closer to detonation, and every 'O' a suffocating hug from the darkness.
As I stared at the ripples on the river, tinged gold and crimson by the dying sun, the weight of what I'd done settled over me. Excitement? Yeah, it was there, dancing in my veins to the rhythm of my still-throbbing pulse. But guilt? It gnawed at the edges of my consciousness, a reminder that I was flirting with a line most people wouldn't dare approach.
What the hell was I doing? Was I really getting my rocks off to some creep's sick fantasies? Was I actually finding a sense of protection in his twisted vigilance? My laughter scraped against the silence, bitter and sharp. Well, if this was my dive into the deep end, at least I wasn't wearing any fucking floaties.
The sun dipped low, a dying ember on the horizon as I shoved my paints back into their battered case. My canvas, still wet with the evidence of today's madness, was wrapped in a protective sheet. The river had lost its shimmer, and Chicago's skyline started to flicker awake with the first signs of neon and nightlife.
"Time to head back to my cage," I grumbled under my breath, hoisting the strap of my bag over my shoulder.
I started down the toward my car, each step an echo against the concrete, a steady drumbeat to the chaos churning inside me. Safe. The word rolled around in my head, a bitter pill laced with some fucked-up version of sugar. No bastard with wandering hands would dare come near me—not with his eyes burning holes into anything that moved within a ten-foot radius of my body.
Guardian stalker. I scoffed at the thought, a smirk on my lips. Who the hell needs knights in shining armor when you've got a creep in a hoodie?
The city hummed around me, the evening crowd blissfully unaware of the twisted little bubble I found myself trapped in. I could feel the buzz of my phone against my thigh, another message, another taunt? Or maybe Gavin, worrying his pretty little head off. But it didn't matter. None of them did. There was only one person who had me by the psychological balls, and our dance had just begun.
Chapter 12
Celeste
Jolted awake, I gasped for air like I'd just narrowly escaped the clutches of death. My heart hammered an erratic drumbeat that screamed, "You’re not safe, even in your own goddamn bed." The darkness of the room closed in on me, and I fought to peel away the images that clung to the edges of my consciousness like leeches.
"Fuck," I hissed under my breath, my hand fumbling for the switch on the bedside lamp. Light flooded the room, banishing the shadows but doing jack shit to chase away the horror show playing on loop inside my head. Those dreams—more like twisted, sadistic nightmares—were a nightly occurrence now, ever since I’d tried channeling my inner demons into that anonymous blog of mine.
I doubled over as a wave of nausea hit me. The faces from my dream, distorted by violence and suffering, hovered before my eyes, a gallery of grotesque portraits. I could still see the glint of the knife, the spatter of blood... Jesus, it was like my brain had tapped into some sick serial killer's fantasies.
The reflection staring back at me from the mirror across the room looked as haunted as I felt. The way my hair stuck to my forehead in sweaty curls didn’t help either; it made me look like I’d ran a marathon through hell.
But it wasn’t just the dreams that got me all twisted up inside. No, it was the fact that they were bleeding into my day-to-day, making every glance over my shoulder a paranoid tick.
Art is supposed to be therapeutic, right? I scoffed, thinking about the blank canvas in the other room waiting for me. But nothing felt soothing about splashing my subconscious gore onto a piece of stretched fabric. It was more like ripping open a scab—painful, messy, and fucking necessary.
Maybe you need to get laid, Celeste. I said to my reflection, a bitter laugh escaping me. But who was I kidding? Sex was just another form of escape, and I was done running. Besides, there was no room for soft curves or gentle caresses in this narrative. This was all hard edges and cold surfaces, much like the city of Chicago itself.
The silence of the night pressed in on me, heavy and expectant, like it was waiting for me to spill my secrets. I shoved off the covers. Time to turn those bloody images into something tangible, something that might give me a sliver of control over the chaos. Time to paint the town red. Or at least a corner of my living room. Those fucking dreams wouldn't get the best of me—not tonight. Not ever, if I had anything to say about it.
