“Who says I want to?” A sly challenge flashes in his eyes, but it’s one of those moments when I can see through his coy resistance, right down to the truth underneath.
“I’m the museandthe artist, baby.” I give him a savage smile. “You can’t help it.”
Hunger flares in his eyes, and with one fluid motion, he picks me up, hitching my legs around his waist, and carries me to the bedroom despite my squealed protest.
He bends me over the edge of the bed, yanks my shorts down without bothering to unzip them, and runs his fingers right through my soaked slit. I curl my fingers into the blankets, screeching a little at the pain across my hands, but the discomfort is threaded with a sharp pulse of pleasure.
I hear Dorian drop to his knees behind me, and then—his tongue. The broad flat of it sweeps over my folds, then through them, stroking with quick insistence, over and over until I’m yelping,quivering. I’ve never been this acutely sensitized before, never felt as if every line of my veins was incandescent with dark fire. Dorian’s tongue is a slick lash, a delicate whip flicking my clit. He pries my ass cheeks wider, a sound of pure enjoyment humming through his throat and lips as he savors me.
“This is mine.” He plants a damp kiss on my ass cheek. “No one else gets to taste you. No one else gets to do this—” A zipper grinds, and I hear a rustle of fabric as his pants drop.
He drags the thick head of his cock along my wetness before nestling into me, sinking in deep. I whimper, and he strokes my back reassuringly. Why does it feel so good just having him rub my skin like that? And the thick fullness of him seated in me wipes every other thought from my head, and I’m left floating in a blissful oblivion where only the sensations of this moment exist. Nothing before or after, no decisions or dilemmas, just Dorian’s body buried in mine. Dorian Gray, inside me, surging deep, finding the perfect angle by instinct or practice.
He slides out, rubs the head of his dick all over me again, and then slips back inside.
Some guys think the clit is the only pleasure spot—if they know about it at all—but I like it when a guy tends to the whole area, and Dorian keeps teasing the outside as well as diving inside. There’s so much intense stimulation I’m two seconds away from shrieking. I need something to hold on to, so I grab one of the pillows and drag it against my upper chest.
“Exquisite woman,” Dorian says raggedly. “Beautiful outside and fucking magical inside. And damn me if you don’t have a lovely soul to match.”
His thighs slam against mine, and he bends over me, sweeping my hair aside and planting a kiss right at the base of my neck. A tingling thrill circles outward from that spot of sweet pressure.
“I don’t deserve to be fucking you,” he whispers.
“To hell with that,” I gasp. “If you stop, I swear I’ll get my biggest kitchen knife and stab you.”
“Knife-play? Kinky.” He places another kiss on my spine.
Then he resumes the torture, glazing his cock head with my wetness and plunging in again, over and over. The longer he fucks me, the more my mind softens, blurring into a void of blissful sensation where everything feels amazing and I’m climbing incrementally toward a cataclysm I’m dreading and yearning for.
“Please,” I whimper against the pillow I’m gripping. “Please…”
“Please what, Baz?” Dorian’s palm slides over my bare back, caressing every plane of my shoulder blades, every dip and curve, like he’s mapping or memorizing me. He’s trying to speak smoothly, but his voice is thick, jagged at the edges. He’s close to coming apart, and I would smile at the knowledge if I weren’t so desperate.
“Please make me come, Dorian.”
“Ah—” He groans sharply, and the next second, I feel the pulsing of his rigid length inside me. But he doesn’t stop. He quickens his pace like he’s desperate to get me there, even though he must be painfully sensitive right now.
“Come for me, darling,” he says brokenly. “Come all over me, love.”
I clamp the pillow between my teeth—more, more,more—almost—god yes,yes—and I come around him, a cataclysmic burst, my thighs shaking against the side of the bed. The aftershocks make me sob with blissful relief.
“Oh yes,” Dorian gasps, utter joy in his voice. “Yes, baby.”
He stays inside me until the tremoring bliss has softened me into a boneless mess. I spit out the wad of pillow and drop my cheek against it, utterly limp, unable to move or open my eyes.
Dorian crashes onto the bed beside me, urging his body close to mine. The fact that he craves my nearness even after he just came… It’s beautiful. I love it. I love h—
I pull my thoughts up short, because that isn’t happening. I can’t feelthat, not for Dorian Gray. Not for someone who has hurt so many people.
He’s toxic. I’ve seen the proof of it in that hideous painting. So why, why, why do I want to curl up against him and stay there forever? I don’t think I’ll ever be tired of the flow of his hard muscle and smooth skin against my body.
It’s more than that. It’s the way he makes sure I get there with him, the way he’s so aware of my responses, my pleasure points, my needs. It’s his casual gusto as he chowed down on that cheeseburger and the graceful way he played the piano for the fine southern ladies at tea. It’s the way he rubbed sunblock on my nose on the beach and the way he laughed at the minimum expense requirement for the VIP table at Scoundrel.
It’s the way he kissed the forehead of the old man in the retirement home and the way he coolly prepared the flamethrower to fight off the skriken. It’s the way he hesitated before showing me his picture and the tears in his eyes.
Most of all, it’s the way I feel like I can’t be happy without seeing him every day. I need him like I need my art—as if heismy art, my reason for being on this planet. My damn meaning of life.
That can’t be healthy, but it’s fucking true, and I’m starting to not care so much about the health of it all.
