Page 16 of Bared Betrayal
“What?”
“Just fist my hair,” I say, rearing back as he moves forward, my ass slapping against his pelvis.
Sebastian lets out a low groan, his fingers now tangled in my hair. But his grip isn’t tight enough. I want my scalp to sting. I want it to fucking burn while he fucks me with no restraint.
“Pull it. Pull my hair.”
And he does, but it reminds me of a boy in kindergarten who used to tug on my ponytails every time he walked past me.
I reach back, wrapping my fingers around his hand that’s fisting my hair, and I squeeze. I squeeze hard while slamming my ass back against him.
“Harder, Sebastian.” I grit my teeth and lean forward, knowing it will have him pulling my hair tighter. His grip intensifies, his thrusts growing faster, fucking me deeper with each pass. Adrenaline starts to slither through my veins. A trickle of excitement. But there has to be more.
I need more. Just once. I need it to consume me. I want the pain so that the pleasure can burst through my fucking soul.
“Hurt me,” I plead.
“Kallie—”
“Please.” I push myself up, grabbing his other hand and guiding it around my throat. “I need you to hurt me.”
His rhythm falters, but he doesn’t stop. God, please don’t stop.
With his fingers around my throat, I guide him to squeeze, to choke me. To just do something so I can feel fucking alive.
“Sebastian, please.”
“I’m going to come,” he groans, burying his face in my neck, his hand slipping away from my throat. “Are you close? Tell me you’re close.”
Like water on dry land, the heat dissipates. The desire evaporates. And it’s like my body just shuts down. I’m so far from close, it’s like we never even started.
“Kallie,” he grunts. “Are you close? I’m going to…Jesus. Fuck.” His thrusts are hard, uncontrolled as he comes. I can feel his cock jerk inside me while his body shudders against mine, his breath hot against the skin of my neck. “God, that was amazing,” he mutters, his dick going soft inside me. “Did you come?”
I swallow hard, a tear lapping down my cheek, disappearing among the white specks on the granite countertop. My teary gaze drops to the floor where my coat is splayed, the black card halfway out of the pocket.
My reality is as bitter as the lie I speak.
“Yes.”
* * *
It’s midnight,and I can’t sleep, unlike Sebastian, who passed out the moment his head hit the pillow. So, I do what I always do when my mind refuses to shut up. I paint.
I settle in my chair in front of the canvas. It’s so much easier to let the paint tell the story and let the colors express my feelings. The canvas understands every emotion I have. There’s no need for me to use words when every stroke speaks it all so loud and clear. Painting has always been my escape. It’s like there’s this secret language between me and my art—a language only I understand. It’s the only thing I don’t have to share with anyone, even if it’s displayed in the homes of people who claim to be art lovers and collectors. They can stand in front of paintings for hours and debate what it means, the message hidden behind the colors, patterns, and shapes, but they will never know. That truth is for the artist and the artist alone.
My phone dings a new message, and my heart flips inside my chest as I glance at the black card with the silver and gold symbol on the tray with the rest of my paint. It’s been an hour since I sent a text to the number, and in that hour, I wanted to send a second message to that number to cancel everything. Tell whoever is on the receiving end to delete my message, after which I’ll dump my phone in the nearest drain. God, what was I thinking?
Gathering my courage, I pick up my phone and swipe the screen. It’s a message with a date. Nothing else. No time. No address. No dress code. Nothing. Well, that’s not ominous at all.
I guess Dr. Trudeaux will have to fill in the blanks.
Shutting the phone off, I look at the blank canvas as the ideas form. As I mix the colors, the piece I have been agonizing over slips into place in my mind.
What is coming together now could be my masterpiece.
Five
GABRIEL
