Chapter 31 #2
His hands return to my waist, thumbs digging into the seams of the leotard.
He lifts me slightly, just enough to make my legs tremble, and pulls me back against his body so I can feel the full length of his cock pressed to my lower spine.
He grinds up, slow, deliberate, once, twice, and I almost forget where I am.
The only thing anchoring me is the knowledge that hundreds of people are watching, and that I want them to see the way I come apart for him.
I look out across the audience and lock eyes with a middle-aged woman in a green silk dress, the kind that says she's come here for the thrill of the forbidden.
She's biting the inside of her lip, one hand gripping the stem of her wine glass, the other tracing lazy circles on her own thigh.
She doesn't flinch away from my gaze. I hold it, daring her to look away, and then Gunner slides his hand between my thighs, fingers pressing hard against the soaked fabric, and I gasp so loud the woman's lips part in shock.
The sounds from the crowd shift, a wave of collective arousal and envy and reckless, animal thrill.
Gunner's right hand moves to my chest, cupping both breasts at once.
His thumbs draw slow, brutal circles over the painted blooms and the rigid peaks beneath.
Every touch is both a caress and a blunt-force claim.
He lets go long enough to reach for the handprint on my thigh.
I know what he's doing before he does it.
He brings his fingers to his mouth and sucks the paint from them, eyes never leaving mine.
The audience shudders as one. I can hear the collective intake of breath, the exhale when he finally licks his hand clean.
He moves behind me again, hands framing my ribcage. I feel the warmth of his lips at my nape, the graze of his teeth as he nips at the delicate skin there. His erection pushes so hard against my ass it almost hurts, and I push back in a way that's more plea than invitation.
He speaks again, voice hoarse but perfectly audible: "You want them to see you, don't you? You want them to see how wet you are for me?"
I nod, unable to trust myself to speak.
He slides the leotard down my arms, freeing them, then moves to the front of the chaise and kneels between my knees, spreading them wide so the leotard pulls taut against my cunt.
The wet patch is a dark, obscene stain, the kind that would have gotten me expelled all over again, only now I want everyone to see it.
He runs both hands up my legs, then hooks his thumbs in the sides of the leotard.
The movement is slow, almost ritualistic.
As he peels it down, the fabric drags painfully over my nipples, which are so hard they ache.
The room is so silent you can hear the fabric whisper as it moves over my skin.
He takes his time, never looking away from my face, until the leotard is at my waist, then my hips.
I lift my hips so he can work it free, spreading my legs slightly so the front row gets a clear view of my dripping pussy.
The bougainvillea glows on my skin, but all I can think about is how empty I feel without him inside me.
He leaves the leotard on the floor, a blue puddle on the velvet, and for a second Gunner's hands are the only thing keeping me from floating away.
I feel something shift in me—an ancient, animal part that's been waiting for this. I want to ruin him, to be ruined by him. To leave a mark that won't wash off.
He stands, looming over me, and gestures with one hand for me to turn. I do, slowly, so the audience sees my ass pointed in the air, sees my pussy quivering with need.
"Good girl," he says. "Now come and free my cock."
I stand up and reach for him. I drag my nails down his abs—slow enough to leave faint pink lines—but his gaze never leaves my face.
He's daring me, taunting me, and I rise to it.
I cup his cock through his pants, his entire body tensing at the contact.
I can feel the shape of him—thick, iron-hard, the fabric already darkened by a wet spot at the head.
I glance out at the first row. The woman in the green dress is breathless, lips parted, her wine glass abandoned.
Next to her, a man in a navy blazer is so hard he's palming himself through his trousers and doesn't care who sees.
I drop to my knees. There is a scrape of velvet and a collective intake of breath from the crowd.
I want them to see me worship him, to see what it looks like to be consumed by need.
I make a show of it: my hands bunching at his waistband, my lips brushing against the bulge before I pop each button, one by one, with my teeth.
His cock surges under my touch, desperate to be freed.
Under the lights, I can smell his skin—clean, but with an animal undertone that is all Gunner, all power.
I nuzzle my nose along the length of him through the fabric, then finally, finally, I tug his trousers down and his cock springs free, monstrous and beautiful, the tip already glossy with precum.
Someone in the audience actually gasps. He's massive, and every inch of him is going to be inside me while they watch.
I wrap my fist around him, pumping once, twice.
He's so thick I can barely get my fingers to meet.
I look up at him, at his face—the mask of dominance is slipping, replaced by a naked, frantic need.
I lick a stripe up the shaft, then swirl my tongue over the head, collecting the salty slickness there.
He nearly doubles over, swallowing a groan.
"Is this what you wanted them to see?" I say, loud enough to carry. "How much you need me?"
He grits his teeth, jaw clenching. "Get up here. Turn around. Show everyone how you want it."
I stand and do as he says, moving back to the chaise.
My thighs are slick with my own need, and I know anyone close enough can see it.
I bend over the arm of the chaise, ass arched high, legs spread, pussy glistening in the stage lights.
I don't care how obscene I look. That's the point.
That's the art of it. Gunner comes up behind me, cock in hand, and lines himself up.
He's not gentle. The head pushes at my entrance, just the tip, then he slams in so deep and hard I nearly scream.
The audience is silent. No one even coughs.
Every person in that theater is holding their breath, watching as his cock splits me open, as my body takes all of him and then some.
I clutch the velvet, knuckles white, and force my face up.
I want to see them. I want them to see me. The thrill is like a drug.
He pulls almost all the way out, leaving just the tip inside, then slams back in.
Again. Again. The sound is obscene—wet, slapping, primal.
My tits bounce with every thrust, the painted bougainvillea flowers smearing against his skin and the chaise.
I can see in the reflection of a mirrored pillar to our right: the whole tableau, my body spread and trembling, his hands gripping my hips.
He leans forward, his chest flush to my back, and growls, "Look at them. They're watching me fuck you. Watching you take every inch. Do you like it?"
Yes," I gasp, and the word is a whimper, a confession. "Harder."
He laughs, low and vicious. "Beg for it."
"I want it," I say, louder now. "I want everyone to see how you ruin me."
He obliges. His pace becomes brutal, relentless, his cock pistoning in and out so fast I can't even keep my eyes open.
I hear a moan from the balcony, almost a wail.
There's a ripple through the crowd, a few illicit breaths and suppressed cries.
Someone is openly masturbating in the back row, a man's arm moving in frantic jerks.
In the front, two women are kissing, one of them sliding a hand under the other's dress.
Gunner's hand slides around my throat, not choking, just holding me in place.
His other hand finds my clit and rubs in tight circles, cruel and precise.
The pressure is overwhelming; I'm so close to coming I can't think.
My body shakes with the need, with the desire to let go, but I want to make it last. I want everyone to see exactly how I come apart for him.
I'm so close, my pussy clenching around him, when he does something that changes everything.
He shifts us around so we're side-on to the audience, so they can see him driving in and out of me, then he looks directly at them.
Not a glance, but a sustained gaze that holds them while his cock drives into me.
"Watch her come," he tells them, his voice carrying through the room. "Watch what I do to her."
He leans forward and whispers, just for me, "Come for me. Now."
That's all it takes. I explode, my pussy spasming around him, my whole body convulsing with pleasure so sharp it's almost pain.
I scream, not caring who hears. The sound echoes through the theater like a gunshot.
My orgasm is endless, wave after wave crashing through me, each thrust drawing it out even longer.
He doesn't stop. He fucks me through it, prolonging the agony, the ecstasy, until I'm sobbing and pleading for mercy with every breath.
He slows, finally, then pulls out and spins me around.
I fall back onto the chaise, legs spread, chest heaving, and he climbs on top of me, pinning my wrists above my head with one hand.
He lines up and plunges inside again, this time facing me, and the intimacy is almost worse than the violence.
He holds my gaze, his eyes wild and soft at once, and I realize that he needs this as much as I do.
He fucks me slow, deep, letting me feel every inch, every vein, every pulse of him.
The audience fades away. There is only us.
He kisses me—hard, desperate, all teeth—and I taste blood and sweat and paint. His hand moves to my jaw, holding me still as he thrusts in, over and over, until he shudders and groans my name:
"Daphne."
He comes with a force that leaves me shaking, his cock pulsing inside me, filling me so full I feel it dripping out past him, pooling on the chaise.
We stay like that, joined, both panting, his cock still twitching inside me.
The paint between us is completely smeared now, our sweat and cum mixing with the colors.
His hand cups my face with unexpected tenderness, thumb tracing my cheekbone while his cock softens inside me.
The lights begin their slow fade, and thunderous applause erupts through the room. We don't stand. Don't bow. Don't acknowledge them at all.
Gunner pulls me against his chest on the velvet chaise on the now-dark stage, both of us naked and painted and dripping with each other.
His arms around me feel like the only home I need.
Which is insane, given he kidnapped me mere weeks ago.
But maybe home is just the place where someone sees all of you and doesn't look away.
The paint on our bodies has mixed into something new. Not his garden or Papa's watercolor anymore, but ours.
"You're mine," he says against my hair, his hand sliding between my legs to feel the mess he made.
The words feel like a beginning. Dangerous and irrevocable. Tomorrow, all of Miami's underworld will know what happened here tonight. The ballet teacher and her kidnapper, fucking their way into infamy. The Delgado empire's newest monsters, painted in flowers and cum and unashamed hunger.
His fingers trace through the wetness between my thighs, and I realize with dark satisfaction that this moment is everything I've been denied. Everything I've been told to hide.
"And you're perfect," he murmurs against my throat, and I feel his appreciation in every syllable.
The conservatory dismissed me for unprofessional conduct.
Their polite way of saying I was too sexual, too hungry, too much.
Pristine tried to make me small. But here, painted and held by the man who sees all of me, I'm finally exactly the right size.
Big enough to scandalize. Big enough to terrify.
Big enough to take everything this violent, beautiful world wants to give me.
We stay on the chaise as the room empties, as the lights dim to nothing, as Miami's underworld disperses into the night with our performance burned into their memories. Neither of us moves. Neither of us needs to.
We're exactly where we're supposed to be.