33. Chapter 31
Chapter 31
Darcy
Emmy’s focus on her art is completely singular. She hasn’t acknowledged a single one of us. Not even when we each gave her skin a good morning kiss, nor when I brushed and braided her hair to keep it out of her way.
She isn’t being secretive about what she is working on, but none of us have tried to look. If she is anything like me, when she is ready, she’ll show us. The others all know and respect that about me, and I can see they are giving her the same treatment.
I pick up my phone from the dining table, tap the screen, and check the time. Nine-thirty. My chest tightens knowing we have less than half a day with our girl. I have less than half a day to convince the others that she is ours to keep. Convince her that she belongs with us.
I’m not sure what I am going to do if they disagree with me. I’m not sure that I can walk away. There are only two ways that I’ll part with this girl.
One. She wants to leave.
Two. My scene with her doesn’t go well.
And I’m not talking sub drop or being anxious. If she does not enjoy my ropes and knots, my suspensions, and the predicaments that I long to put her in, if she doesn’t find pleasure in any of that, then I’ll walk away.
Playing with her as a fuck toy last night was fun, but I don’t want an inanimate hole to stick my cock in all the time. What I want is…
The click of graphite against marble disrupts my thoughts, and I refocus on Emmy as the quiet murmuring around the table stops. She stares down at the sheets of paper in front of her, then reaches up and uses a graphite-stained hand to tuck hair behind her ear, leaving a smear of gray on her cheekbone.
I grin.
The number of times I’ve left my art studio with paint or clay or graphite on my face is more than I can count. For me, they are badges of honor, showing the world I had an excellent session with my art.
Emmy straightens her shoulders and blinks owlishly for a few moments before she turns to face us, her cheeks staining an adorable red. “Oh, um, I’m s—”
“Are we allowed to see what you’ve been working on?” I cut her off with my question. I never, ever, want her to apologize for being so immersed in her art, that she forgot the real world exists. That hazy space between reality and fantasy is where artists are supposed to live.
Emmy’s hand goes up to her mouth, and she bites at the side of her index finger as she glances back down at the pages. Her body is filled with tension. She shuffles the pages around for a moment, eyes darting back and forth between us and the paper before she takes a deep breath, picks them up, then scoots off her seat.
Each step is slow and unsure, like a deer sensing a trap but having no idea where the predator is. Art held in her delicate grasp, Emmy stays out of distance range. Gone is the sassy girl, and in her place is a shy artist. And I know she is an artist. Our sketching yesterday told me as much.
While amateur, her sketching skills are amazing.
I’d love to get her into one of my classes, but that isn’t going to happen. At least, not this year—enrolments are closed. Maybe I can work with her to get her enrolled for next year.
I cut off the thought. Nope. Not thinking about her still being in my life a year from now. I just need to get us all through the weekend. Then maybe, maybe, we can have this. But right now, my princess needs my assistance.
Shifting in my seat, I turn to face her more and hold out my hand. “Come here, princess.”
Emmy’s gaze snags on mine, staring for a moment before slowly drifting down to my extended hand. The uncertainty pouring from her causes a pang in my chest, but I don’t lower my hand. As much as I want to see the artwork, it isn’t purely out of curiosity.
We didn’t give her much of an opportunity to get her drawings done last night, and for her own sake, she needs to share them with us. Not that I wouldn’t enjoy a punishment scene with Hudson, but Emmy doesn’t deserve that right now.
She has been nothing but a good girl for us so far. I just want to make sure it stays that way.
A switch flicks inside of her that causes her back to straighten and for a little of that confidence to return. Eyes filled with determination, she slips her hand into my own, and I close my fingers around hers, marveling at the size difference. I’m not a giant man, but she feels so small and breakable in my grasp.
I tug her to me and guide her to sit on my thigh, her perch there slightly precarious.
No need to make things too comfortable for her.
“Show me what you’ve drawn,” I instruct, wrapping my arm around her lower back so that I can lay my palm on the bare skin of her thigh.
Emmy wiggles for a moment before lowering the papers from where they are pressed against her chest. With the first glimpse of the image on top, my heart squeezes. The raw talent on the page is astounding.
I raise my free hand and hold it close to the papers. “May I?”
She looks down at her hands in her lap and silently nods, making my heart ache for her. Sharing something you created is never easy; it’s like carving a slice out of your heart and handing it over to another person, hoping they won’t rip it to shreds.
I fan out the four sheets of paper—one for each of us. The sketches are still life, with elegant line work and shading. I’m not even sure if she knows what techniques she is using, but these drawings are…
“Who taught you how to draw?” I ask as I graze my fingertips over the curve of a female’s ass, stopping where the strands of a flogger bite into her skin. A male hand holds the handle of the flogger and ends just above the forearm.
The scene is reminiscent of yesterday, but the female isn’t restrained. Her face is away from the viewer, with long dark hair flowing down to the floor over the spanking bench. Her legs are stretched up on tiptoe, ass tipped up like she is leaning into each strike while her arms hang freely.
“My art teacher in high school,” Emmy replies.
“Have you taken other lessons?”
I discover more details the more I look—stripes from previous lashes, a teddy bear discarded on the floor, the grain of the wood in the legs of the spanking bench. And a scribble of a signature in the bottom right-hand corner.
E. Nicholas.
Another clue for Xavier to exploit.
Carefully, I pick up the sheet and pass it to Derek. There is no need to ask Emmy if it is his—there isn’t anyone else it could belong to.
Emmy shrugs. “I’ve watched a few YouTube tutorials.”
My eyes connect with Derek’s as he takes the paper, and I widen my eyes at him, trying to convey my thoughts. But, fuck, I don’t even really know.
A few fucking YouTube tutorials?
Emmy is talented. Raw, unpolished, but talented.
I’m going to move heaven and earth to get her into some classes. They may not be with me, but they will be with someone I trust. Even if this thing between the five of us doesn’t work out, she deserves the chance to learn, explore, share her art with the world.
I pick up the drawing clearly meant for Hudson. Two headless bodies, one male and one female, fully clothed. Where the man has trousers on, she is wearing a short dark skirt. Her arms are pinned between them, his chest pressed to her back, and his hand is shoved beneath the waistband of her skirt, ruining the smooth contour. The buttons of her blouse strain, and the delicate edge of lace peeks through.
Again, there are details—the folds in the fabric, the eyelets on his leather shoes, his free hand wrapped around the column of her neck, tilting her neck back.
I offer Hudson the drawing, and he takes it, his eyes going wide as he takes in her gift to him.
A blade between two breasts, with a fine line of blood rolling down the sharpened edge, is next. There is a tiny freckle on the right breast, a quarter inch from the areola, and it's then that I know for sure the woman in these pictures is Emmy.
The blade is older in nature, with a decorative pommel. The male hand that grips it obscures the pattern around the handle, but the sections on either side of the hands indicate a circle pattern.
Carefully, I slide the page across the table toward Xavier. His face is as stoic as always while he accepts, his eyes so focused on the image, I’m fairly certain he has forgotten that we are here.
The last image is for me, and I have no idea why, but I’m finding it difficult to look at it.
Emmy has drawn the kinks of my friends perfectly. And in each and every image, she is finding pleasure. My scene has yet to happen, so besides brief discussions and seeing my ropes, she can’t have any idea if what I want will interest her.
Not one to let things linger, I turn my attention to my drawing and suck in a breath.
It is nowhere near as explicit as the other drawings; it’s almost platonic in comparison.
Two arms from the elbow down with clasped hands, mine and Emmy’s. Our hands are parallel, gripping each other’s forearms, with hers on top of mine. An extraordinary amount of fine line work that has gone into detailing our skin and the threads of the intricately tied rope that secures our hands together.
The black and gray tattoos on my forearm, with their broken artist's palette and over-squeezed tubes of paint, are there as well. Knots depress the skin, giving the ink-darkened skin even more shadow and depth.
My chest feels tight as my heart swells, and I make a decision to swap out my reward gift to her. What I already have can wait for another time.
“Wh–ah, what do you think?” Emmy asks quietly, hands fidgeting in her lap as she peers at the drawing.
I stare at her profile for several heartbeats before I respond. “Princess, these are… They’re amazing,” I reply, irritated that I can’t find more eloquent words to adequately describe how impressed and moved I am by all four of her drawings.
“Mine is perfect,” Derek adds. “I’m going to have it framed and place it on my desk.”
I see the tiny smile Emmy tries to hide as her gaze darts back down to her hands.
There is a grunt of agreement from Xavier’s side of the table, and Hudson murmurs his agreement. I glance over at him and, with how soft his eyes have gone for her, I know he has taken the leap with me on this girl.
I tighten my arm around Emmy’s waist. “Thank you so much for sharing these with us. They are perfect. We’ll treasure them forever.”
There is a beat of silence that is broken by the rumble of Derek’s stomach. We all glance at him, and he smiles and shrugs. “Breakfast?”
As the others agree with him, I lean into Emmy and whisper in her ear. “After breakfast, it’s my turn, and I’m going to play with you until you scream.”