18. “You get off on the pain, don’t you?”
18
“You get off on the pain, don’t you?”
Chapter Playlist:
“Pain” – Three Days Graceful
“Numb” – Linkin Park
“Corrupt” – Depeche Mode
ACHERON
The intoxicating melody of her uneven breath fills the room.
So fucking beautiful like this. Lingerie-clad. The same nightgown in which I first sketched her. Blindfolded, her lips part as if caught between a gasp and a moan.
I need her still for my first design. After binding her to where I want her, her chest rises and falls with fear…and lust.
I smirk at the wetness staining the lace covering her pussy. It’s taking everything to not stick my goddamn cock in her right now. But I have business dealings to consider, contracts to maintain.
The first time I fuck her, my clients will enjoy the show. They will not be present for what follows.
Only Dorian is present now, observing from beyond the one-way glass as I comb my fingers through my hair before I retrieve the first instrument I will use upon her here.
I light the candle slowly, letting her hear the strike of the match. Her body stiffens, and she sucks in a deep breath, tilting her chin slightly, searching for me.
The first drop of wax falls on her collarbone, and she gasps, her body jolting slightly.
“Shh,” I murmur, my voice soothing. “Trust me.” She snorts, but her face flushes with her arousal, her hips lifting. “Feel the bite of the wax, the rich lick of heat,” I command, tempting her as I tempt my audience.
She exhales shakily, her body relaxing despite the tension thrumming beneath her skin. Her eagerness and terror are delicious.
In her innermost being, she wants my cruelty, to be conquered and created.
I tilt the candle, letting the molten wax drip in deliberate lines, starting at the hollow of her throat. Her breath flares. The wax pools before cooling, leaving a delicate trail of crimson against her pale skin. I’ve chosen a deep red candle like old blood, vibrant and visceral.
With a steady hand, I begin to work, painting intricate lace-like patterns along her skin. Swirls and loops, delicate vines with thorn-like edges, flowers blooming from the curves of her shoulders. I work my way down her arms, tracing the lines of her veins, as if mapping her lifeblood.
“Do you feel it?” I whisper above her. “The way the heat blooms, how it cools and hardens? Every drop is a promise, Everleigh. Every line, a claim.”
She shivers.
When I snarl above her lips, making it clear I require her response, she clenches her jaw and whimpers. “I hate how good it feels.” Her voice is trembling but defiant.
“Hate it all you like,” I reply, letting another stream of wax drip along her hip, tracing the curve with precision. “But your body knows the truth. It always does.”
I move to her thighs, her legs shuddering slightly as I kneel before her. The wax clings to her skin, a vivid contrast to the softness of her flesh. My hand lingers, steadying her leg as I tilt the candle again.
Little by little, she settles, softening into the sheets, gliding upon the endorphins of pain. Now, I will give her pleasure.
With my other hand, I trace a lone finger along her wet pussy, lingering at her entrance through the fabric.
Her fingers curl into the blankets, her knuckles white. “Acheron,” she breathes. A plea. A curse. Surrender.
“Yes, Little Quill?” I ask with a smile. The design is nearly complete.
She doesn’t answer, only exhales shakily. I lean closer, my lips brushing against the shell of her ear. “You’re exquisite. Do you know that?”
A subtle shifting of her head. Her blindfolded gaze seeks mine. The vulnerability in her is intoxicating, but it’s the defiance still simmering beneath the surface that truly sets my blood on fire.
“You’re insufferable,” she manages, though her voice lacks its usual venom.
I chuckle, low and dark. “Perhaps. But you’re still here. Still mine. And oh, the suffering I will inflict upon you. For the creation must suffer with the creator. If the art does not bend or break, it cannot find beauty through the pain. Even if it must burn, it’s the only way to rise from the ashes.”
She purses her lips but says nothing to that. No, she fucking melts for me.
One final flourish, I encircle her ankle with the delicate pattern and set the candle aside. My fingers trace the hardened wax, testing its texture, ensuring every line is as perfect. Fine flushed lines hint from the edges of the wax.
“There,” I say, leaning back to admire my work. “You’re ready to be unveiled.” I remove the collar and blindfold, savoring the moment.
When the fabric falls away, her eyes meet mine, wide and luminous and stormy with emotion. She glances down at herself, taking in the intricate designs. Her lips part, but no words come out.
“Well?” I ask, my voice laced with curiosity and pride. “How do you find your first design upon my most treasured canvas, my lovely Little Quill?”
Her gaze snaps back to mine with awe and fury. Those gray eyes turn luminescent, a glassy gaze. “You’re a sadist,” she says, but her voice is softer now, tinged with something she’d never admit aloud. “You get off on the pain, don’t you?”
I smile and brush my hand against her cheek. “I get off on the result, the true soul that shines from beyond the pain. And your pain, Everleigh, is unforgettable.”
I don’t let her retreat. “Do you understand what this means, Little Quill?” I ask, my fingers tracing a hardened vine of wax along her shoulder. “Every line I’ve drawn, every stroke of heat and care—it binds you to me.”
Defiance still burns within her as she stabs out her chin. “You don’t own me, Acheron.”
“Don’t I?” I counter, amused. “Look at yourself. Look at what we’ve created together. Tell me it doesn’t stir something deep within you—something primal, something undeniable.”
Her eyes flicker downward, taking in the patterns once more. The anger in her gaze softens, replaced by a hesitant curiosity. I brush my fingers along the patterns, and her eyes follow.
“You’re sick and impossible.” She presses her lips to a tight seam, but I catch the sparkle of worship in her eye.
“And you’re irresistible,” I reply, leaning closer until our breaths mingle. “A perfect contradiction, just like this.”
“What do you want? Forgiveness?”
“I wouldn’t dream of asking for forgiveness,” I say, quite amused. “But perhaps, in time, you’ll see the beauty in what we’ve created. And how our bonds are unbreakable.”
She glares at me, but the fire in her eyes is tempered by something deeper. Unbinding her, I take her hand, guiding her fingers to trace the intricate designs along her chest.
“Feel it,” I urge. “Every line, every curve—it’s a reflection of you. Of your strength, your resilience. And yes, your surrender.”
She pulls her hand away abruptly, her cheeks flushing. “Don’t…don’t make me want it,” she pleads, shaking her head, but those tears escape, streaming down her cheeks.
“I will make you want everything,” I reply, my lips curving into a knowing smile. “Because you are my everything.”
Tension thickens the air between us, filled with unspoken words. She betrays herself anytime her gaze strays to the designs. And when her fingers twitch, when she inhales and lowers her fingers to follow the patterns on her stomach, I smile in deep approval.
Those fingers wander lower. My jaw clenches. Before she can touch her thatch of curls, I seize her hand and click my tongue. “Naughty girl,” I scold her, enjoying the warfare in her stormy eyes.
“Oh, god!” she cries out as I stab my finger into the edge of her opening, drenching the fabric. I grip her hands with my other hand before she can struggle.
“Look at you, dripping all over my finger, all over this lace and silk like a wanton, little slut,” I compliment her.
She thrusts her hips and shakes her head in wild denial. “I’m not a?—”
“ My slut. Own the fucking title, Little Quill.” I go deeper, straining the fabric. My cock throbs with every breath, every whimper, every plea she gives me. “There is no shame.”
“Only because you’re shameless,” she snipes. Fucking love that spirit. Gets me so goddamn hard.
While I continue to torment her center, I blow hot breath against her lips and say, “For research purposes, of course, tell me what you thought of my wax worship, what you felt . And remember, Everleigh…” I grip her jaw in warning. “I will know if you lie.”
Her fingers hover over the faint impressions on her skin. Wax and heat. Pain and pleasure. My art, my claim. I see the conflict in her eyes—how she wants to hate it, hate me, but she can’t. Not entirely.
She’s captivated. I see it in the way her fingertips linger over the intricate designs. She’s marveling, trying to decipher the why of it all. Why her?
I chose her because she’s chaos wrapped in porcelain. Because she burns and breaks and feels everything . The only one who could perfectly understand and worship my art. The only one who could be honored as my ultimate masterpiece. She is to me what the past is to her.
Her breathing quickens, her lips parting. She’s wondering what else I could do to her. The thought terrifies and thrills her.
I hover over her, watching her unravel. She thinks I chose her on a whim as if she were just another piece in my collection. But from the first moment in the cemetery, she was different. She radiated something raw, something untamed. I felt it in my chest like a storm waiting to break. Hunger, yes. Longing, absolutely. But it was the pain that caught me off guard. The ache of recognition. Her passion for the past. The wistful melancholy.
I hide behind my mask. But she shows everything. And that morning, she looked as I feel whenever I take the stage, knowing how the masses could never understand how deep my art runs…how it saved me. History saved her. And I will unearth all her secrets.
Now, she sits there, questioning everything. Let her wonder. Let her burn.
Because when she finally understands, when she accepts what she is to me, it won’t just be my art she’ll crave. It will be me.