Chapter 63 #3
“Mmm.” She bends forward and licks, looking at me through her wet hair.
He pushes me down toward my belly button.
Her tongue continues its magic before her teeth travel down, and I watch in utter fascination as she pulls on the piercing clamped between her two front teeth.
I lift my hips up. It hurts. My piercings could rip through my flesh, but I allow it.
If anything, I welcome it. The agony mixed with the pleasure is what I crave.
“Again, my little succubus. Open your pretty mouth wider. Make me feel it, baby.”
She bites me this time, clamping her sharp front teeth in my skin. I cry out and sink my fingers into her hair, gripping her scalp. “Fuck, baby. What are you doing to me?”
She lifts her head, and devilish triumph on her face will live with me long past death. An immortal testament. She’s claiming not just my heart, but my body, my pain, and my pleasure as well. “Taking what’s mine, Stone.”
Her words tip me over the edge into the point of no return.
When her mouth settles over the head of my cock.
She reaches up and touches my lips with her fingers.
I suck them inside my mouth as she sucks my cock inside her warmth.
And I’m gone. Lost in her savage sweetness, lost in the inevitability and impossibility of us.
“Show me your art.”
Camryn sits up, sweaty and sated in her bed.
Her eyes change, going from slumberous to wary in a split second.
And I can’t understand why. At her brother’s house, the art piece I saw mesmerized me.
And what I saw her do with the paintings in my mother’s room was utterly breathtaking.
The memory of her eyes the day her father came to her gallery ricochets through me.
Despite the bravado she presented, I can tell she’s not confident about her work, and that pisses me off. Her father has no idea how good she is.
When she slips from the bed naked and walks to her dresser, I try not to get hard as her pert ass bounces with each step.
She reaches her dresser seconds later. It’s a rickety old thing, clearly vintage, and I wonder why this heiress, this millionaire, lives so simply, dressing like she doesn’t have a trust fund or any of the other trappings that come with her wealth.
She pulls out a T-shirt, sliding it over her head, and then tugs her long midnight hair out of the collar. Each move is graceful. The shirt is oversized and hides her body, but it won’t matter; her pussy is free. My cock will eventually slide back inside her.
When she walks to her bedroom door and opens it, I raise a brow, not moving from the nest of stained sheets. She looks back at me and puts her hands on her hips. She rolls her eyes. “Well, it’s not in my bedroom.”
I slide out of her bed and pull up my pants, leaving them unbuttoned.
My cock won’t allow me to. It’s already leaking pre-cum from watching her get dressed.
That eye roll only added to it. After fucking her for the last hour, I should be satiated, but one snarky outburst from her and I’m ready to push my cock down her throat.
I follow her to her living room, and she moves to her closet, pulling out several covered canvases. At least fifteen. They are in different sizes and lengths. How the hell did she fit them all in there?
She leans each one against the walls of her apartment, but doesn’t remove its covering.
I wait for her and see that she won’t take the first step.
She’s worried about my reaction to her work, and I want to let her know that I already recognize her talent.
She wrings her hands and shifts from one foot to the other.
“Some of them are just sketches. Others I haven’t finished so they are not the best.”
“Come here.”
She swallows and walks closer, and I pull her toward me, needing to soothe that furrow between her brow. Her sassiness is one of the things I like best about her, but her vulnerability is also gorgeous.
“I want you to forget all that bullshit in your head. It’s you and me here, Countess. Show me your art.” She nods and smiles nervously. She quickly pulls off all the cloth coverings, as if to get it over with.
The breath catches in my lungs. Fuck, she’s good, just as incredibly talented as I remember.
She used a variety of subjects in her art.
A young girl. A mother holding a baby. An older man with a cane.
Jace. Valentina. A bird. A close-up of a flower.
Each piece marries metal, fabric, wood, clay, and plastics.
Some even feature seashells and other organic materials, such as bark.
One has discarded pieces of garbage interwoven with the paint.
“Why don’t you put these in your gallery?”
She crosses her arms, stubbornly. Her eyes are trained on her work. “They’re not ready.”
I see her lie. They are ready, but she’s scared.
Terrified of that fucker’s words. I wish he were here so I could punch him in his mouth, but he’s her father, and it’s really not my business.
She doesn’t want to talk about him, and I understand.
I rarely talk about my mother, and Ivory and Angel are rarely talked about outside of Onyx and me.
But she listened that day. She listened to my memories of them that day.
“I think they’re more than ready. They deserve to be shown.”
“Maybe.”
Just then, I notice that the last painting has not been revealed. She kept it covered. When I walk toward it, her body goes taut, making me wonder what it is. I drag off the covering, intrigued when I see the profile of a man’s face. A face with a scar, and a tattooed heart under the eye.
I look back, her face is down, eyes anywhere but on me.
I look back at it, humbled. I touch it, running my scarred fingers along each line.
The thin metal piece for the jaw. The bits of leather that are part of the face.
The thick smears of paint for the slashing eyebrows.
The shards of dark glass used for the eye.
It’s sensual and harsh. The energy from the expression is mind-blowing.
She created a depth of emotion that leaves me speechless.
Something about the fact that her fingers made a rendition of my face is erotic as hell.
I pick up the extra-large sketchbook, leaning against the wall. She jumps, lunging toward me. “Wait! No, those are not—”
I flip through it. Page after page shows drawings of me, of us fucking each other.
“Those are just my sketches. Give it back!” She tries to grab it from my hand, but I lift it, moving it out of her way, flipping through more pages.
I stare at our naked bodies. Every inch of me is drawn in fine pencil strokes.
I touch the drawing of her sucking my cock as she kneels.
My hard cock is deep in her mouth, and drool drips from her chin.
The corner of her mouth is stretched to capacity.
My eyes are looking down at her, feral with desire.
Beautiful tears stain her face. Her fingers are sunk in my thick thigh muscles.
If I close my eyes, I imagine I could hear her gagging, choking on the girth of my shaft.
Turning more pages, I hum in pleasure at other angles of her sucking my cock.
They are incredibly life-like and sensual. Erotic.
I find one that lights my whole body on fire. This one has her kneeling, mouth open, tongue out, fingers pinching her nipples. She’s drawn the moment my cum shoots out from the tip. Spurts are drawn mid-air, and others land on her chest, breasts, and nipples.
Christ. Each line is seducing me.
I keep going to find more. Illustrations of me eating her pussy, her back bowed, my head between her legs.
The last one is of me breaching her ass.
It’s a bird’s-eye view, but I recognize my piercings, my tattoos.
She’s on all fours, gazing back at me with my pierced cock half inside her.
Her hole is stretched impossibly wide, her gorgeous face is sweaty, twisted in pleasure, strands of hair sticking to her skin, her teeth embedded in her lower lip, fingers gripping the sheets.
It’s so realistic that it’s almost like I can smell her pussy, the earthiness of sex.
My cock pulses, as if the tight stretch of her ass is really milking me.
My fingers automatically touch where my dick is implanted inside her, tracing each line on the thick vellum.
I keep going and find others. There are at least 100.
Some are done in blue or black pen. The rest have been created using charcoal and pencil.
All of them are like snapshots of the past and future.
Her talent is impressive. My little artist has no idea that I have the same in my cabin.
My sketchbook is filled with hundreds of drawings of her face and her gorgeous body.
“Nice subject,” I say, handing the book to her.
My cock is hard, and I’m not hiding it. She licks her lips, looking at my cock, before she takes the book back.
“Are you going to let me draw you?” She whispers.
“Maybe.” I throw the words she gave me back her way. “It looks like you don’t need a model.”
She blushes and hugs the book to her chest. “Some of them are made from memory. I’d like to draw you in person.”