For the Love of Art Pt. 02

His thumb caressed my hand dare I say lovingly as he spoke. "Why you, why you . . . Because you see right through me, Miss Larson, and to leave a man without shelter, to leave his disgusting soul so bare and vulnerable . . . Well, you've witnessed what it does to me." He ceased the fondle of my hand, guiding it to his thigh.

"We're practical strangers," was my frail defense.

"Imagine if we were not," was his counter.

His mouth at my ear, I felt his breathing become ragged attempts at control as he steered my hand up the dark flannel textile.

I knew what I would find. The stiff swell of his pants where his length strained, blood unmercifully collected and driving his urges. I knew, but by the way my breathing mirrored his, low and shallow, it may as well have been first time introductions. He released my hand, making what I think was a sound of approval when I continued the voyage alone.

His member was easy to discern, the tips of my fingers grazing over the taut force behind the pants. The length, contained by undergarments, managed to protrude proudly; I closed my hand around him.

He jerked harshly.

I released. Instantly, eyes wide with terror. My intentions hadn't been to cause pain.

"No," he drawled. Something had taken the reins of his voice, pitting it into a guttural distortion. A pierce of desperation bled through. "Again. Do it again."

I did, not out of obligation, but pure intrigue. When I curled my hands around him through the pants, the cool interruptions of his breaking breaths sent unidentifiable chills through me. But when I led a curious thumb over the tip of him, he stopped breathing altogether, his forehead lowering onto my temple in a seeming defeat.

"Barbed wire," he rasped. His hands were tangled in the briers of my curls. Seeking composure, he took ahold of my chin and turned me to face him. I sucked in a breath at the fire in his eyes, my hand falling away from him.

"What do you see?" The words, grated and malformed. Rich and heady.

"A-a sea set afire." My answer was rote, an easy depiction from my vantage. I wet my lips; his gaze devoured the action with unmasked desire.

"Miss Larson," he murmured, the familiar cool back in place. "You say we are strangers, but can you deny how your body reacts to this particular stranger?"

I was back to closing my legs tightly, no last resort to harbor the fiery trail licking towards my core.

Mr. Ryne, clearly displeased with the coping mechanism, wedged his hand between the barring of my legs, and with disturbing ease, he pried them open apart, merely resting his hand on the chair between them.

"Can you truly say we are strangers?"

His hand between my legs, insisting on my vulnerability, was telling. His hand in my hair, forcing me to gaze into the man I feared I knew all too well, was frightening. I finally shook my head.

"You know me well, don't you, Miss Larson?"

A feeble nod.

"And what am I capable of?"

My voice was so small. Too small to identify as fear or arousal when I breathed, "Bad things."

And like that, his lips were against mine.

He urged my head back, dipping me into cool waters. His tongue was patient, at first, gauging the shape of mine, feathering me towards a high bliss. Vaguely I was aware of succulent moans becoming me, the taste of him mesmerizing. I made to learn him as well, but was instantly rewarded with a tug of my curls, his tongue arching mine back into submission. Then, when satisfied with the obedient playing field, the kiss erupted into something far less understanding.

Suddenly, all he knew was more, more and more. My body's response was a natural relief, a willingness to give and give, as much as he could take. And this must have been what he had been testing from the beginning. How breakable was I. His tongue searched, seeking it all. Leaving me breathless, panting against his mouth and light headed as I tried to find the next deep breath. Any means to breathe really. But he was unrelenting, forcing my tongue into the dance he knew, the motions that were without the need to breathe.

I may have choked on the kiss, the utter decadence. He swallowed the hiccup readily, cornering me into a dark place, sparks going off behind my eyes until I had to dig my nails into his shoulders.

He finally let up; I gasped and blinked wildly, looking around us. Somewhere between his leaning into the kiss and my involuntary whimpers for more, I had ended up straddling him on the low-backed chair. And it was a small chair, hardly holding him. One of his legs set off to the side, his arms my entire means of support. Half my desire, half his demand.

He seemed to have noticed this the same moment I did, the probe of his cock at my clothed entrance putting us both at an impasse.

What I did next was more impulse than rationality. The heat simmering below, a need to stoke the fire . . . Closing my eyes, I tendered to my craving. I gave one languid drag of my hips against his full length, swiveling my heat against the bulge of him.

"Miss Larson," came the quiet warning.

I dared open my eyes.

Though the strangest thing happened. It was but a second, the glimpse of pure carnal desire on his face. More than that. This interstice of a second, revealed something I could not rightly prepare myself for. In the trenches of oceanic eyes was an insatiable depth, a desolate sea that was equal parts black hunger and . . . twisted sadness. But the glimpse flickered—or the gallery did. The overhead lights and wall sconces short-circuited. Flick. Flick. Flick.

Then there was total darkness.