PETRA #2
It’s of a naked man posing like a Greek god, his skin bathed in sunlight coming from behind. He is standing on a grey podium of sorts, his body gleaming, his sinewy muscles painted with such precise rigor.
The painting, however, is unfinished. It stops just above the chest. Pity, it is quite a striking study in anatomy mixed with Romanticism sensibilities.
I move to the next painting. It depicts a lone book in the midst of a sprawling library. The next one shows a wide-open window and a piece of paper breezing in the wind.
The only painting done by the same artist that seems to be finished depicts a sea of people moving forward while one lone person stays behind, alone with the shadows that coil around her into a protective cocoon.
“I’m not sure.” He leans closer to look for a signature. “It’s not signed.”
“That’s a pity. They’re beautiful,” I add. “Especially this one.” I point to the last one.
“That one is my favorite, too.”
“I wonder what the name is.”
“Symbiosis,” he states. My brows go up, and he shows me a small, scribbled script in the corner. No artist name. But there is a title. Strange.
“Symbiosis? That is an odd choice for a name. What do you think it means?”
He’s staring at the painting, his hands behind his back. He has a wistful expression on his face. “Because this person—” he points to the lone figure —“does not need the world to survive. She only needs her faithful shadow to shield her from everything.”
“She? How do you know it’s a she?”
He shrugs. “That’s what it feels like.”
I accept his explanation without much thought. But something lingers in my mind, an impression forming that I am unable to properly phrase or make sense.
We continue our tour, inspecting more of the hidden treasures inside these rooms—wood-paneled walls, more vintage furniture, and elaborate tapestries give the place an air of grandeur, a stark contrast to the cold stone corridor that led us here.
Eventually, we enter a room that leaves me momentarily speechless.
It’s a bedroom, but one that has been clearly designed with a woman’s taste in mind.
A delicate canopy bed is placed in the center of the room, and its frame is intricately carved with floral patterns.
Soft, opulent linens have been laid over it.
“Wow,” I exclaim. “This is such a quaint room, Sin! Did you set it up, or was it this way when you found this place?”
“No, this room was already arranged like this when I stumbled into the underground bunker,” Sin replies, his eyes twinkling with pleasure at my excitement. “Wait until you see this!” he says and opens the wardrobe.
Inside is an array of colorful dresses from the 1800s, an eclectic mix of styles, ranging from loose-flowing gowns with empire waistlines and simple silhouettes to corseted gowns with colorful shawls and fitted jackets.
All the costumes are historically accurate, and I’m astounded at how fresh the colors look.
While I scan the row of well-preserved fabrics, Sin fingers a yellow gown with red floral patterns, his eyes roving over me with a hungry expression.
“Would you try this one? For me?” he asks with a sheepish look on his face.
“You sure? All this looks so expensive, and also quite sensitive,” I reply with a sigh of my own. “What if I damage the dress?”
“You wouldn’t,” Sin replies with a smile. “And even if you did, I don’t think anyone will mind. Besides, I think it would look amazing on you. Anything and everything looks amazing on you.”
“Oh, stop it,” I reply with a blush, but of course, his flattering words please me. I hesitantly take the dress off its rack and feel the soft fabric beneath my fingers. “What if it doesn’t fit me? You know, because of . . .” I point to my stomach.
“It has a high waistline. That shouldn’t be a problem.”
I don’t question how he’d know that, and I try not to imagine him rummaging through the closet of a random woman.
But he’s right. The waist is high enough that it would not be too tight over my stomach. It doesn’t seem to be a Victorian dress, though. Rather, it resembles more mid-1910s Edwardian silhouettes.
I wonder who else has been here between the 1800s and when Sin discovered this place.
“All right. I’ll give it a try.”
Sin nods toward a privacy screen that’s so well made it alone could pay my whole college tuition, and I obligingly head for the secluded spot.
“Or,” Sin says, half-jokingly, stretching an arm to block me right as I am about to disappear behind the wooden board—“you could just change here.”
His tone is light, but his eyes simmer with desire.
“Thanks, but I think I will use the screen,” I reply with a laugh and a light punch to his arm.
He raises his hand and steps out of my way with a wry smile. Though my belly juts out a good deal by now, the fabric of the dress cascades over my body in soft swells, the layers swishing around me as I adjust to its weight.
When I step out from behind the privacy screen, Sin’s eyes light up. He lets out a long, low whistle as I twirl before him.
“You look incredible!” he murmurs. “I mean it, Petra. You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. This dress was made for you.”
Pleased at his compliments, I look down at myself, feeling like a character from a historical drama.
The gown is truly exquisite, and for a moment, I wonder what it must have been like to actually live in the time it was made.
“It’s very comfortable,” I admit, smoothing the fabric. “And it does fit me quite well.”
“You look stunning, my love,” Sin says with a glint in his eyes that cannot be mistaken for anything other than a deep-seated, insatiable desire for me.
He steps closer, running his hands through the pleats of my dress and across my hips, his fingers intertwining with mine.
“May I have this dance?”
“There’s no music, Sin,” I reply with a soft chuckle, but inside my heart is literally doing flips.
“We’ll make our own,” he says with a heated grin.
And just like that, he pulls me close as our bodies start swaying slowly in the dim light of the underground chamber.
The filigreed lanterns mounted on the walls cast long shadows around us, and it feels like we have stepped outside normal time and into a pocket universe of our own.
“You fit in here perfectly, Petra,” Sin whispers into my ear as we gently turn on the spot. “This might have been my hiding place, but it’s never felt more like home than it does now.”
He looks down at me with the most enchanting smile in the world, and it’s a good thing his arm is supporting my back because my knees quiver at the sight of that beguiling face, the blue eyes sparkling with desire, the full mouth coming close to mine . . .
Our lips meet and tangle swiftly. Our limbs follow closely behind. Sin pulls me deeper into his arms as my fingers entwine in his hair.
My baby bump keeps coming between us, and we laugh freely at the impediment while simultaneously helping each other out of our clothes.
I unbutton Sin’s shirt with urgent movements, as if I can’t wait to touch his skin. He’s much smoother in his movements as he loosens my overgarments and slides them over my shoulders.
In the next few moments, I have taken off his shirt as well, and as I carefully step out of my chemise, he unzips his trousers.
Soon, we stand stark naked.
Sin looks sculpted and sinewy, and I can’t help but run my fingers down his chest and defined abs and then the V-shaped dip in his hips leading to . . .
My cheeks flush at the sight of his erect cock, but just as my hand starts to falter, Sin guides it to the base of his manhood, and as I cup him there, where he’s hard and tender, velvety and taut, he lets out a low, guttural groan and cups my breasts.
In the next instant, we are writhing and squirming in another heated embrace, where I can feel his cock rubbing across my wet folds. In another swift motion, Sin picks me up, as if I weighed less than a feather, and carries me to the sprawling bed.
As we sink into the plush linens, his cock nestles even deeper into my moist center, and the feel of its hardness makes me arch my back instinctively, a gasp escaping my lips.
“Tell me where to touch you, Petra,” Sin says in a hoarse voice as he hovers over me, his fingers stroking my tight nipples before moving between my legs.
He takes utmost care not to jostle my stomach, but otherwise, his caresses are growing frenzied by the minute.
“Tell me where you want to be touched,” he repeats against my neck before taking one of my nipples into his mouth and swirling his tongue around it. At the same time, he teases my folds with his fingers, expertly touching me until I’m writhing in his arms.