The Art of Obsession (Savage Stalkers #1)

9. “You’ll beg and crawl, too—when the time comes.”

9

“You’ll beg and crawl, too—when the time comes.”

Chapter Playlist:

“Control” – Halsey

ACHERON

How I love that silver fire in her eyes.

We’re in her territory now, where she feels she has the comfort and advantage. That will soon change.

I still have the rope wrapped around her lovely throat. With the cut straps of the dress, the upper slopes of her breasts are on full display.

“You’re a fucking slob, Everleigh,” I remark on the state of her apartment. I will expect her to take better care of her surroundings, but I have taken care of her future ones.

“Mmm, sorry,” she mutters, gasping from the rope. “Next time I’ll make sure to tidy up in case my stalker decides to drop by.”

I jab the handle of the knife on her lower back and command, “Move.”

Once I have her in the bedroom, I close the door, shove her onto the bed, and make quick work of tying her limbs to the bedposts. Loose enough that I may curl those pretty limbs but tight enough to send a message. As she’s taking deep breaths and struggling against the ropes, I draw the shades, turn off all but one light, then find a scarf for her blindfold.

She snaps her teeth, and I lightly slap her cheek. “None of that tonight, my sweet historian. This night will go down in our history. The beginning of many to come.”

“I’ll fight. I’ll scream!” she spits out.

“You’ll beg and crawl, too—when the time comes. But…” I hover over her, grinding my cock against her stomach, and let my breath cast along her face. “For now, this will suffice for your subservience.”

I retrieve the needle from my suit coat and inject the correct dosage into her neck. She shrieks, wildly shaking her head, but she’s already succumbing to the sedative. Enough to fog her mind and spread a warm lull to numb the tension in her body.

As she softens, her back sinking onto the soft sheets, I nod my approval, taking a moment to appreciate her uncontrollable surrender. She can still speak, moan, cry…clench, but no screams and no battle. I need her still and calm for my plans.

First, I remove my mask. And thrill in the sight of her. Something I envisioned the first time she strayed through the mist into that cemetery.

My cock hardens to iron. No, I won’t be fucking her tonight. Not here. But I will fuck that sweet, narrow throat.

I am the mask. She is my muse.

As for the why she is my missing piece, it is for me to know and for her to learn later.

No more waiting. I mount her, slam my mouth down upon hers, and steal the moan from her throat and the breath from her lungs. Her body softly rises, unable to control herself. Liquid fire catches my blood. I crush my chest to hers just to feel her heart pounding. No resistance. She opens for me. So goddamn sweet. She tastes like the lingering notes of espresso and vodka from the club.

She matches my hunger.

No, she does not make me want to be a better man. She makes me want to be a better artist, the greatest artist who has found the muse he has searched for all his life. Fucking Michelangelo carved the David from a block of discarded marble, deemed unworkable.

I will work Everleigh. And carve her.

The world does not see her as I do. She’s been discarded, abandoned too many times to count. Much like the artifacts she explores. Her birth parents rejected her. Her adopted parents grew too old for her. Her friends never understand the glow in her eyes and the ache in her heart when she enters the past. Her fiance when he lost his life on the way to their wedding. Something she no doubt blames herself for.

And whatever other unknown demons haunt my little historian.

Michelangelo also spent years on his goddamn back painting the Sistine Chapel.

I’ll break my fucking soul for her…to bring her to completion but knowing I will never achieve perfection. Because I’m in this for life.

I’ve already proven I have a “touch her and die” possession.

My heart hammers against hers as I torture myself and kill my pain with every moment of my tongue inside her mouth. Whimpers, moans…they are like my shading that brings depth—moans soft as a charcoal drag across paper. Sobs are dark, sharp, and broken. And the whimpers? They’re the delicate, faint, trembling outlines.

As she sets me aflame, I rip the dress from her frame, savoring her cry as I bare her to my eyes. No bra. Fucking killing me with her exposed breasts. Exquisite teardrops of plump perfection. Silver dollar-sized areola of pale pink and tipped with flush rosy nipples.

Her silky dark hair falls across the sides of her body in luxurious curls and tantalizes my senses with the scent of rose oil.

I smirk at the wetness on her upper thighs, drenching her panties. I make quick work of them, and once her lips part, I shove them in her mouth, forbidding her from arguing. And they will muffle her screams.

Pain and pleasure. My palette tonight.

A deep groan leaves my throat as I soak in the sight of her decadent femininity. Damned artist that I am, I will have multiple names for such a vessel befitting the moment. Femininity is for this one. Cunt will be for another. Along with pussy, core, center, and whatever else the fuck I want.

Everleigh Lennox is not some naive girl. She is a woman. And her feminine need is evident in her folds, awash with her fluids.

I’m burning up as I gaze at the most intimate part of her, fleshy and pink and utterly wet. A luxury. A privilege. And mine.

I lower my nose to her pussy, this priceless work of art. Fit for a temple to an ancient goddess. I breathe in her scent, her natural feminine musk blended with notes of lavender and vanilla. She is attentive in shaving or waxing. It does not escape my approval of how she’s been more attentive since the night at the cabin as I’ve occasionally treated myself to glimpses of her in the shower or bed.

I slake my thirst, stabbing my tongue through her pubis, exploring her beauty, these feminine secrets. Fuck, I’m ablaze for her, my cock tenting in my pants. She tastes as she smells, and I drink in her essence.

Everleigh lifts her hips, craving more despite her drug-induced fever. When I flick her needy clit with my tongue, everything in her being responds. She hisses. Sobs. Wails. My universe narrows to that plump, little nodule, working it with my tongue before I tenderly nibble.

A soft cry breaks from her lips.

Slowly, painstakingly, I slide one finger inside her, deep to the knuckle until she’s clenching her inner muscles, sucking me in deeper.

“Acheron!” She hisses my stage name, her hips subtly bucking. I won’t reveal my true name to her yet. Only once she’s in my exhibit.

I add another finger. She whimpers. I draw circles around her swollen nub until she moans and begs for more. She fucking begs for me as I torment her. Anytime her inner muscles flutter, I withdraw my finger and bite her clit, denying her the pleasure.

The edging cycle continues…for hours.

Once Everleigh is soaked in her sweat and drowning below in her juices, once she is hoarse from screaming, cursing, sobbing my name, I finally grant her relief. Stabbing three fingers into her drenched core, I stroke my tongue back and forth on her distended clit until she clamps all her inner muscles around my fingers and screams her release until…she faints.

I’m not done yet.