Artist Sadie MacElroy has landed a sweet gig as the personal assistant to her best friend, Felicia Waters. Despite her scattershot creative nature, she’s a whiz at organizing, planning, and ordering people around. But her sweet gig turns sour at a charity art auction she’s organized when she bumps into a stage lackey and sends a 17th century Qing Dynasty vase crashing to the ground. Electing to take the fall, Sadie attempts to arrange payment of the vase to its owner, eccentric billionaire and (extremely) amateur artist Malcolm Ward.
A powerful man on his way down…
Malcolm, however, doesn’t care about the money or the vase, or much of anything. His whimsical, eccentric side hides a dark pain and a grim future, and only the promise of Sadie gives him hope. Inspired by his “muse,” Malcolm decides he only wants her, any way he can have her: in front of his camera, under his brush… or in his bed.
An intimate passion…
Unbeknownst to Sadie, time is running out for Malcolm, and when she discovers his secrets, it’s up to her to convince him that life is worth living, painful scars and all.
* * *
“Take off your bra,” he said. “I want to study my canvas.”
Shivers raced over my skin. Reaching behind me, I unhooked my bra and let it slide down my arms to fall to the floor. Malcolm stood and began to circle me.
I remained still, my head held high, wanting nothing more than to leap across the space between us, hook my legs around his waist, and ride him until I came over and over again. What was he doing to me?
Driving me just as crazy as he is, I thought. Maybe he was a bit mad. But it was a good sort of mad. The madness of artistry, the madness of genius. He finally stopped in front of me and reached out, his hands cupping my small breasts, lifting them up and running his thumbs over my nipples. My core quivered and I moaned softly at his touch.
“Sensitive there, are you?” he said.
“Good.” He slid his warm hands up my chest to my shoulders, and then let his fingers drift down, down, down the back of my arm to my hands. Gently, he tangled his fingers with mine and led me over to the cloth in the center of the floor.
“Kneel,” he commanded me, and I did so. The warmth of his palms sliding over my body guided me into the position he wanted, and I reveled in his every touch as he pushed my face down to the floor, stretched my arms out in front of me, arched my back so my ass stuck in the air. He lifted my heavy mass of hair and slid it over one shoulder, then traced his hands over my spine.
“You have many tattoos,” he said after a moment. “I love them. You are a work of art.”
No man had told me I was art before. I closed my eyes, praying he would paint me and then fuck me. I couldn’t take the teasing much longer.
My exposed pussy quivered in the air, though the warmth of the room kept the caresses of the drafts from being uncomfortable. I ached for him. I ached for anything. I wished, suddenly, that I wasn’t the passive canvas, that I could touch him as much as he touched me.
He knelt down beside me. “Your back is beautiful,” he said. “You are exquisitely structured.” The scrape of the table legs on the floor echoed around the studio as he dragged his materials over to himself. I heard the unscrewing of a cap and the rustle of his movements as he dipped a brush into the paint. Then he touched brush to skin, and I sighed in pleasure.
Slowly, torturously, he dragged the tip of his brush over my back, winding down my spine in spirals, wandering where it would. I had no idea what he was doing. My forehead touched the floor and I could only see his knees from the cave of my body, but whatever he was doing felt amazing. Swift, then slow, strong, then soft, he painted my skin. Occasionally he would dip the brush into the paint again, and I quivered, wondering where he would paint me next. I was never disappointed. First he painted the back of my thigh, then the curve of my waist. Then, finally, his brush found my breast. It curled under and over, circling my nipple, until I nearly moaned in frustration.
“Would you like me to touch your nipple?” he said. He sounded amused. “Nod if yes.”
I watched as he reached down to the hard little point of my breast. Then my breath caught as he pushed his pointer into his thumb, and then flicked me.
Pleasure laced with pain shot out across me, darting straight from my nipple to my heart, and I cried out.
“Too much?” he asked. “Nod if yes.”
I remained perfectly still, and I heard his breathing pick up the pace.
“Good,” he said. He ran the brush over the now throbbing nub, soothing it. I was so wet between my legs it was a miracle I wasn’t just dripping down my thighs. He flicked me again, then soothed me, flicked and soothed, flicked and soothed, over and over, until I was crying out and twitching with each burst of pleasurable pain.
At last he stopped, then ran his fingertips over my back and side. He traced the swell of my ass and reached around, brushing his fingers against my quivering cunt, feeling the soaking wetness there.
“Ah, Sadie,” he breathed. “You truly are alive.” He shifted, moving around to my back. God, why wouldn’t he let me touch him? I needed to touch him. I wanted his cock in my hands, in my mouth. I’d never wanted anyone like I’d wanted Malcolm Ward, and the wanting was all the more potent because he didn’t seem to want me to have him.
“Hmm,” he said suddenly. “I need a new brush. But I have forgotten a place where I could store my used brushes. I truly am an amateur.”
His voice had a wicked undertone, and my pulse quickened. Was he going to do what I thought he was going to do?
Hot breath gusted between the cheeks of my ass, caressing the tight puckered entrance there. Then he slid his tongue over my asshole, soft, sensuous, layering it with moisture, so that when he finally pressed the rounded tip of the brush handle past the tight ring of muscle, it went easily, and I moaned and quaked around it.
“Do you like it?” he asked me. “Nod if yes.”
I heard him select another brush, and then he began to swirl it over the mounds of my ass, dragging paint here and there, tickling and teasing me until he rinsed it out and then inserted it alongside the first one. Then another, and another. Slowly he stretched me out, and I quivered with desire to be used so. My pussy was melting. I needed him inside me, but I knew he wouldn’t give me what I wanted yet.
He selected another brush. “I like this part of you,” he said.
There was a pause and I almost opened my mouth to ask him what he meant, but then he swiped the bristles of the brush over my burning slit and I squeaked as they flicked against my clitoris.
“This part is very alive,” he said. “It almost has a mind of its own.” He flicked my clitoris with the brush again and I groaned at the intensity of the sensation. The pleasure coiled and curled in my belly, and I felt myself beginning the long, slow climb up to the top of the mountain, and when I finally let go I would plunge into pleasure. My mouth watered, my body strained, even as I struggled to stay still. The brushes in my ass filled me up. and I ached to feel the same in my tight core.
“I’d like to watch you come,” Malcolm said. “Would you like that? Nod if yes.”
I didn’t want to nod. “Yes!” I cried.
He reached around and flicked my nipple again, and I bucked and shrieked. So much more intense, so much more satisfying, now that he was touching me where I most needed him. He began to flutter the bristles of the brush over my slit, gathering the slick juices there, as though he were loading the brush with paint, and when he dragged it over my clit as if he were layering paint onto a canvas I couldn’t help but cry out and writhe under his tender attention…
* * *