Chapter Twenty-Three The Performer
Chapter Twenty-Three
The Performer
It was like the minute my heel hit the bottom of the stairs, I was snatched in an instant.
“Have you gained weight?” my mother hissed, pinching the side of the dress, then my arm, to test her hypothesis.
No response at all was better for mean-spirited interrogations.
The crowd dispersed around us. The staff tagged, moved, and prepared the art pieces for their intended destinations after the event. Félice and Cosette had already had their costumes changed so they could gather the dresses for the proud new owners.
“Come.” My mother dragged me toward the hallway, a spare dress draped over her arm. “We should get this off of you before you ruin it.”
“Petre.” Arkady grabbed my opposite arm.
My mother’s brow twitched, scrutinizing the interruption.
“Allow me, Mrs. De Villier,” he offered, a kind smile to pair with it. “You have been working so hard on such a stellar event, perhaps you should take time to enjoy it as much as everyone else.”
Her face contorted. First it was tense, then it relaxed into something more accepting. Her grip loosened on my arm, my skin red where her manicured claws laid into me. She let out a bashful huff, smoothing imaginary stray hairs.
“I suppose you’re right.” She sighed happily, the beast pleased with his flattery. “But please use extra care when handling the dress.”
“I will handle her with great care.” Arkady smiled pleasantly, pulling me along before she could make any more requests.
“What are you doing?” I hissed at him.
“Undressing you. You really don’t listen to your surroundings, do you?”
We ducked into my father’s library study, the large door chittering as the new wood settled back into its place.
The room was exhausting to look at. Too claustrophobic, even when organized. Despite its craftsmanship, it still had the infant scent of linseed oil on the carpentry. The books were all new. Not one cracked spine, not one dog-eared page, not even the smell of well-aged paper.
A wealth of money was easy to fake, but a wealth of knowledge was much harder.
“I thought you’d burst into tears out there.” Arkady helped himself to some scotch from the bar cart in the corner.
“As I’m sure you would have taken great joy in the spectacle,” I snapped.
“I guess we will never know, will we?” He turned, sipping the liquor. Though he suddenly became distracted with the taste, second-guessing his drink.
“We have our whole lives to try.” I crossed my arms, remaining beside the door.
“Time is on our side, luckily.” He placed the glass on the corner of my father’s desk, tilting it with a single finger to watch the light from the gas lamp dance through the crystal. “An eternity to get under each other’s skin.”
“Did you not hesitate the last time you saw my skin?” The words came so quick, it was like I hadn’t even said them.
He smiled at that, but it was not a pleasant one. Irked, he abandoned his drink for a quick approach.
I grabbed the door handle.
He slammed it back shut, already towering over me, holding it closed no matter how hard I yanked.
“Self-deprecation is second nature. It lives under your skin, makes a home in your heart until it rots in comfort.” His voice vibrated in my ear, his face so close.
His chest was pressed firmly against my back, with my white-knuckled hand gripping the handle of the door still. “That is, only if you allow it.”
“Will you, then?”
He didn’t speak.
“Will you allow it to make a home in me, Arkady? Or will you offer another creature habit to replace it? To fill the void before it can burrow?”
Silence.
It was impossible to keep still, to sit in the vacant air, the awkwardness. I wanted to speak again; it was harder to keep quiet. He didn’t need to speak. He wanted to hear what my heart would say if squeezed hard enough.
Movement at my neck, his free hand startling me as he pulled my hair aside. His fingertips brushed between my shoulders, then over the hem of the dress backing.
I bit my lip, not daring to speak, waiting for him to do something. Anything.
I pushed against the door, but he leaned closer, trapping me.
“Where do you think you’re going?” His hand smoothed down the back of the dress. “Can’t have you running off with something so expensive.”
“You make it seem like you want to steal it.”
“I have no use for dresses.”
“Thieves don’t steal for utility, they steal for value.”
He leaned down, his face by my ear. “There is something here worth the trouble of stealing, and it isn’t the dress.”
He grabbed the back of my neck gently, pinning me against the door like a scruffed animal.
“Arkady!” I squeaked.
“Hush,” he scolded, putting pressure on my neck before sliding his hand down. “You wouldn’t want them to hear you, would you?”
My words hitched in my throat.
The guests on the other side of the door were talking, champagne glasses chiming nearly as loudly as the laughter. My mother would be hovering close by like a buzzard, no doubt. My father would be lost somewhere, anywhere but beside his wife.
Arkady pinched the seam together, releasing the small clasps down my back, his knuckles brushing over my skin before slowing to a stop.
Warmth on the nape of my neck, his lips. A shaky breath audible, unsure if it was mine or his.
The rough skin of his hand pressed flush against me, smoothing over the bare skin. Slight pressure on the tips of his fingers as if to mentally note every dip and curve. Was this what it was like to be one of his sculptures? Oh, to be art. To be the object of his infatuation.
“Isn’t this what you want, Petre?” His words were soft, sincere. “The luxury of being desired?”
“Not just to be desired,” I breathed, glancing over my shoulder at him.
His eyes caught mine, and he leaned in. “Will you let me?”
I neglected to answer, we were too close. Claustrophobic. If I spoke, our lips would touch with no room for words.
And I was right.
Our lips met, skittish at first, then with more confidence, more reassurance, with every breath we could steal. He began pulling my dress up the front, digging desperately until he could finally touch my skin, cupping his palm between my legs, the warmth nearly melting me in more ways than one.
I gasped, my hand grabbing his arm, but not willing to pull it away. He pressed into my backside, his arm securing me in place. His fingers slipped between, gently pressing on the nerves before reveling in the wetness, the arousal.
His lips twitched into a smirk against mine, shifting the gathering of fabric to the back.
I expected the warmth of his fingers, to be touched and teased.
No, something else.
The chiming of his belt. Pressed firmly between my legs was a hot, smooth sensation. It wasn’t his palm. I didn’t dare look under the bunching of fabric.
I rolled my hips forward, along the shaft of his cock. I only felt length without an end. The lack of visuals making the mystery more unbearable.
I leaned back against his chest for stability, going up on my toes.
His hand guided the tip, swiping it between my legs, teasing the entrance.
He gasped, slow in his movements as if to savor, gathering the slick of the arousal.
Is he stalling? Hesitating?
I crossed my legs, his cock firm between them. I reached down, and he thrust forward, the wet tip hitting my palm.
So hot. So hard.
I was getting dizzy. I couldn’t believe the size, the thickness. I was fully prepared to be let down, with the way he avoided sex, but now it was clear it wasn’t out of embarrassment.
His arm wrapped to the front, his palm pressing on my chest to keep me close. He ground up against me, his chin resting on my shoulder with his eyes closed, tense with focus.
“Arkady,” I whispered, rolling my palm over the tip of his cock poking out from between my thighs.
He exhaled shakily, kissing my shoulder as he pulled out, using his leg to push mine apart.
The moisture dripped down my thigh. I was so hot, so ready. I was worked up like a cat in heat, mind and body eager. Even if it was only an inch, whatever he would give.
He touched me first, making sure I was ready. He began with two fingers, aware of my willingness. He curled them inside, knuckle deep, as my muscles twitched in anticipation for much more.
“How malleable you are,” he whispered.
“Careful, even lithe things break.” My chest rose and fell against his palm, my insides pulsing against his other.
His hand slid up my chest and to my jaw, caressing my neck as he kissed me. He removed his fingers, my body wanting to collapse from the disappointment of being empty. My adrenaline was the only thing that kept me upright.
Then was when I felt it, the hot tip of his cock prodding timidly, carefully, as if afraid I’d have teeth down there.
I pushed my back against him, eager for entrance.
He leaned down, kissing my neck. The scent of figs and cedar, of bourbon. The softness of his lips contrasting with the roughness of his palm on my neck.
Then, he sucked down hard on my skin.
I flinched, a whimper escaping.
He pushed inside. My insides filled gradually, all too willing to accommodate the intrusion. It was beginning to feel sore, and before it could hurt too much, he retreated, taking careful inventory of each breath, each sound I made.
Yet, I was doing the same. Listening to how he let himself exhale with a shaky breath, the tension in his arms as he held me, the pulsing of blood in his cock against my skin. Locking away each memory, each touch.
Was this what it was like to be obsessed?
His other hand placed low on my abdomen, holding me against him as he went in again.
He groaned into my shoulder, keeping his head down as he pushed inside once more.
I scratched at the door, his arm. I moved my hips, gasping and whimpering.
“I want you,” I said quietly.
“I need you,” he replied raggedly, keeping me tight against the door.
The pressure of his body against mine was grounding, letting me savor every inch he allowed, slowly, until there was no more to give.
Then, he thrust.