The Finished Masterpiece Boxed Set - Pepper Winters Page 0,87

as Gil glued himself to me. His thigh went between my legs, thrusting up, hoisting my skirt up my stockings.

When it didn’t move high enough, he reached down and tore the fabric, ripping through pinstripe and satin.

My one outfit. I had nothing else here—nothing else to wear.

But I didn’t care.

I didn’t care about anything.

I moaned, encouraging him to take everything with a deep, lingering kiss. His hips rocked forward, his cock heavy and hot against my knickers, teasing my clit.

A bottle tumbled over my shoulder, wedging between us. Without breaking our kiss, I reached for it, uncapped it, and used whatever colour lived inside to drench my hands.

Icy, silky paint on my palms.

Sexy, slippery paint on Gil’s face as I ran my fingers over his cheeks and down his throat, tracing the Master of Trickery with the tools of his trade.

His eyes snapped open. He pulled back, grabbing my wrists and yanking my touch away.

But it was too late.

Black.

Deep, rich ebony glistened over his features. Yellow smeared within it, setting a dangerous combination. A wasp with a sting. A sting I probably wouldn’t survive.

His lips were wet, his eyes wild. “I told you I don’t like wastage.”

I shivered. “Guess you should finish the masterpiece we’ve started then.”

Creative sparks ignited in his gaze. He assessed my ruffled, ruined outfit. “You’re right.” Snatching my wrist, he dragged me toward the same podium where he’d painted me. The matte black bricks dampened all other colour and texture, setting alive the flares of vibrancy on our skin.

Whipping me around, he made me leap onto the stage.

He climbed behind me, tearing my blouse off from behind. Dragging it down my arms, he kept it bunched around my wrists, forcing my back to arch and breasts to jut out.

His nose ran along the contour of my shoulder, smelling me, breathing me.

The difference in this moment to the one where he’d painted me couldn’t be compared. Previously, he’d been snowflakes settling on blue ice. Now he was smoke billowing from red fire.

Kicking my ankle, he spread my legs. “You’re driving me insane.” Wrenching my torn skirt up, he formed a belt with the broken material. With a groan, he dived his hand between my legs and cupped me hard. “Why can’t I stop myself around you?”

My head flopped back as he kissed and nipped his way along my exposed shoulder all while his fingers moved my knickers aside and plunged two inside me.

I cried out.

He cursed.

My wetness was as slippery and intoxicating as the paint gluing us together.

My hips thrust into his hand, seeking more, while he thrust against my ass, rubbing his erection against me. We stumbled and slammed together, violent and unapologetic.

Just like our first time, there were no requests or assurances. Nothing sweet or tame.

Just dark and desperate, crippling beneath years of denial.

Tearing his fingers from my body, he spun me around, yanked my blouse off my wrists and unhooked my bra. Leaving me half-naked, he dropped to his knees, taking my skirt and bra with him to the floor.

In a single heartbeat, I stood in just my stockings, garter belt, and knickers, breathing hard, glassy-eyed, smudged and sullied with his paint.

His arms banded around my thighs, dragging me closer. His mouth captured my pussy, his tongue licking me through my knickers.

My knees buckled, my black pigmented hands landing on his wet yellow hair.

He bit me.

I almost collapsed.

He was gone as quickly as he’d grabbed me.

“Don’t move.” He growled.

Tripping off the podium, he rubbed at his blackened cheeks as he yanked open the drawer where his expensive camera lived. Removing the lens cap and fiddling with a setting, he pointed the thing directly at me.

Instinctually, I covered my breasts.

Gil smouldered below. “Drop your arms.”

“You can’t— I’m half-naked.”

“You were mostly naked last time I took photos.”

“I was painted then.”

“You’re painted now.” He snapped a few pictures, angling left and right. “Remove your arms, O.” His eyes latched on mine. “Strip...for me.”

I blushed. “I’m not letting you take photos of me mid sex.”

“I haven’t been inside you yet. Sex hasn’t occurred.”

My stomach bottomed out, making me impossibly wetter. “You’ve had your fingers inside me. Your tongue was just—”

“Tasting you. I know.” His stare licked me up and down. “You’re in my mouth, up my nose, in my fucking blood. I need to see you. I want you as broken as you’ve made me.”

My knees quaked. I hesitated.

“I won’t sell them.” His voice danced with darkness. “No one will ever see.”

“Why do you want them then?” I