Page 24 of Painter's Obsession: Volume II

I slap my face over and over, and suddenly I’m back. There’s red, but it’s on him. This time, I’m not the one covered in it. “Why do you still cry? Gabriela isn’t dead,” I whisper as I crouch beside him, licking away the large tear sliding over his lips. But he doesn’t react. He just lays there, allowing me to turn him on his back and straddle him.

“Byron.” I cup his face in my hands, forcing him to focus on me. “She’s alive. Your light shines to see another day.” But still, nothing... and frustration boils within me. He can’t be broken. This couldn’thave broke him. It was a prank, just a small glimpse of what could happen if he were to leave me. “Stop acting this way,” I yell into his face, pushing my forehead into his.

“STOP FUCKING ACTING THIS WAY.” I slam my forehead into his. Harder. Again. Again. “IT’S PATHETIC.”

But even as my forehead smashes into his, there’s no one home. He’s checked out, and I refuse to let him fall into the void. We are supposed to live in it... mold in it... not drown in it. This was not what I expected. I wanted him willing, not fucking broken. Slamming my forehead into his once again, I feel the warm sticky substance that slides down both of our noses, mixing with the sweat and grime, and finally, he looks at me. What are you doing to me? His gaze isn’t filled with fear or hate, just an emptiness that gnaws at something inside me, something I don’t want to acknowledge.

Everything is too unfamiliar... too unstable, and I hate it. Maybe I should finish the creation, what’s the point of making him great when he wants to be nothing. So I should just let him be nothing, where’s the fun in that?The challenge? I release his face and stand, placing my foot on his face, pressing down just enough to make him squirm, feeling the bone shift slightly beneath my heel.

“You want to be nothing? This all you have to give?” I sneer, bending down so he can see my face, the bloodied mess he’s made of me, the proof of my patience.

“This was a lesson to show you what I will do.” My foot presses deeper into his face, my big toe entering his eyeball, the soft tissue giving way as warmth pools around the pressure.

“YOU FIGHT!” Digging deeper now, the squelch ringing in my ears. “OR she really dies,” I say before removing my foot from his face, and grabbing him by the back of the neck, my fingers threading through his short, damp curls that are growing in, forcing him to see his beautiful creation. The lines are uneven from his hesitation and anger, yet so beautiful, a form of expression truer than words. I’m so sick of giving him choices when all he does is choose to do nothing.

I place his upper body between her legs and kneel behind him, and begin stroking my cock,the heat pulsing through my hand because nothing makes the void hungrier than control. Than destroying. Also, I needed to drown out that annoying little voice screaming to be heard, the one gnawing at the edges of my mind, whispering doubts I refuse to acknowledge. To drown out whatever is happening inside me, because I see the small cracks, hairline fractures, creeping into places I don’t want them. I stop mid-stroke as I look at his back, at the small freckles all over it, ones I never noticed until today, like tiny constellations scattered across his skin. Get it together, Ren.

Maybe I should finish this... finish him. Destroy the Thorn and move on with my life. Yet I’m holding back. The frustration, anger, all things that I would contain within until they no longer existed in my world, overtake me and I stroke harder. This will hurt, and I want it to hurt. Desperately. The need coils tight in my gut, the urge to push past the hesitation and to take, to ruin, to silence every thought that dares to make me hesitate. So I push into him, causing him to tense—finally a reaction—but his ass is tight, unlubricated, and painful;his muscles clenching so hard it’s like he’s trying to push me out. But I welcome the pain. And soon he will too, his back arching toward me like his body already knows surrender.

“Relax, look at her,” I say, dropping some spit onto my dry-ass cock, watching it drip down to my tip before working it around his tight hole. It’s barely enough to ease the burn, and not nearly enough to prepare him. “You’re so tight.” I groan, pushing in, using my hand to hold him in place, feeling him struggle against my grip. “Relax.”

“Fuck—“ Ahh, there he goes. He tries to finish his words but I don’t let him. Grabbing his hips, I force myself inside him, splitting him open, dragging him onto me as his body chokes around my cock causing the most exquisite sound to come out of him followed by a small sob—a pathetic, broken sound. But I fuck him through it, savoring the way his body trembles, the way his breath stutters, and the way his pain carves itself into something I canclaim.

I pound into him as he continues to sob... soft, pathetic sounds, and no matter how much I try to reach my climax... my happy place where I can escape... there’s nothing. Only movement. I wanted this, but not like this, I expected more, and it fucking angers me. This is not how I expected it to go down. I grip his neck, lifting him up until his body is flush against mine, and do the only thing I can do. Not because I pity him. Not because I regret anything. But because I need him to stay, and I don’t know how else to make him stay. Slowing down, trying to bring him back to the light, not that I know what the fuck I’m doing, but I’m sure this could help. I cover his eyes with my hands, and my mouth kisses his back as I slowly move inside him.

“She’s safe,” I whisper. “Stay with me and keep her safe.” I don’t even know what I’m saying, but it feels right. This feels right... “Just hear my voice.” My hand releases his neck, moving down his tight abs and towards his cock. I’ve never wanted anyone like this but there is something about Byron—maybe it’s the fact that beingaround him helps me forget. Unlike her, he’s all muscle and scars. No softness.

Byron quiets my mind because he’s not her... and the feeling of his skin on mine makes heat pool in my core as I continue to move with him, kissing the salty tears from his jaw and neck. “Feel this,” I moan into his skin. “How good we feel.” Another slow stroke of his cock while I press deeper into his ass. “How good I make you feel.” Licking the tear trailing down his neck, I bite into his flesh as I move in sync with my hand. He will never top me, but he deserves a little pleasure after all the pain.

“Good boy,” I whisper. “I was lonely, a victim ... of my own prison.” I continue to fuck him causing his body to tremble against my body.

Byron’s body begins to react beautifully. His precum coats my hand, and this feels right. Two souls broken, shattering beautifully for one another. Byron breaks in my arms, his body wrecking while sobs shattered him. He clutches me, not fighting, not pushing away, just holding on, drowning in somethingdeeper than pain. I feel his fingers digging into my skin, but there’s no strength left in them.

“I need you, B.” The words surprise me. “Join me.” Not in love. Not in forgiveness. But in the only thing left between us—ruin. I moan as my dick jumps inside his ass. His moans are soft... as he resists the unspoken truth between us. And we come together, both moaning, both covered in blood... both utterly and completely broken, no longer holding the pieces together, but I hold him through it. I don’t even know why I bother with all this, but holding him is all I want to do. Holding my masterpiece as he comes undone, until my cock softens inside him, his tears stop falling, and my cum leaks between his legs.

Chapter Thirteen

Byron

“Byron, you need to be a man,” Pops says as he lights up a smoke and hands me one. I grab it because, for the first time, he wants me around. He wants to bring me into his world, and I need to make him proud. “And as a man, you need to fuck some good pussy.” Pulling at the cigarette, he stares at me, using his mouth to motion to the strip joint behind us.

“I’m not old enough to be inside yet, or drink,” I mutter as I bring the cigarette to my lips, lighting it and taking a pull. The minty smoke makes me want to cough, burning my throat on the way down, but I gather my balls and hold it in. Making Daddy proud. But my stomach drops asI look at him, slowly watching the disdain in his eyes from the shame his son brings him. It’s so loud, so suffocating, that it makes me uncomfortable and forces me to look down at the cigarette dangling between my fingers.

His large, calloused hands tousle my short curls. “Cut this hair off. Men don’t wear long hair, son. That’s for bitches,” he says, giving a strong tug at my hair before he lets go, the force making my scalp sting. We smoke in silence. Well, mostly me. He’s busy talking to the bouncer and the woman who would show me how to be a man. Looking up at the clear night sky, the stars twinkle before me, flickering like they’re laughing at me, and all I can think about is what I’m about to do.

What if it doesn’t work? What if I can’t get hard again?

I just wished he knew that I had tried... I tried with Sandra, and it almost worked... almost. But I don’t know what holds me back, what kills the moment.

“Pa,” I mutter, trying to keep my voice firm as I turn to watch my dad, his eyebrows pinching together as he finishes his cigarette, his muscles on display thanks to the blackbeater he’s wearing. Looking like he came straight from work, so mom doesn’t notice, but I know. And the shame burns greater, the guilt all consuming, sinking into my stomach like a stone, heavy and inescapable. I look down. We wear the same jeans with the same stains, a black beater, and Timbs. We dress alike... share the same DNA... but we’re so different, worlds apart in ways that can never be bridged.

Dad chuckles into the phone. “Trátalo bien. Treat him well” he jokes as he ends the call, slapping the back of my shoulder hard enough to jolt me forward, a forced show of camaraderie that makes my skin crawl. I force out a smile as I follow my dad into the Red Den, my stomach twisting with every step.

The bright red lights from the door shine off us, casting everything in a hellish glow, and I feel like I’m being dragged into something I can’t crawl out of. The smoke from the hookahs and fog machine pours from the door as Dito—a mammoth of a bodyguard—stands at the entrance, his gaze heavy and unreadable, like he’s seen this happen a thousand times before. My father slides him abill, and he opens the door for us, the scent of sweat, smoke, and sex thick in the air, clinging to my skin before I even step inside.

My dad chuckles deeply as he clasps my shoulder before whispering in my ear, his breath thick with tobacco, “Show her that you’re your father’s son.” And his voice hits like a freight train, the weight of expectation slamming into me, suffocating.

His son. His prodigy.

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