The Con Artist

by Kitty Thomas

  He unbuttoned her jeans and slid them off her hips, his hands running carefully over each inch of skin as he exposed it to the cool air. She braced her hands against his shoulders as she stepped out of the jeans, kicking her own shoes off in the process.

  She’d worn a thong under the pants—subconsciously seducing him, knowing he’d discover it because of course this was coming. Quill ran an appreciative hand over the bared flesh, then removed the thong as well. She was left in the black cami top and collar. She hadn’t bothered with a bra on the plane. She’d tried not to think too much about that choice.

  It took almost nothing, not even the hint of a breeze, for her nipples to stand at attention. Typically, she wore bras with padding, not to look larger, but to avoid looking sexually excited even when she wasn’t. It attracted the wrong kind of attention. And she couldn’t be bothered to constantly explain to men with a frat-boy mentality that they just did that.

  Quill cupped her breasts over the thin fabric and tweaked her nipples into even harder points as he stared into her eyes in the most unnerving way. She tried to look down. Some demure submissive instinct? She wasn’t sure, but when her gaze dropped, he slipped a hand under her chin and forced her gaze back to his.

  Minutes passed in this aching silence. It was a challenge. A game. Who would speak first? As in any negotiation, whoever spoke first, lost. She knew that at least. She’d already lost once with this man, and she wasn’t willing to keep doing it.

  Finally, he peeled her top off, and she stood on the cold marble floor, the sun from the skylight warming her back... waiting.

  She didn’t wait long. He led her quietly to one of the Greek columns on the south end of the gallery and extracted a key from his pocket to unlock the chains. He turned her to face the column and locked each wrist in place so that her arms were stretched high over her head in a V. Then he did the same with her ankles. She felt as if she’d been left for a lion to rip apart in some huge amphitheater while the bored elite looked on.

  Quill dragged the mystery box over to the column. She wouldn’t let herself look inside, too afraid if she saw what all he’d brought out here to torture her with, she’d start screaming and begging for mercy. She closed her eyes as large, strong hands skimmed over her back. Despite her fear, her body arched into his caress. He pressed a soft kiss against her shoulder, then he rooted around in the box until he found what he was looking for.

  Saskia wished there was a clock on the wall, something to mark this length of silence. Some tiny clicking tick tick tick so she could feel and know that time was still a thing that moved even as she stood frozen in this space.

  She waited for him to say something. Anything. But now that it had begun, he seemed devoted to this eerie peace.

  She jumped as something thudded against the skylight. There was a flapping of wings, and she looked up in time to see a disoriented raven fly off. A beat later, the whip came down across her back, and she winced against its bite.

  She hadn’t had time to register the sound as it sliced through the air, the noise competing with the bird outside. But she heard it the second time, so sharp and loud it seemed it could rip time and space apart. The leather licked across her flesh like a serpent made of flame, and all she could do in response was tremble in his chains.

  Screaming, crying, begging, all of these things would have been appropriate, but Saskia couldn’t do it. She couldn’t break this vow of silence she’d committed to, and it seemed neither could he. Neither of them spoke, too locked into this trance to interrupt its flow now.

  The only sounds that spilled forth into the gallery were the snap and crack of the whip and the tiny gasps as it stole her breath. The tears finally came, sliding down her cheeks in that same respectful silence. And she knew, even without words between them, that he was pleased.

  She counted each lash in her mind. She felt his strength, not in how hard he waled on her, but in how he restrained himself and held each strike in check.

  Finally, he returned the whip to the box. She tensed, waiting for something else—not sure she could take more when no comfort was offered. While he hadn’t put her in physical peril, the lashes were much harder and more intense than the light play she’d experienced at the few kinky parties she’d been to on a lark.

  And here there was no magic word she could say to make it all stop. All she could do if it became too much was beg and hope he’d have mercy on her.

  Saskia startled when his hand wrapped around her throat, pulling her back, turning her tear-streaked face toward him. He left a long, lingering kiss on her mouth that took her breath away.

  When he pulled back, he said, “I’m going to paint you now. Just like this.”

  ***

  Several hours later, a door slammed. Saskia jerked in the chains, straining to see who’d come in. She groaned from moving too fast when everything hurt so much. Her back felt raw, the sting still vibrating along her nerve endings.

  True to his word, Quill had painted her, but whenever she’d started to lose the desperately relieved expression he wanted on her face, he’d taken breaks to whip her more to bring her back to the mental zone he wanted her in. Then he’d return to the canvas and his work as if nothing had happened.

  “Marcus,” Quill said when the man entered with Saskia’s things. She’d begun to think of Marcus as Quill’s henchman.

  Marcus made several trips, not sparing her a glance, and left everything in an open space at the far end of the gallery. It was the pieces of her life—so much promise and possibility contained in those bags and crates. All of that gone now except for trinkets—mere shadows.

  Saskia closed her eyes, waiting for him to leave, mortified that this man she’d once snapped at could now watch her degradation at his leisure.

  More silence followed. There was no sound of a door shutting to grant her the hope of privacy. Instead, a large hand—less smooth than Quill’s—trailed down her side and over her hip. Lips pressed against her throat. Not Quill’s lips. She trembled against him.

  “Marcus will guard you at night in case you need something. With me so far away in the main house, leaving you in the cage alone would be unsafe.”

  He really was just going to abandon her at night, wasn’t he? More tears began to fall. Marcus wiped them away. “Shhhh.” The attempt at comfort startled her. The last thing she’d expected from this cold, indifferent man, was kindness. She’d been certain he was annoyed by her very existence.

  Quill continued. “Since he’ll be moving to the night shift, I’m giving him a bonus. He will be allowed to do whatever he wants with you short of fucking you or drawing blood. I have cameras around the gallery to ensure those rules are followed.” She hadn’t noticed the small black monitoring devices near the ceiling. She’d been too taken in by the breathtaking art on the walls that so few eyes had seen. “No objection to this, right, Saskia?”

  “N-no, Master.” As if she’d object to anything he ordered. Not only had the clear consequences of his displeasure now been demonstrated to her, but she still couldn’t kill off her adoration of the artist in spite of it. She was in so much trouble here.

  “Good girl.” Quill left the painting he’d created of her to dry, packed up his other art supplies, and took them back to the studio. She knew he worked in the wet-on-wet technique from various things she’d read about him. She also knew he did a nude portrait in a single session. But actually being here while he created something from nothing like that in such a short period of time, she could hardly believe it.

  In art school she’d learned the traditional method for oils of painting in layers and letting each layer dry in between. A painting could take weeks or months to complete that way. The wet-on-wet technique could create a finished painting in a matter of hours, but even though she’d been taught that technique in art school as well, she’d been far too intimidated by it and felt she’d never acquire the necessary skill to create something brilliant on the first try. Not like Quill could. So she'
d reverted back to waiting for each layer to dry before adding a new one.

  When Quill returned, he said, “I’m going to let you and Marcus get better acquainted. Bring her to lunch in an hour.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Let’s get you cleaned up.” Marcus said when Quill left the gallery. His tone remained gentle.

  Had she misread him the times they’d met before? Had he known what Quill had planned for her from the beginning? Maybe he didn’t like it. But if he didn’t like it, why would he accept partial sexual access to her in exchange for guarding her at night?

  Guarding her. Like a museum piece. Was that all she was to Quill? She wanted to be more. She couldn’t believe she actually wanted to be in his bed. He’d built it up like some coveted sign of status. And she’d already bitten into that bait.

  Marcus picked the keys up off the ground and unlocked the cuffs holding her to the column. She fell into his arms when the metal sprang open, unable to support her own weight anymore. He unlocked her ankles and scooped her up, extracting a hiss of pain from her as his arms pressed into the whip marks on her back. He didn’t comment on her discomfort as he carried her out a side door. Behind this door was a short hallway with another door at the end.

  It was a bathroom. Though that was a mild way to describe a room containing a large dressing area and bench, a glassed-in shower, toilet, hot tub big enough for multiple people, and a counter that ran the full length of one wall and contained dual sinks. Quill didn’t know how to do anything moderately.

  Marcus helped her into a terrycloth robe and guided her to the bench to sit while he filled the tub. He poured fragrant oils into the bath. The scent she recognized immediately was lavender. Then he added a few large scoops of bath salts—no doubt of the therapeutic variety—to the bubbling water.

  When the tub was full, he guided her to sit on the edge. “Tell me if you think this is too hot.”

  Saskia’s hand sank beneath the water. She shook her head. “I think it’s okay.”

  “Sir,” he said, firmly.

  When her eyes met his, they were intense like Quill’s had been—just intense in a different way.

  “Y-yes, sir.”

  He nodded and helped her into the tub. Saskia whimpered when the hot water touched her back.

  “You okay?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The therapeutic salts made her back tingle, but it only took a moment for the feeling to become soothing. Saskia looked down to find the water had turned the palest shade of pink.

  “H-he made me bleed?”

  She should have run from him. She never should have let his identity trip her up. What was different from before when he’d been Lachlan to her? Nothing. In fact, it was worse than she imagined it would be if Lachlan ever got her into his bed. Because at least in those paranoid daydreams, it had been horrifying, but vanilla and violence-free.

  “It’s not bad,” Marcus said. “He barely broke the skin. Was it a punishment?”

  Saskia nodded. But she wasn’t sure anymore. It had started that way. She wasn’t sure what it had become in the end. It had become a frenetic creative feeding frenzy, while she’d been offered up to appease some unseen god of artistic inspiration. In return for this sacrifice, a painting had been born. Judging from Quill’s satisfied expression as he’d studied the finished piece, the gods must have been pleased with the offering.

  “Then that’s why. If you obey him, it won’t be like this. It will be intense, but not like this.”

  How could he know that?

  How many women had Marcus watched Quill do this to? How could he keep getting away with it? If they were all like her with insipid art crushes, it couldn’t have been too difficult. But Quill was demented if he thought she’d beg for him to fuck her after what he’d done in there. The arrogance of thinking she’d actually grovel and plead for him to be inside her was unbelievable.

  Yet even the idea of doing that already made a dull throbbing start between her legs.

  Marcus sat on the bench and let her soak until the water grew cool. He remained silent and distant, neither touching her, nor leering. She found she was grateful for the space, even if he wouldn’t give her any real privacy. When the water turned cool, he pulled the drain and helped her stand, then wrapped her in the terrycloth and took her back out through the gallery to the studio.

  He ripped away the plastic covering one of the chaise lounges.

  “Take the robe off and lie on your stomach,” he said. When she hesitated, he added, “I’m just going to put something on your back. Something to soothe it. Don’t be afraid.”

  The late afternoon sun streamed in through the glass. If not for the trees and fence, she might have felt more exposed. Saskia glanced up to find more cameras hovering above. They were attached along the metal strips in between the panes of glass, with wires that ran the full length and down to the ground, disappearing behind some art supplies.

  Was Quill watching? He no doubt had the entire building wired for his voyeuristic pleasure.

  Marcus was patient while she worked through the anxieties in her head. It seemed as if he would wait forever—however long it took—for her compliance. Meanwhile, Quill’s savage intensity would have meant obey now or pay the price. Was Marcus meant to warm her up for Quill?

  After a long mental back and forth, she took the robe off and lay across the chaise—convincing herself this was somehow a free choice. Marcus sat next to her and began to rub a salve on her back. It was cooling and almost immediately drained the rest of the sting away.

  “Stay here.” He rose and left her alone in the bright, sunlit studio.

  She could hear him a few yards away in the gallery as he sorted through her things. When he returned, he held a short, white cotton nightgown. One of her favorites. When she’d bought it, she’d felt silly without a man to share it with. But it hadn’t been over-the-top sexy and was comfortable on humid Venice nights. Still, it was a bit sheer. It was sexy in that playing at innocence way. But once the gown was draped over a female form, it was impossible to keep believing the virginal ruse.

  His eyes didn’t leave hers as he slid the fabric over her curves. “You’re wearing this to lunch. I’m sure your master will like it as much as I do.” He guided her down to the floor and pressed her gently back. The cool marble kissed her skin through the cotton.

  “Spread your legs.”

  She hesitated. “I...”

  Marcus shoved the gown up over her hips and pressed her legs open. He stared at her smooth, bare mound.

  “I always wondered how you kept it.”

  She hadn’t kept it before she’d started traveling on Quill’s endless dimes. But on a lark she’d gotten a Brazilian two stops before Venice and had maintained it. She liked the way it felt to slip her fingers underneath her panties and find nothing but sensitive flesh, ready for pleasure with no obstructions. And she’d known if she were to meet a man in Italy, he might also enjoy it. She just hadn’t expected it to be Quill. Or Marcus.

  He pressed his palm flat against the smooth skin and dragged his finger across her opening. She could already feel herself growing wet, unable to resist the gentle way he stroked her. He bent between her legs, and then it was his tongue doing the stroking. At first, she was tense, ever aware of the cameras that watched her, afraid Quill might be angry even though he’d practically given her to Marcus on a platter.

  But Marcus’s insistent expert tongue pressing inside her soon made her forget someone else might be observing. She twisted, unsure if she was trying to escape him or move closer. He gripped her wrists and held her down as if she could otherwise get away. Within minutes, she came, writhing against his mouth and moaning his name.

  “Sir,” he corrected, when she finished.

  Any normal man might have been pleased to have her body on display for him as his name dripped off her lips. And so soon after being left alone together. But Marcus was cut from part of the same cloth as Quill. She wondered if
the two men were perhaps closer friends than their employer/employee status suggested.

  Saskia averted her gaze.

  “What do you say to me?”

  Off Saskia’s confused look he said, “Politeness... gratitude for the pleasure?”

  “Oh. Thank you, sir.”

  He nodded and helped her up off the cold floor.

  Back in the gallery, she was drawn immediately to the painting Quill had created while she’d hung in chains. He’d captured her at just the right angle. He’d gotten the stripes on her back, but he’d also gotten the hint of her waxed pussy as her lower half twisted toward him.

  His voice reverberated in her mind, Yes, let me see that lovely cunt. Arch toward me.

  Saskia saw the collar painted around her throat, the heavy chains at her wrists, the pained expression on her face. But if she were a casual viewer walking by this painting in a gallery, she would have skipped all that and seen only the eyes.

  Somehow he’d painted her in such a way that all of her longing for him clashed against all her fear and the almost-dead tinge of resentment and masked defiance. It was all so stark and naked in oil. If he could get it on the canvas, he had to know. If he knew he could do anything to her, and she’d still look at him in that starved, desperate way... what was stopping him?

  Chapter Seven

  Saskia shielded her eyes from the glaring late afternoon sun. She was famished. Quill had lunch set up outside on the terrace, but there was only one plate of sandwiches and one goblet of tea, along with a pitcher to refill it. Next to the plate was one bowl of strawberries. Nothing had been set aside for her.

  Quill extended a hand. Would one of the servants bring something for her? Was he going to eat all of this by himself? Marcus was suddenly nowhere to be found, and she felt self-conscious in the semi-sheer gown he’d dressed her in.

  She went to Quill. His arm encircled her waist, slipping underneath the lightweight fabric.

  One of the servants stepped outside then, carrying a large cushion. She placed it next to his chair and left without a word.