Chapter 18 – Geralynn
Chapter Eighteen
Geralynn
Eight Weeks Later…
“Spread your legs wider,” Renzo demands, as if his commands determine my flexibility.
We only have thirty more minutes in today’s sketching session before we shift into my daily activity – studying for the LSAT.
Renzo’s new rule about spanking me for every wrong answer on practice tests has left my ass completely raw, but hasn’t improved my performance.
I need to review all those stupid logic question tricks.
My hips stretch as I make my best efforts to open my legs and give Renzo more of what he wants.
I lost some of my self-consciousness for this man’s artistic process a few weeks ago, but the small baby bump protruding from me renews my uncomfortable awareness with my body.
I have to sit slightly backwards to accommodate my stomach.
“This looks much better,” Renzo offers the rare crumb of approval.
My exposed lips feel completely vulnerable, even if I know Renzo doesn’t care beyond his obsession with “documenting” my pregnancy.
His hands make broad, sweeping strokes across his sketch pad with the charcoal and then grins at the drawing.
“I know they’re larger than when I first sketched you,” he mutters.
“What, my thighs?” I grumble, expecting another cheap shot of an insult from Renzo, since he makes it clear that he finds me repulsive whenever he gets a chance.
“No,” he says, cold eyes roaming over me again. “Your breasts. The nipples are larger and they’re much fuller than before.”
His tone and tongue sliding gently over his lower lip demonstrate his approval. I want to look down and away from Renzo’s gaze, but I don’t want to suffer the consequences of breaking his concentration and switching my position while he draws. It’s seriously not worth it. Trust me.
“Thanks,” I mutter, because I don’t know how he wants me to respond to this observation about my breasts.
There’s this constant pressure in my pelvis in this position that my body responds to by producing large amounts of lubricant which Renzo watches ooze out of me.
“Do you need me spread open like this on the dining room table?”
“It’s erotic.”
That’s the closest Renzo has come so far to giving me a compliment. He slept with me at first because of the drug and then to fulfill his end of the contract. Plus, he’s a guy. Most of them would fuck a ham sandwich if they could cum and leave no witnesses.
I struggle not to move and close my legs against his invasive and overly observant gaze. It’s bad enough I have to feel all mangled and stretched out by bloating, gas, and nipples the size of large pepperoni slices. Every part of me feels swollen and soft as my body prepares to grow our baby.
When I shudder at the thought, Renzo notices the flicker of movement.
“Be still,” he snaps, overreacting as usual. He wouldn’t like it if I had him naked and spread over on the dining room table.
I muster up a few more minutes of posing exactly the way Renzo wants me to without provoking him to issue a sharp command or denigrating comment about my inability to sit still.
He focuses intently on stroking the white page with charcoal lines.
He only shares a few of his drawings but most of the ones I’ve seen look like he went to art school in Italy and not business school.
“It’s more relaxing than strangulation,” he tells me whenever I compliment him, shoving away any efforts on my part at accessing his vulnerability.
“I can’t stay still anymore,” I grumble. “I need to fart and I’m tired of sitting with my legs open. I’m pregnant, Renzo.”
“We’re going to get to your practice test soon. Those practice questions are a lot harder than the real thing. You’re wasting your time.”
“Right. My time is much better spent spread open on your dining table so you can sketch my pussy.”
“I’m sketching your whole body right now,” Renzo responds infuriatingly. “And I won’t be here much longer because I’m joining my brother and Peter for work tonight.”
He hasn’t worked since Nicki freed us from our two week breeding jail. I don’t want to overreact, but I am pretty sure Renzo’s jobs mostly involve crime.
“What work?”
“None of your business.”
“Perfect. I’ll use that time to escape.”
“You won’t,” Renzo says calmly. “You’re going to get off the table and bend over it. I’ll use my last fifteen minutes to sketch your ass and dripping lips from behind.”
“My lips are not dripping.”
It’s a dumb argument. Not only can he see the cum dribbling down my legs, but I can feel the warmth as my juices trail a forbidden path down my inner thigh.
My breasts can at least rest on the table if I’m bent over and the position will be a lot less painful to keep up than perching up on the dining table with my pussy out and holding a split.
I hop off the dining table and shake my feet out to move the pain through my tight hamstring muscles all the way down to my toes. Renzo taps his charcoal pencil impatiently.
“I’m not an object, Renzo.”
“You’re a model,” he replies quickly. “And not a very obedient one.”
“I don’t have to obey you. This is an equal exchange.”
“It’s not very equal if you’re sabotaging my time.”
I bend over the table and stick my ass out towards Renzo the way he wants.
It takes all my willpower not to build up the nastiest most bubbly fart imaginable and direct it towards him.
I can’t fart on command like a demented frat boy, so I just end up tooting my ass up at a more appealing angle and positioning my body on my tiptoes.
Renzo likes it even more than I expected.
“Perfect,” he exhales with genuine excitement and a tone of admiration that he doesn’t even bother to hide.
It’s the slightest crumb of validation from him and although I know I shouldn’t let it get to me, it’s hard to ignore the crazy high I get from any part of my body being called “perfect”.
That’s a word guys normally reserved for my best friend, Nicki.
I squeeze my thighs together and Renzo clears his throat.
He can’t stifle the effect I have on him and just knowing that he’s secretly turned on while drawing me causes more of my juices to dribble out.
I can hear charcoal sliding across the paper and the silence filling the dining room gives me a strange sense of peace that I haven’t felt since I woke up in Renzo’s arm.
The last fifteen minutes fly by faster than I expected. Renzo stays true to his word and makes no efforts to cheat me for time.
“It’s time to study,” he says. “If you want to be more than a janitor.”
He hasn’t lost that cutting sense of superiority throughout our time together, and there’s still an edge to Renzo’s voice that I despise.
The growing responsibility I feel for the life growing inside me provokes me to do more than quietly seethe about how much I hate Renzo or tease him for my own entertainment.
“Don’t talk like that,” I respond to him assertively, unwilling to let another classist or racist comment slide from this man’s lips without putting my foot down. He shockingly submits to my request, shrugging his shoulders as he stands up and shuts his sketchbook.
I unravel my position bent over the dining table and grab the robe I have hanging over the arm of a dining chair.
“Fine,” he says. “If you want to get into law school. Does that pass your little wokeness test?”
“Shut up, Renzo.”
The words come out of my mouth easily and he doesn’t retaliate. Renzo’s efforts to break my spirit only make me stand up to him more. His efforts to torture me won’t work and neither will his efforts to make it up to me later with his tongue.
“I can’t shut up,” he responds. “I have to help you study.”
The dining room is a decent enough place to study for the LSAT, so we don’t move too far from Renzo’s art supplies.
He sits next to me, holding study materials to the side and looking very much unlike himself.
At least he’s not staring at my naked body.
We review practice questions and seemingly break the tension that built up earlier during Renzo’s drawing session.
Thankfully, my LSAT routine stops him from turning every drawing session into an opportunity to slide between my legs.
There are only so many times we can actively pursue sleeping with one another without it getting hard for me to believe we still hate each other.
Which we do. Of course we still hate each other.
Renzo’s criticisms during our study session finally push me over the edge during my “reasoning section” practice quiz. I can hear the timer counting down when Renzo adds his own stupid and unhelpful comment, “You’re taking too long.”
“Don’t you have a body to throw in the harbor?”
“Aside from Nicki’s?”
“Not funny,” I grumble. “I would get the questions done if you didn’t interrupt me.”
The timer beeps annoyingly. I slam my pen down on the table.
I’ve lost so many brain cells over the years to the stresses of adult life that I can’t envision myself getting the score I need on the LSAT to make it to law school and have a job that doesn’t just make a difference in the world, but makes my whole family proud.
Renzo stops the timer beeping.
“Geralynn.”
“What?” I snap at him, my gaze flickering up to meet him. Renzo has stunning eyes, which just makes everything about him that much more annoying.
“I love you,” he blurts out. It’s so quiet that I can hear a blue jay cawing outside the dining room window several hundred feet away. Has Renzo lost his mind? What does he want me to say?
I admit that I don’t choose my words well.
The confession feels like a gut punch and all my complicated feelings and negative past experiences with Renzo Taviani bubble to the surface.
I can already feel tears prickling at the back of my eyes, because why the fuck would Renzo say something like this.
My voice trembles, despite my conviction. “You’re racist.”