Page 37 of The Art of Obsession

He shakes me to my core. And rouses something inside me like a tranquilizer in my nerve endings. I sink into him with a misplaced heat into my inner core. I get a glimpse of the raw genius of Acheron, knowing I am the source, the reason for it all.

It’s more beautiful than any of his performances. Because it’sreal.

His cock is rock hard beneath me, longer than I’ve ever felt. Twelve inches easy.Whenthe time comes, he’ll split me apart.

Crack! Burn!

Acheron is not just punishing. He’screating. My ass is his canvas. The belt is his weaponized brush. And the colors dripping from the palette are the liquid heat trickling from my center and sending need pulsing through me.

He reduces me to a throbbing, quivering, aching mess. I hardly know what I’m doing when I start grinding against his leg, desperate for friction, for resolution.

Acheron brings the strap down one more time, the strongest yet, and I screech through the glove in my mouth, long and ear-splitting.

And then, dead quiet. Sometimes, it happens in his shows. It’s nothing but soft music and the sound of his emotion, his ragged, shaky gasps with paint dripping down his arms like tears and blood.

Welts and blisters must cover my ass. One leathered finger traces the curve and sears my flesh, and I moan in agony, but I can’t stop the flaming hunger in my pussy. I’m wriggling, rubbing my clit against his thigh, acting like a stupid, horny fangirl. The pain flares all over my backside, but a deeper pain splinters my center, my heart, and my soul.

Because I want him more than ever.

Suddenly, he grips my hair, pulling me into a sharp arch and forcing my pelvis to rise.

“Don’t you dare come, Everleigh Lennox.”

16

“You’ve turned my passion into a prison.”

Chapter Playlist:

“Flesh” – Simon Curtis

“Like That” – Sleep Token

ACHERON

If I plungea single finger inside her, I know she will come.

My pulse careens through my veins as I train my eyes on her reddened ass and listen to her frantic breaths. By now, she’s spit out my leather glove. Every breath, every sound, every flick of movement hardens my dick more.

Everleigh Lennox is everything I’ve dreamed of.

The perfect storm. She has enough spirit to feel alive, enough defiance to challenge me, enough kindness to look beyond my mask, and enough sexuality to embrace her darker desires. An impassioned energy exists in her blood. Such energy comes alive whenever I touch her. Here and now, it’s fucking dripping off her. Every response she’s given me is as it should be. Raw. Genuine. Real.

Whatever secrets, whatever demons she may struggle with, my Little Quill is the most honest person who ever walked the earth—even when she’s lying to herself. She could never lie to me.

Her cunt is so hot beneath my leg, juices trickling onto my pants. Supple tits flushed with heat and heavy when I brush my knuckles along the swell through her thin blouse. She trembles, thrusting her hips again. A sensual dream.

I cannot afford to let such a dream rule me. I am the master of her dreams and my own. She cannot unite with me. She will grow from me as only the greatest art can.

Everleigh will soon understand the dark master beyond the artist who can summon the world to bow at his feet.

In time, she will kneel before me with every fiber of her being.

Slipping my hand beneath the edge of her shirt, I plant my palm upon her lower back, then gather her hair with my other hand. Summoning her, I yank her head until her eyes meet mine.

Oh, my naughty girl. “Look at me,” I growl. I smirk at the deep blush in her cheeks, red as roses on fire.

She sucks in a deep breath, grits her teeth, and says, “No.”