|The Master's Muse
Author: anisurnois PM
When innocent and kind Anastasia Steele receives some news that forever changes her life, she comes at the crosshairs of one unyielding law, an irresistible proposal, and two men. Will Ana's new tragic circumstances change her bargaining power with the enigmatic chilling Christian Grey? Or will she choose a safe goodbye with the one man who always understood her?Rated: Fiction T - English - Romance/Drama - Anastasia S. & Christian G. - Chapters: 38 - Words: 218,859 - Reviews: 1,424 - Favs: 426 - Follows: 680 - Updated: 05-12-13 - Published: 01-20-13 - id: 8927996
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
Readers and reviewers, faithful and new. Thank you so much for your incredible support of this story, especially the last few chapters. It means a lot to me and I wish I could respond to every message. But as that would keep me from writing, I just wanted to say thank you here! A couple words about this chapter. It would be an impossible task if I managed to write a sex scene that you will all love. Nonetheless, I hope I won't let you down and that you enjoy it as much as I did. My ultimate goal was to stay true to my characters which, although they have Fifty names, are different in their own right, which differences will unfold further as the story develops. I hope you like it. Thanks again for your support! - xo, Ani
CHAPTER 15 - "Master"piece
The light of his bedroom is muted. No sound but the night and my loud breathing. He is close, very close. I smell sandalwood. Cinnamon. Christian. I see nothing but him. And he has turned part beast, part man. His hand is still grasping my watch and I feel the strength of his tendons against my pulse, ticking away blood. Ticking away time. In that one touch, I have become the anchor that keeps him grounded. I don't know his battle but I know that right now, he needs me to look at him. Just like I need him to look at me. I could describe the way the molten gray stirs, melts, fires, whirlpools, freezes, and relives all over again. But that would not matter. What matters is the conversation I know our eyes are having without either of us uttering a word.
I need you.
You are mine.
But you don't know all.
I know enough.
Keep me from myself.
Keep me from tomorrow.
I realize abruptly that any of the words could have been mine or his. And in that small, last moment of clarity, our eyes reach an understanding. In unison, they whisper,
Nothing exists tonight but you.
He smiles and sighs as his battle ends and the man-beast stalks the freedom. He lets go off my wrist. He caresses my cheek with the back of his fingers, along my jawline, until he reaches my lips. He traces my lower lip with his thumb and the edge of his nail scrapes my skin lightly, back and forth, back and forth. My eyes close, my head tilts to the side. I have a mad impulse to taste him. My tongue reaches shyly for the pad of his thumb, and I hear his light gasp as his thumb, now wet, traces my lips once more.
Both his hands frame my face.
"Open your eyes," he whispers. I do but my eyelids are heavy.
"Anastasia, have you done this before?" His voice is the lowest I've ever heard it. It reverberates between my lungs. I can only shake my head.
"La Virgen," he mouths, and then, "Are you sure you want this?" There is no question about it. I nod. Apparently the powers of speech have deserted me.
He leans into my face, his lips hovering over mine. I feel his hot breath on my mouth.
"I should stop you, but I won't. Because every day, every hour – awake or asleep –since I saw your first painting, you have haunted me." His voice is on a tight leash, and the fire in his eyes rages brighter. One of his hands leaves my face and splays at the small of my back. He presses me against his body. Hardened, coiled. For me. My skin alights into thousands of live wires. He lowers his mouth to my ear.
"I think it's time I haunt you back."
You already do, I want to whisper but I cannot find my voice. My mouth is dry and a flash of heat burns me.
His lips brush against my earlobe, feather-light like the quill that he has set on the bed next to us. He takes my earlobe in his mouth, sucking on it and tugging at it with his teeth. My spine goes rigid and quivers like a strained bow. The underwear he chose feels wet and cool. It helps my overheated skin.
He kisses underneath my ear, my jawline, my neck. His other hand fists in my hair and bends my head back to kiss my throat from the base, to my chin, and finally, finally, my mouth. I have missed him. My hands fly around his neck and my fingers grasp his hair. It's the familiar in the new. He kisses me with a brand-new edge of anger and tenderness. His tongue is alive. It moves with mine – flesh on flesh. A moan falls from my mouth to his.
He starts to kiss my cheek, my nose, my eyelids. I panic.
"Please, don't kiss my forehead." I whisper. I keep my eyes closed afraid to see who knows what in his face. I know I sound mental but this would be the worst moment in the world to have a breakdown. His lips stop.
"Look at me, Anastasia."
I open my eyes, terrified that he will decide I'm too messed up, too much work.
"Why do you ask me that?"
Oh no, I'm ruining this. But I know if he kisses me there, I will break. I swallow hard and manage a whisper. "My dad used to kiss me there. I can't bear it. You can kiss me anywhere else you want. Whatever else you want. But not there."
He sucks in a sharp breath and his eyes turn unbearably soft. The sound marks a transformation. With a groan, he parts my lips with his tongue, and we are off. I realize abruptly that until now he was hesitant. But my words resolved whatever conflict he had, and now he moves with abandon.
His hands caress my spine and cup my behind. At first gently, then hard. He pins me against his hips, and there it is, that part of him that wreaked havoc in my head all day today. He grinds against me, breathing harder. I whimper against his mouth and he tugs my lower lip with his teeth. It's not gentle. It hurts, but it starts a frenzy inside me. I pull his hair and, without thinking, I bite him back. My muscles tense under his hands while I turn liquid.
He grasps the hem of my dress and lifts it slowly. When it finally comes off, he throws it behind him so forcefully that it hits the back wall. I stand before him in my only lace bra that does not match the underwear he bought me. It does not seem to bother him. He takes a step back with a look of triumph in his eyes.
"You're magnificent," he whispers, and he sounds awed. "Even better than I imagined, and that's saying something."
Shyness shouldn't be here but it is. I force myself to look at him, instead of down. And he is wearing too many clothes. I have never seen a man naked before but Christian Grey does not seem to be in the same species as other men.
Uncertain that I can move, I take a small step towards him. I lift my hands tentatively – where? – to his belt, obviously. But the moment I reach for him, he tenses, leans back, and his chest expands with a sharp breath. Did I hurt him? How? I didn't even touch him. Did he change his mind? My blood stutters in my veins at the idea. Why? I lift my eyes to his and mentally beg him to talk to me, to do … something. The battle is there again, bloodier than before. The carnage does not frighten me. It's not violence; it's pain.
On instinct, not thought, I place my wrist with my father's watch on his hand. He looks at it, eyes torn apart, and slowly wraps his fingers around my wrist. The first touch is light like a moth's wings. Then the pressure grows - five fiery bands of steel branding my skin. I try to think of words to say but this is not my battle. I'm merely the shield. I don't know what he is fighting but I know whom I would protect. He finally releases my hand, and gives me a small nod.
The invite is tiny, precious. But it's a door he has not opened before. I close the distance between us and reach for his belt with shaky hands. He wraps his hands around mine, and whispers,
"Start a little higher. Or this will be over much sooner than either of us wants."
Oh. I see. I can't help my proud smile. It makes him smirk, humor back in his eyes. I start unbuttoning his shirt but my fingers are shaking. After the first two buttons, he sighs, takes my hands, and rips the shirt off, buttons flying everywhere.
"That should do it." He says as if this is a normal way to undress.
It makes me giggle and squirm at the same time. That was … I can't think of a word. Brain-frying hot? That's the best I've got.
He is wearing a tight t-shirt underneath and it strains against every muscle like wrapping tissue on a present. I slide my fingers under the hem and take it off, hypnotized by the body that is materializing one inch at a time. First, the hard edges of the V that disappear in his low jeans. Then the short dark hair that trails towards his navel. And every peak and valley of his abs, perfectly symmetrical. I stop and stare. I don't know for how long but eventually a clearing of the throat brings me to my senses.
"Ms. Steele, when you're quite finished ogling at my body, would you be so kind as to remove my t-shirt all the way?"
I look up at once, noticing that, in my awe, I abandoned the t-shirt and it is now covering his face and hanging limply down his back.
"Oh. Sorry." I mumble, something worse, and therefore better, than blush burning not just my face but the rest of my skin.
"Not at all. You can ignore my face for my body anytime you wish."
I pull his t-shirt over his head and his glorious face is mine again. I rise up as high as I can on my toes and kiss him on the lips. "Impossible to ignore this face." I mouth against him.
He lengthens the kiss and I can't resist sucking on his lower lip and biting it gently. His gasp makes me braver. I place my hands on his shoulders and his muscles ripple underneath me. He is breathing hard, whether a good battle or a bad one, I don't know. I drop my hands to his chest and then slowly across his ribcage, his stomach, along the waistband of his jeans. This breathing I know. It's like mine. Fast and shallow.
I empty his pockets, throwing his wallet on the floor. I know there is a bedside table somewhere but I couldn't find it in this state. I snap his belt open and unbutton him. Then I stop moving and stare shamelessly. What exactly I am going to do with the bulge that is straining against the jeans? I feel like I was just tasked to paint the Sistine Chapel.
Don't be ridiculous, he'll guide you, I scold myself. I suck in a breath and unzip him. I slide my hands under his jeans and start taking them off, praying with my one rational brain cell that he does not get caught on something. I hear a hum from his chest. I drop to my knees along with the jeans and take them off his feet, then his shoes and his socks. Even his feet are attractive. I lean back, feeling like I just unveiled a sculpture commissioned personally for me from Michelangelo himself.
His legs have a light dusting of dark hair and go on for miles. My eyes follow them up until my head bends all way back. The hard muscles rise up to the heavens. Or rather to the one and only heaven that has now captivated my entire focus: the snug dark grey boxers he is wearing. I rise up slowly, checking to make sure my legs can support me, and reach for them, running my fingers where they meet his flesh. Lucky Hugo Boss.
He tenses and twitches beneath my hands. He is soaring. I gather the last bit of courage from the gnawing need that is worrying my veins, and I drop his boxers to the floor.
His body springs up as if it broke through a leash, blind to everything but me. Oh my fuck! A naked man is a whole different plane of existence. Utilitarian and beautiful. Lewd and romantic. Primal and secondary. And the only axis holding the contradictions together is now before me. Hot. Heavy. Hard. Angry. Present. The cock.
In that first sight, awe and everything else leave me, and I become ruled by instinct. Male and female.
He is watching me amused and hungry.
"It's not that scary, is it?" He teases. "Trust me, it works out."
I nod. He would know better than me. He takes the small step between us blindingly fast, and in the same move, I'm in his arms, my legs wrapped around his waist, and my bra is off. Maybe he is a magician. Or maybe my bra melted on its own. Whatever it is, I can't be bothered with it. Because he is kissing me with a desperation I have never felt before. I give him back everything I have. I must get it right because my moan mingles with his at the same time. His muscles ripple against the hot wet spot between my legs, and my lower belly trembles. I flex my legs around him, half afraid of the motion, half mad with need for it.
He walks the two steps to the bed and lays me on it, my legs on each side of him. He looks at me so intensely that my hands fly up to cover my breasts but he stops them. He shakes his head.
"Don't," he whispers. "Let me look at you. Not your paintings tonight. You."
I can't hide. Under his eyes, I feel like a woman. Not because my breasts feel tighter, heavier, and my nipples harden. But because a man is looking at me this way. I arch my back instinctively for his touch. But he takes the feather quill and I feel like a blank page. His eyes burn, and I remember his wish for a feather-light touch. Maybe this is his compromise.
The feather moves over my cheeks, jaw, neck, collarbone, shoulder, breasts, ribs, waist, hipbone, underwear, and thighs. The trail of the paintings. He brings it back up, drawing other lines, blazing new paths. Under the muted bedroom light, the feather and his hands imprint lucid shadows on my body – a new, diaphanous image, like he is weaving it with the cloth of time. With every whisper of the feather, I turn incandescent.
"I knew it. Not a single mark anywhere else," he whispers. The feather traces circles around the three freckles on my hip. He switches between feather and the tip of the quill. Soft and hard, smooth and sharp. The tip draws circles around my nipples, on my breasts. It feels like he is writing on me. I try to make out the letters, the words. I get some, I miss others. I. Mine. CTG. Fuck. You. The trembles at the bottom of my belly become tremors with a life of their own.
He switches again and the feather trails up to my lips and flutters over them.
"Tell me what you want, Anastasia." He whispers, the feather moves back to my breasts and my nipples. Round and round. They tighten, they hurt, they need something stronger and, though comparatively small, they lift the rest of my body and arch it towards his hand.
"I don't have the words," I gasp, and he smiles. He drops the feather, and lowers his body over mine. Skin on skin for the first time.
"No, I suppose you wouldn't, innocent as you are. Let me give them to you. Repeat after me." He brings his face close to mine.
"Mouth," he says.
"Mouth," I whisper, and his mouth closes on mine. His lips are hot and wet, and they mold, coax, flex, and fold my own.
"Tongue," he says between kisses.
"Tongue," I breathe back, and his tongue dances with mine again. Soon, his pace leaves me behind.
"Throat," he mouths and his lips travel over my chin, and hover waiting for me to speak.
"Throat." My voice is part of the silence, my breathing too loud to allow any other sounds but him to interfere.
"Skin. Perfect skin." I say it back, and his lips trace my collarbone.
"Shoulder," he blazes a new path. His hands join his lips now.
"Now the hard words, Anastasia. They will get harder and harder. Say them." He commands.
He speaks and moves, my words sounding more and more like pleas. He stops at my breasts. His mouth closes around my left nipple and pulls on it gently, while his hand pinches and rolls the other one. My gasps transform into moans. Kissing, sucking, biting, some bites light like nibbles, some harder than even his pinch or the quill's tip. The tremors turn violent. He moves to my other nipple and sucks hard, punctuating it with a sharp bite and rolling his tongue over it. Every muscle below my waist flexes and burns. Every flick of his tongue sends a new jolt through me, and right as I'm reaching a precipice, his mouth moves lower.
Belly. Belly button. Waist. Hips. Hipbone. Thigh. I repeat his words in a daze. Every time his lips touch me after a word, the pulse between my legs beats faster and the splinter cracks further.
"Speak up, Anastasia," he says, and I only now realize that I missed the last word. The final word. The one that is making the world go around. He says it again – carnal, dirty, vital – as he hovers lightly over the underwear he chose and that is now trembling like a leaf. I feel his hot breath on my skin. I know he is waiting for me. Oh what the hell. I repeat his final word like it's a call for salvation, and he presses his lips and nose into my panties. I writhe and he pulls back. The pleasure becomes painful. Please. Now, I beg him in my head.
"These have been wet all day today, haven't they?" He asks. My moan is confirmation enough and my hips lurch towards him on their own. "I'd like to shred them but I've grown rather attached to them." He slides them off in one swift move. Naked for the first time, my hands fly down to cover myself.
"None of that," he says, and shoves my hands away not at all gently. He looks exultant. His control is slipping too. Good, he can't wait much longer, and frankly, I will go up in flames if he does. He starts a trail of bites and kisses inside my thigh. His destination is obvious. Once there, he blows a warm gust of air that makes me hiss. He places a small kiss on my pubic bone. His stubble tickles. His words rain on me again, sentences now, commands, dirtier and, because of that, oddly, more romantic, more intimate. Some I can repeat, some I cannot. He continues undeterred and finally, finally, he is on the center where the frenzy is at its worst. His mouth closes on the spot at the same time that one of his fingers slips inside me. My cry rents the air and I grasp the bed cover for some purchase. My hips start to writhe and slide against the bed cover. He restrains me with his other hand.
He sucks at the same time that his finger slips in and out, sending another cry in the air. Then his tongue takes over circling and a second finger joins. The pressure of his mouth increases. My thoughts break. Faster. Deeper. Harder. I'm tensing. Rising. Falling. Tunnel vision. Darker at the edges. Breaking. Burning. Calling. Fire. Ice. Air. Air. Ah. Ah. Christian. Christian. Christian. Yessss!
A scream is echoing on the walls and in my head. I crash back on the bed. Was I levitating? As the world resurfaces, I still feel his mouth on me but this time in kisses, like a soothing, hushing motion.
Orgasm! Unmistakable. Primordial. Oddly bodiless, despite the charge of electricity humming over my skin and the tremors rocking inside me. I feel new. Almost sacred. Benediction through sin – what a concept. I look at him and he looks…victorious. He traces kisses up, up, and up until he comes flush against me, face to face.
"Hey," he whispers and his voice bends under his own need.
"Hey," I whisper back hoarsely. I wonder if he can see the worshipful adoration in my eyes. He kisses my lips and my single rational brain cell registers where his mouth has just been. I can't quite care. Although I bet he tastes better. Maybe I will soon find out. His desperation breaks through the kiss, and his hand knots in my hair and pulls at it almost angrily until my neck arches back. His teeth clamp down on my lower lip and his tongue begins an encore performance inside my mouth.
When he breaks the kiss, his voice is guttural, husky. "I need you. You still want this?"
"Yes," I say confidently, "More than anything." I sound needy even to myself. How can I crave him so desperately after what my body just went through? Although, maybe it is precisely because my body knows now, and it is finally free to soar and fall.
He watches me for an instant – as if he cannot believe it. There is something new in his eyes. Beyond the raw need, the beast, the darkness. Something far in the back that is seeing the light for the very first time.
He rains kisses on my nose, my eyelids, my cheeks, and his hands travel down my body. Their caress is unbearably sweet. Different than his previous demanding possession. I get lost, focusing on the dusting of hair, rough against my newborn skin, and the flexing of his muscles on my chest, my belly, my thighs.
He lifts my left leg up and to the side and edges himself in between my legs, carrying his weight on his forearms and elbows. He reaches over to his nightstand, and picks up a condom. He doesn't bother to ask me if I'm on the pill. He already knows the answer. He breaks the foil with his teeth and slides the condom over himself without needing to look at what he is doing.
"Don't worry, I'm clean," he says. "But knocking you up would be a new low even by my standards."
I don't really know what he means by that but since I only have one rational brain cell left, I tuck it away. "Umm… me too." I mumble.
He laughs. "Somehow, I wasn't very worried."
I blush. Way to be an idiot, Steele. He comes back to my mouth, all humor gone, and his hands move to my lower back and he massages every spot on his way, around my hips, my behind, and even down my thighs. My muscles – already jello - relax and my eyes close.
"Eyes open. I want to see you. Don't leave my lips." He commands. He sounds strained, at a far edge of control, and pride joins the riot inside me. Okay, I'm not that bad at this. His hands continue the massage and my hips sink sleepily against the covers where he holds them. Then, in a sudden movement, he slides inside me. The feeling is bewildering. I stop my cry on its way out. Not because it does not hurt. But because this is not a moment for a cry or for a cliché glass-breaking scream. This is my resurrection and, I have a feeling, perhaps his redemption. These are moments where the soul does the calling and where the body must listen. My fingers dig into his arms and I breathe. Hot liquid pools and spills on my thighs worse than before. He watches me with something like awe and kisses my face.
"Almost there." He says through gritted teeth, and I notice he remained silent too. He thrusts deeper and stops as he reaches the farthest edges of my body into dark, unknown boundaries. At the full, achy feeling, my teeth clamp down on his lower lip to ease the impact. The cry in my chest wants to turn into a moan. He gives me time to adjust and I release his lip and kiss it, afraid that I hurt him. He smiles.
"You're doing beautifully, Ana," he whispers and it's strange that I find that small assurance so rewarding. The sound of my nickname in his lips when he is like this calls to me on a different level – the true self hearing the bugle call. I relax slightly and he pulls back slowly. Despite the ache, I feel empty immediately and want more. Frenzy and peace, quiver and stillness.
"One more time," he says and now he flies to the edge without stops. My fingers flex again in his arms but I'm adjusting. It's not pain exactly; it's a desperate ache that wants more of him, not less. He stops again. But of their own accord, my hips shift needily against his.
"And we're off," he whispers with a pure, unadulterated smile, and moves, over and over, without any stops this time. There is only fullness and a slow rhythm that I can follow. I let my lungs free and moans that have nothing to do with pain surround us. I wrap my arms around his neck and he wraps my legs around his waist. My hips are shy at first but he guides them and they start to move eagerly and fearlessly. He picks up his rhythm and I falter and try to keep up. I cannot. He reaches a sharp crescendo, harder, faster, and fuller than before. He grasps my hips, tilts them up and thrusts in the same motion, blindingly exquisite and impossibly deeper. I jolt to the edge of the bed, me head lolls back and my hair tumbles to the floor. He grasps my shoulder where it meets my neck and pins me down so I don't move. Then his hand closes around my throat. With every thrust, I gasp for oxygen. Not enough for me to lose air, but enough to lose everything else. His grip loosens, and he kisses my throat. Another thrust. Two. Three. His teeth clamp beneath my ear and my blood blisters there. My moans change to cries as my body builds. My insides begin to convulse and clutch against him desperately. He puts more weight behind his thrusts. Six. Seven. My vision darkens, my ears ring. The bottom of my belly tears asunder. I explode. One single word rents the air. His name. He moves once more and comes with a vicious cry of his own, convulsing and, at last, stilling on top of me.
We stay like this – it could have been minutes or hours. The sounds of our harsh breathing fill the air. The scent of steel mixes with sandalwood and cinnamon. Tonight in our no-man's land, we stopped time. No clocks at first. And now no past, no future. Just this one bubble that is shimmering at the edges.
Slowly, consciousness arrives. At first like a taste in my mouth, then a thought, then an afterthought. He did not curse when he came despite the litany of dirty words I now know him capable for saying. Maybe like me, he thought this first flight should stay pure. I move through my thoughts, rushing over past fantasies, ex-flames, ex-me-s. Nothing compares. And all that I find on the other side is a new me. And, despite all the paintings, I only now feel like a masterpiece.
I can't really move my limbs but I turn my head and kiss the top of his head where it is still resting on my chest. He stirs and moans incoherently. He rises slowly with me still soldered to him, and turns on his back. I'm still cradling him, my hands are lost in the expanse of his palms, my fingers twining with his.
His chest is still battling his lungs for dominance. He opens his eyes. They are peaceful, content. For once, nothing is raging there. He reaches behind me and pulls out. The hollowness left behind must show on my face because he smiles.
"Don't worry, I'll be back soon. I think I found where I want to be buried." His voice is hoarse and husky, and he chuckles at his own pun.
"How are you feeling?" He asks then, serious.
I smile hugely. "You will need to teach me some words for that."
"I'd rather hear your words first." He gets a crinkle between his eyebrows. I reach a finger to smooth it. It does not go away. It' waiting for my answer.
"Hmm…okay. Happy, content, orgasmic, ecstatic, surreal…." I start giggling because his stubble comes to my breasts and he retaliates with a bite.
"Do you need a thesaurus, Anastasia?" The crinkle is gone and his eyes sparkle with humor.
"No, I like your dirty words better."
"Ana, you haven't heard my dirty words yet." He laughs and kisses me lightly. Goodness, what other filth is he capable off?
"Apart from your newfound struggle for words, how was the rest for you? Did I hurt you?" He sounds almost worried.
"Well, I don't really have much experience but from my perspective, things don't get much better than that. I believe you would be better suited to answer that question, however, given your obvious authority and expertise in the subject." I tease, managing to sound academic.
He laughs. "Anastasia, I can say with conviction and no small amount of authority that it takes the Summa Cum Laude of my extensive career. You're wrong about one thing though."
"What's that?" I can't stop my lunatic grinning. This Summa Cum Laude is way better.
"That things don't get much better than that. And I'd like to prove your mistake right now. But, first things first." He moves me back to the bed, and goes to bathroom. He comes back with a washcloth. Oh no. This will be mortifying. Why do you care idiot, after everything you've just done with him?
"Let me see. Don't be embarrassed. I just want to make sure you're okay." He coaxes gently. I close my eyes, pretend I'm invisible, and open my legs. I feel him wipe the warm wet cloth on me. It does not hurt. It feels good. He shifts on the bed and I open my eyes. He has put the cloth by the nightstand. I don't even look at it. I know what I'll see.
He puts his right hand on my face. He does not speak. His eyes say it all. Sorry. Thank you. Mine. I smile hugely and his grins back. It's not like I was waiting for my wedding night. I was waiting for desire to find me after all these years. And find me it did.
"Now, about that mistake," he announces meaningfully and slides his arm around my waist and brings me on top of him so that I'm straddling him.
His kiss is gentle this time, sweeter. The trademark delicious anger that punctuated his thrusts has made room for something tender. I still feel the sting of his bites, stubble, and urgent kisses but his tongue caressing me now feels almost like a healing. His hands are gentle too. He gathers my hair into a ponytail at the nape of my neck with his fingers and wraps the length twice over his wrist. The puppet master has just taken my strings and set the stage. And with a simple flex of his wrist, my head tilts up and his lips travel down my throat and the line of my collarbones.
My body comes alive again. His mouth wraps gently on my breasts. No biting – just his tongue tracing light circles like it is healing them too. But the effect on me is the same. My body buzzes like he shoots electricity through it with every flick of his tongue. My need is just as acute, just as desperate. He maintains the same healing pace, punctuating the caress of his tongue with light blows of air on my nipples that make me shiver and hiss. My hips circle, searching and reaching, their only target the hard cock that strains between us imperiously. But the moment I press against him for relief, he lifts my hips a few inches in the air. No! A moan of frustration leaves my lips. I know this torture. And I'm now addicted to it.
"Not yet," he tightens his hands once in warning. He still holds my hair but his other hand moves over my behind, flexing in time with the rhythm of his mouth. His fingertips travel further down in a light caress until they reach between my legs. My hiss has nothing to do with pain.
"You're so wet already," he says "but does it hurt when I do this?" I feel two of his fingers slip inside. I moan and my hips move reflexively against his hand.
"I guess not," he whispers and his fingers slide in and out slowly. I move my hips eagerly to make up for his gentility. They circle forward and backward, tilt and arch and shimmy, pressing desperately against his hand. My breathing turning into a pleading moan. But as my back arches, he withdraws leaving me empty and bereft.
"No," I protest through my teeth, and even in my ringing ears, I can hear his chuckle.
"You like my hands better than my cock?" He asks and, abruptly, he slaps it hard between my legs. Ah. It's sharp and it stings but I want more.
"No," I whimper and when he does not do it again, my hips follow and search for him.
"Ah, Anastasia. Good practice for you but a little longer. You're driving me insane with these moves. I have a right to retaliate."
Oh no. Retaliate how? This is not Adam, this is the snake. His hand releases my hair and he pushes me all way back until I am sitting on his abs. I feel exposed.
"I want to see you. Against your paintings." He whispers, and I now realize that from his vantage point, they are my backdrop. He looks at me, his hands grasping my disobedient hips that start to flex again.
"Are you going to behave and hold these very sexy hips in place or do I need something stronger to restrain them? Trust me, I have an arsenal that would do the job." He says through his teeth.
"I'll try." I whimper.
"Good girl." He releases me. His hands roam up and cup my breasts. Trying to stay as still as possible, I arch back and rest my palms against his thighs. But he becomes diabolical. He shifts underneath me until his erection is perfectly aligned against the hottest, wettest spot. At the moment of contact I forget about my promise and rub myself against him. He stops me again. I groan in frustration.
"Evil," I whimper.
He laughs, "The original, sweetheart."
His hands come down to my thighs, this thumbs traveling on the inside and I know where he is headed. Oh finally. I tense for impact. He brushes his thumbs against me, first one, then the other, over and over in a circling motion. I start to quiver. He slips two fingers inside while the thumbs continue the torment. I flex for impact but he withdraws again.
"Now, Anastasia, about my revenge…"
What, I thought this was his revenge. Oh no. I have no hope.
"Give me your hands." I tear them from his legs and he guides them up slowly, like marionettes, until we cup my breasts together.
"This is what I want. I want to see you play with your breasts and kiss them." He is snake-to-Eve again. My eyes fly to his as I understand his game. Oh bloody hell! I stare at him. I can't do that. It's too embarrassing. His eyebrow arches as he waits. Oh, this is the Grey I know. This is not for me. He wants to watch.
"I'd rather you did it," I evade.
"I will, and soon. But now is your turn. And, if you do this, I will let you have some of this," he says and he tilts his hips up until his cock comes flush against me. He rolls his hips into me several times, destroying any resistance. "What will you choose?" He asks.
There is really no question. I will do anything at this point, and he knows it. I close my eyes and touch my breasts. It's nowhere as good as when he does it. His hands guide me. Oh much better! He groans, his hips flexing underneath me.
"Look at me," he says through his teeth.
I open my eyes and the look on his face is primitive need. Gone is the tenderness, and in its place there's something dark, seductive, and addictive. It pushes me over the edge.
"Now, your nipples, Anastasia. Do what I do. I know you're a fast learner."
I try for the pinch he does. I wish I could close my eyes at least. But I see he is approaching his own cliff top, and abruptly realize my own power. Maybe the better I do this, the sooner I can have him. I roll them like he does, and oddly, I'm getting into it too. I pinch again, and a moan builds in the back of my throat. The violent tremors return.
His hands cover mine and release my breasts. They travel lower and I know where he is going. I'm not sure I have enough strength to stand it. The tips of my fingers brush against the apex of my thighs. He ignores my gasp and guides my fingers in circles.
"Do what I do," he says, and releases me. I'm not sure if it would happen if I were not so desperate. But I am. I close my eyes, and move my fingers trying to remember his moves. Thinking of his fingers does not help me. I press a little harder. And a little harder. Excellent. I moan, all shyness gone. My hips move against my fingers. My body tenses, my spine stiffens. I am close, really close.
In a blink of an eye, he moves my hands and slams inside me with the full force of his hips. My scream rises up in the air and the explosion begins instantly. My head falls back from the strength of my release. But he does not stop. He brings me over his chest, and one his hands grabs my hair and secures my head up, while his other arm holds my hips like an iron vise. I cannot move an inch. I can only absorb. My only relief is my voice. He moves with slow, deep thrusts at first. Then his moves become harder and faster. I lose count. I feel the tension again. Unsure if this is the same explosion or a different one, I have no time to understand it because I come again loudly, calling his name, and barely registering his own violent release that shakes the bed and shifts it slightly off the wall.
He is rigid, spasms quivering over his body like earthquake aftershocks. I collapse on top of him. His hand releases my hair and my head lolls on his chest. My single rational brain cell registers that cutting my hair after this would break me. We both mumble something and the world disappears.
He is writing on me with the quill, the sharp tip scrapes against my skin. On my lips, my throat, my chest, my breasts, my nipples. He presses the tip harder on me, and my skin begins to burn, bend, until the elasticity gives and the tip of the quill breaks through. The pain slices through me. Worse than a cut to the skin. It's a cut to the soul, a defiling of what keeps me…me. I look at the words he is writing on my belly. They are livid against my skin, a trickle of blood oozes from the tip of his quill. My blood. The words etch themselves on my skin:
The only way to a woman's heart is through torment.
I am jolted awake by my brain. Despite the metamorphosis of the last hours, in its deep recesses, it has worked through the night to solve the puzzle. It delivers the final blow here, in this small bubble of timeless time. The famous quote by Marquis de Sade that even an innocent like me would know. I reach for air. I find none. I try to speak the word. It won't come. I blink to banish the dream. I look at the man next to me. He breathes deeply in peaceful slumber. My creator.
Right then, the word spills out from my throat. "Sadist."