“'I have gone out,'” he said, voice low and rough with arousal, “'a possessed witch, haunting the black air, braver at night. Dreaming evil, I have donned my hitch over the plain houses, light by light: lonely thing, twelve-fingered, out of mind...'”
Pulling back, his eyes drifted up to my own, and he held me with his gaze. “'A woman like that is not a woman, quite,'” he murmured. “'I have been her kind.'”
I bit my lip and tried to catch my breath. “What... what was that?”
“Anne Sexton,” he said. He watched me, his eyes burning with desire. “After I bought you at the auction, I thought I might become a poet as well.” He smiled as though this were a far sillier notion than becoming a tortured artist. “I was very drunk at the time. Poets are notoriously drunk, you see, and I thought it would be perfect. I have never written poetry before, though, so I went looking for a poem or two to describe you. I found that one.”
Releasing the hold of his hand on my shoulder, he moved it down again, between our bodies and then ran his fingers over my slit, sending another shudder of bone-shattering pleasure rocking through me.
“A twelve-fingered witch?” I said, grasping at rationality.
“A singular woman, unbound by society,” he corrected me. “You exist outside of all things.”
For some reason, tears stung my eyes. I felt that way sometimes. Often. I felt that way often. How did he know?
“Or perhaps,” he said, his smile growing, “I just felt as though you had laid a spell on me.”
I rolled my eyes and he laughed. The bulge of his cock, covered in rough denim, rocked against my slick entrance as he did so, and I realized that perhaps he understood me better than I'd ever thought. He'd struck at the heart of me with his poem, revealed sides of me I hadn't known existed with his art. Cradled against him, I felt strangely small and vulnerable.#p#分页标题#e#
Lowering his head, he captured my lips in a slow, sensuous kiss, his tongue reminding me that it loved to give me pleasure as well. I returned the kiss, hard and insistent, as though I wanted to fight him, and it made him laugh. One hand tangled in my hair as he slipped his other arm beneath me and scooped me up, rocking back onto his heels and holding me around him. Too spent by the orgasm he had given me, I collapsed against him, my arms moving around his shoulders, limp and weak.
For a long while, he kissed me, and I let him, too tired to do anything but let him. He could have done anything he wanted with me—dressed me up in a clown wig and a tutu for all I cared—and I couldn't have put up a fight. In my brain, the realization that I had put myself completely at his mercy without ever feeling the bite of a rope against my skin was, intellectually, a bit jarring, but I felt no emotions about it at all. So what? If he did crazy things like that to me, I really had no objection.
After a bit he pulled away. “You seem tired,” he said, smiling. “Perhaps you would like to take a nap before we get to Croatia?”
“Oh,” I said, “I hate sleeping on planes. It's always so uncomfortable.” Well, except for that one time to Barbados with Felicia. First class. My god. The seats. I'd been a class traitor and I hadn't been able to care, what with the champagne and the seats that sort of became beds. It had been crazy. Also? Fucking steak for dinner. That had been a good time.
But Malcolm was smiling, his dark brown eyes crinkling at the edges. “Oh?” he said. “But you have never slept on my plane before.” Gently he set me down and stood up, helping me to my shaking feet. His clothes were streaked with paint and charcoal, and so was I.
We're rubbing off on each other, I thought, and giggled.
Placing a warm arm around my shoulders, he guided me to the back of the plane, where a wood paneled wall stood. An unobtrusive door was set into it, and he opened it to reveal...
...a bedroom.
Oh my.
“This is decadent,” I said.
“Not even the best part,” he told me. “See that?” He pointed to a door set into the back of the bedroom. “Through there is a shower. Hot water. Massage head. Would you like to try it?”
I looked down at myself, covered in paint and charcoal. “Don't you want to take a picture of your masterpiece?” I asked.
I felt the surprise radiate from him. “This?” he said. “This isn't my masterpiece. A thumbnail sketch, at best.”
Jesus, I thought. The masterpiece might very well give me a heart attack if this had been a thumbnail sketch. I took a deep breath and moved away from him. He let his hand fall from my shoulder. “Yeah,” I said. “Then a shower would be great.”
“Wonderful,” he said. “I'll leave you to it, if you don't mind. You have given me some lovely ideas and I'd like to write them down before we land.”