“Of course, if I don't, that means you win...” The tone was grave, but his words were flippant. I couldn't get a read on him... but I allowed myself to hope.
I took a deep breath, sucking cool sea air into my lungs. “Malcolm Ward,” I said, “you are one dumb motherfucker.”
To my surprise he laughed. “Only you could make 'dumb motherfucker' sound like a term of endearment.”
“It is, you dumb motherfucker.”
“Come here.”
I went to him willingly. He was so fine and good, and he made me feel things I had never thought possible. When he bent his head to mine and captured my lips in a sweet kiss, I tried not to think of it as goodbye.
We were so used to fucking by now that it came easily, quickly. Heat built, spreading through me like a flower taking root, and my clit stood at attention as he guided me to the deck chair I'd just vacated. We had done a lot to devalue those chairs, and this time was no exception.
Grasping my hands lightly, he turned me over and held them behind my back and forced me to kneel down. The deck bit into my knees, but it was a good pain, so familiar by now that it made me gasp with anticipation of what was to come. His grip was loose on my hands, but I knew that if I attempted to break free it would tighten like a vise. A gentle binding, as severe as any chain.
His other hand went to my ass and he moved the shirt I wore up over my hips. I no longer put on his boxers—it was too much trouble to take them off when we decided to screw—so when his cock slotted snugly into my slick core it was swift and sweet. I breathed in, my face smashed into the cushions as he picked up a gentle, rocking rhythm, pumping his shaft into me, his hips smacking against my ass.
My toes curled as he leaned over me, tracing his mouth across my back, touching the tattoos there through the linen, and I closed my eyes and let him drive me over the edge. My breasts scraped over the canvas beneath my chest, rough against my nipples, and when I came it was a whole-body orgasm, every inch of skin shivering and shimmering with pleasure.
When it was over, we knelt there for a long time, sweaty, gasping, and my heart in my chest was a cold lump. When Malcolm slipped out of me, he replaced the linen shirt, and I heard him adjusting his clothing so he was decent. Making a pretty corpse, or, perhaps, a pretty prisoner?
I swallowed my hope and turned over, letting myself collapse against the deck. I leaned back against the deck chair, pulled my shaking knees to my chest, and hugged them close.
To my surprise, Malcolm did the same, copying my posture.
We sat there in silence for a few minutes.
“I hope there's no cameras,” I said finally, just for something to say that wasn't please, or don't, or I want—
He looked at me funny from the corner of his eye. He didn't seem quite so tall when sitting next to me...
“I doubt there will be cameras,” he said. “Don't resist, I'm sure they've been ordered to shoot first and ask questions later.”
I bit my lip. “All right,” I said. “I only meant... after... you know? When they're dragging me on my perp walk. I'm not going to make a very pretty perp.”
“Yes you will,” he said. “You will be amazing.”
I shook my head. “You know, you already got me into bed. You can stop the sweet-talk. It kind of makes me uncomfortable, to tell you the truth.”
Malcolm sat up straighter. “Why shouldn't I sweet-talk you?” he said. “Why shouldn't I try to make you feel beautiful?”
“Because I'm not really beautiful?” I said. “I have no idea what you see in me, but it can't be that. Don't worry, I have no use for illusions. I'm an artiste—”#p#分页标题#e#
“Stop it!”
The shout cut me off. It had been so loud it echoed across the water. I turned and stared at him.
His face was dark and thunderous. Dangerous. There was violence in his eyes.
“Excuse me?” I said. It was all I could think to say.
A muscle in his jaw leaped. “Fucking stop,” he grated out. “Stop acting so modest. It makes me sick.”
My stomach clenched harder. Nausea swept over me.
Malcolm. Cool, calm, collected Malcolm. Yelling at me.
I hate to be yelled at.
Abruptly I stood and backed away. He followed me. “No, don't run away from this, Sadie.”
“Don't yell at me,” I said. “I'm just telling you how I feel.”
“And it makes me sick to hear you talk about yourself that way! Why do you think I bought you at that auction? Why do you think I wanted to take your picture, use you as a piece in my art? You don't think you're worth it, but you are!”
He stalked me across the deck, and I froze as he reached out and grabbed me by the upper arms. I could have twisted away, but I didn't. He was angry. But not violent.