He blinked. “Oh. So you're saying that I somehow have to make art that means less than saying 'everything is meaningless?'”
The joke was on him. All art says something, even if you think it doesn't, because it's a conversation between the artist and the audience, and the only way to be utterly meaningless was to never make the attempt at all.
I wasn't about to tell him that, though. I didn't want him deciding it was impossible and offing himself right then and there. He had something to say, and I wanted him to figure out what it was. His desire to create was just a sign that he wasn't too far gone, because to speak and be heard is an affirmation, and when he understood that I knew he would see things differently.
I smiled. “You are certainly welcome to try,” I told him.
Confusion passed over his features. “All right, I know you said not everything is a challenge, but that sounds like a challenge.”
I grinned. “Fine. That was a challenge,” I said. “You think you're so great at everything? Prove it.”
He regarded me, wordless, for a few moments. “All right,” he said. “I will.” Then he reached down and took my hand, drawing me to my feet. “But now, I believe it is time for you to uphold your part of our bargain.”
I followed him to the bedroom, past a spiral staircase and down a tiny hallway. When he opened the door I had to bite my lip to keep from gasping in astonishment. He led me inside, then dropped my hand and stood back, allowing me to take it in.
I stared at the room. Sumptuous. Decadent. Delicious. Rows of windows displaying the darkness outside. A desk on one side of the room, a couch on the other. A flat-screen TV at one end.
And a four-poster bed at the other.
"I'm afraid I wasn't entirely truthful when I said I didn't make any changes to the interior of the boat," Malcolm admitted from behind me. "The bed is my own personal touch."
Really? A four-poster bed? On a yacht?
Then it hit me. Of course he'd have a four-poster bed on his yacht, I realized. The better to tie you up, my dear.
His hand alighted on my back. Hot and insistent, he guided me to the bed. "Stand here," he commanded. "I'm going to bind you."
I stiffened, and he felt it. Gently, he turned me around and put his hands on my shoulders, meeting my eyes with his. He searched my face for a moment, looking for something, and I couldn't have said if he found it or not.
"I've poured myself out to you, Sadie," he said finally. "Trust me. Give me this one last fling."
Anger boiled up in me. One last fling? He was so selfish. But if he persisted in thinking that he was going to kick the bucket, then fine. I'd give him his fling. I'd fling him so hard he'd have to stay. Or... come back. Like a boomerang.
Not the best metaphor, but it would have to do.
"All right," I said, and the smile that broke over his features was beatific.
He took his own sweet time setting things up. The ropes he used were stored in one of the dresser drawers, and I watched as he drew them out, long and sinuous. Black. Velvet. At least they weren't red.
"Take off your clothes."
Wordlessly, I did as he commanded. First my coat pooled to the floor. Then my top and my bra. My shoes next, and finally my skirt. I still wore no panties. His cum had dried, sticky, on the inside of my thighs.
"Lie down. Spread your legs and arms," he instructed. His eyes on me were hot, not detached like they'd been when he'd been taking out the length of red ribbon in his own bedroom, and I felt an answering rush of heat as I obeyed. The comforter was down, cool and soft, and I found myself hoping, vaguely, that I didn't ruin it by being messy. Stretching my arms above my head and spreading my legs out, I stared at the ceiling and waited for him to begin.
With calm, deliberate movements, Malcolm moved to the wall where he turned the lights off, throwing the room into darkness, cutting off my sense of sight. Beneath me the sea rolled and rocked, and I found I was so tired I wondered if I wasn't going to fall asleep before we actually did anything.
I needn't have worried. The sound of Malcolm's clothes rustled as he moved around the bed, a presence so potent that I would have known it anywhere, listed toward it at any time. Cotton and linen and wool scraped over my ears, and for a strange, terrifying moment it felt as though they were being dragged over my naked brain. I bit my lip as I heard him tie the first rope to the post near my right hand and waited for him to take my wrist.
He didn't.
Instead he moved, one by one, to the other posts around the bed, securing one end of the ropes to the bed posts before moving on to the next. When he finally had the fourth one in place, he took a step back.
The room was almost pitch dark. The lights of the city had completely retreated.