Page 89 of Fated Exile

"Well, if that's the case, you held back." Twining my hands behind his neck, I lift up on my tip toes to look into his eyes. "I wish you wouldn't. I want all of you."

"Then let me show you all of me."

I expect him to grab me, strip my clothes off, push me down on the ground, and fuck me senseless then and there. Instead he takes my hand and draws me towards the other side of his apartment, past a wall that cuts down most of the living room next to the fireplace. On the other side is a big empty space nearly as big as the living room and kitchen, full of painting supplies like easels, canvases, stretchers, pots of paint, and a desk covered in brushes. He grabs me and walks me back until we're standing on top of a big piece of flat canvas in the middle of the room, stretchers abandoned on either side of it, the white space nearly five by five feet.

"I want to paint you, Delilah," Lance says, his hands pressing up beneath the skirt of my dress to dip into the warmth between my thighs. "Those breasts should be dipped in crimson, your cheeks smeared in umber, your hands covered in ochre. I want to make a painting of your naked body."

I swallow, tantalized by the thought. "What would you do with it?"

"Hang it up somewhere private," he says, a growl sliding into his throat as his eyes spark with a wolf's glow, "somewhere only I could see it, and jerk off while I think about your wet, tight pussy on my cock."

The sound I make can only be described as a whimper. Looking around at the painting supplies, and up into Lance's eyes, I find that I don't know what to do next. I'm unsure what he wants, uncertain what step to take, where to touch or kiss, but I know that I want him. So I make a decision that I've flirted with once or twice, but that will mean something different now that we're mates, alone in his apartment.

"I want you to take charge," I tell him, biting my lower lip as his eyes drop to my breasts and his fingers press up towards my underwear, playing with the heat there. "Whatever you want to do with my body, Lance, do it. Fuck what you want. Move me and bend me. You're in charge, and I want to see all of you, feel all of you. Dominate me."

For a moment the offer hangs in the air, and I squirm a little with self-awareness.

Then Lance grabs my hips, crushes me against him, and says in a low voice, "I would love to more than anything."

His lips are on mine suddenly, his tongue stroking inside my mouth. Then his broad fingers palm the back of my dress, find the zipper, and yank it down in one fluid movement that nearly rips the saint. Grasping each of the thin spaghetti straps, he draws it down my arms and pushes it to my thighs.

Reaching around my shoulders, he grabs my long maroon hair, gathers it into one hand, and tugs on it until my head tilts back and my neck is exposed. His mouth draws a line down the column of my throat, moving to my chest and between my breasts. With a forceful sucking motion, he grabs my right nipple between his teeth and brings it to a peak.

All the while, I can feel his arousal grow. Not just when it brushes up against my thigh, but also through the connection we share, a mate bond that threads back and forth. Lance's lengthening erection feels like a second heat between my thighs, pulsing with strength and virility. By the time he's tugged my dress off and I've stepped out of it, I can't even tell which arousal is his and which is mine.

Pulling back from me, Lance picks the dress up off the ground and steps away, his eyes taking in my nearly-naked body. A tremble runs across my skin, and I'm tempted to strip out of my underwear, but I told him that I wanted him to be in charge. And I really, truly meant it.

"I don't want this to get messy, because it's so beautiful," Lance says, taking the dress and carefully setting it aside on the clean surface of a nearby table. "The next time you wear it, I want you to think about what we did tonight. Because I'll be thinking about it when I see you."

As he prowls back over to me, he strips his shirt off, unbuckles his belt, then yanks his pants down and walks out of them. His briefs follow a moment later, revealing his smooth, naked body. Dark skin stretches from his head to his toes, black hair curled around the base of a fully erect, dark brown cock. The only bit of light on all of him is the shock of his white hair, which he keeps clipped close to the skull.

Lance stops in front of me, hooks his fingers into my underwear, and rips it off in a single fluid motion that makes me gasp. Then he steps back again, frustrating me endlessly as he prowls around me to grab something from one of the worktables.

I said that I'd leave him in charge, but I didn't say that I'd be quiet. So to distract myself from the pulse of heat and arousal between my thighs, and the fully erect member he's casually walking around with, I decide to ask something I've always been curious about.

"Were you born with white hair, or did it change later?"

Lance looks over at me from the corners of his eyes, an amused grin on his face. "You're allowed to beg me to fuck you, Delilah. In fact, that's part of the appeal of being a dominant man."

"Maybe I don't want to give in right away," I tease him, swallowing as heat strokes up and down my body, the thought of whimpering for his cock inside me turning me on more than I could imagine. "Besides, I've been curious for a long time. I just didn't want to ask because it sounds... rude."

"Very well then. To answer your question, I wasn't born with white hair."

He snags a small container of paint, then turns and paces across the room, passing by me with his erection on full display. I try not to let my mouth water as I stare at it.

"It changed later, when my mate bond was severed," Lance says, bending down and giving me a good look at his ass as he rustles through a filing cabinet and takes out a can of bright red paint. "One day, I had black hair. The next it was pure white. Shock was what did it. Even my eyebrows and eyelashes turned white—but I have those dyed twice a month. Otherwise, I look too much like some kind of hideous vampiric thing."

I blink, trying to imagine him with white brows and lashes but coming up short. He paces over to me, and my toes press into the ground, curling in anticipation as his hands move close to my body. But he just sets the paint cans down on the ground, along with a few large sponges and blunt-tipped brushes.

Swallowing, I look up into his eyes and confess, "If you don't actually start to fuck me pretty soon, I'm going to bleach your eyebrows myself."

Lance chuckles, a wicked look on his face. "I thought about it a few times. Your body is justbeggingfor my cock in it. But that mouth hasn't begged at all."

"That's no fair." I swallow, my hands sliding up and down my thighs with nervousness. "I told you to take charge. I thought that meant my work was over. You're the one who's supposed to do all the work tonight."

"Oh, I'll work you alright." He slides forward in the blink of an eye, puts his hand gently around my throat, and squeezes lightly at either side. "I intend to work you until you've forgotten anything but what it feels like to be fucked by a dominant man."

His free hand dips between my thighs, and I gasp as he slides his fingers between them and crooks them up—brushing just the slightest bit against my lower lips, but not enough to create friction or pleasure. In a low voice he says, "But first, I want to hear you ask for it in clear terms. I want to see your skin flush as you beg, growing more and more aroused... until all you're thinking about is me, all you want is me, and finally, the only thing you feel inside you or around you isme."

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