Pretty and Reckless

by Charity Ferrell

  She was contemplating whether or not to come out of her hiding. She was halfway there, unfolding that piece of her, but hesitant on unraveling it all.

  “She’s stuck in two places,” I told him.

  “She is,” he said. I quivered when his hands skimmed down my side and cradled along my hips. “She’s thriving to be happy, but scared at the same time. Is that what you see, too?”

  I nodded, my belly constricting. I was trying to focus on the picture, but the ambience of his hands on me kept interrupting my line of thinking. “The right is her darkness, the left is her light.”

  “She’s dark, but she’s innocent,” he whispered, his voice thick and husky. The grip of his hands on my waist clamped on tighter and caused pinpricks to trickle down my arms. “She’s broken, but she’s tough. She’s a paradox, but she’s an open book.”

  “She’s one giant contradiction.”

  “No, she’s a beautiful creature trying to find her place in the world.” I shuddered, his wet lips nudging my ear. “Are you ready?”

  His hands stayed put while I waited for him to elaborate on what I needed to be ready for, but he didn’t care to fill me in.

  “Ready for what?” I asked, the words squeaking out. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up as I suddenly felt chilly. The way his fingers were lightly tapping on my hips and the feel of his tongue at my ear were making me delirious.

  What was he asking me? His question seemed so simple, but the meaning more complex. Was he asking me if I was ready to participate in expressing myself? Or was he asking me for the permission to touch me more?

  I let out a rush of air when he released me and took a step back. I yelped when I was twisted around to face him. His fiery eyes latched onto my gaze intensely. This was going to be more than just our typical therapy session. I had a feeling we were going to be digging much deeper.

  “I asked if you were ready,” he repeated, testing me.

  “I am,” I lied.

  “Then, let’s go.” His thumb jerked out and he signaled towards the steel, spiraled staircase in the corner of the room.

  My body briefly brushed up against his chest when I walked around him. My heart raced with every footstep as I led the way, taking slow, gradual steps until I finally hit the top step and landed in a loft. A long table covered with buckets of paint and paintbrushes was pushed up against a wall.

  “This is where he does his magic,” he said, walking around me and into the room. “He sees it as his therapy.”

  “And today it’s going to be mine?”

  “It helped him. I have a feeling it’ll do the same for you.” He walked over to the table, popped open a can of paint, and grabbed a few wilted brushes from aluminum canisters.

  “And why do you think that?” I grabbed a paintbrush, feeling the dried up paint linger against the tips of the fibers as I massaged the rough bristles. “And just so you know, I’m an atrocious artist. They wouldn’t even hang up my pictures for the first grade art show.”

  “It doesn’t have to be beautiful to anyone, but you. Art is a form of interpretation. You communicate your feelings through it. You surrender all of your frustrations, your fears, your anger, you put it all out there until you feel cleansed.”

  “I’m telling you whatever I make will be far from beautiful,” I grumbled.

  “What it looks like doesn’t matter. Take your anger out on it. Just like your life, it doesn’t have to be beautiful, you only need to be happy with the strokes you’re taking.”

  He pulled out a paint-splattered sheet from underneath the table and spread it out across the floor. “Every brush you make is different because every path you’ve walked is distinct. When my friend lost someone close to him, he didn’t want to go to therapy, but he didn’t want it to fester either, so he decided to use art as his release. It worked for him, and I thought I’d let you give it a try. Talk about it with yourself if you don’t want to talk about it with anyone else.”

  “I wish you would’ve given me this option a long time ago,” I said, my voice muffled.

  He straightened the sheet down on the floor and got back up on his feet. He grabbed the easel nestled in the corner and placed it over the sheet, situating a blank canvas onto it. His deep-set, unrelenting eyes impaled mine when he turned around to give me directions.

  “Show me everything you have,” he ground out. “Reveal how you feel from the inside out. Give me what eats at you, what is seeping through your heart and your veins, and I promise I will do everything in my power to make it better.”

  My words caught in the back of my throat, struggling at the base, and refused to make their way up. I wanted to flee, but my legs were frozen in place. In the back of my mind, I knew I was lying to myself. I wanted to stay there and let Weston fix me. Just like the painting, I was stuck in between two worlds, and it was time I made the decision on whether to keep hiding or set myself free.

  The sound of another can being opened echoed through the mute air. My eyes set on a paintbrush being dipped into a can and then drug across the canvas to create a black streak. He leveled his eyes on me. “Show me the darkness inside of you,” he said. “Show me the light shining.” He added a yellow streak over the black, and then popped another can open, a red line joining the mix. “Show me the entirety of you.”

  I took a calming breath while I stepped his way. Fear flooded through me when I stopped dead in front of him. “What about you?” I asked, grabbing the brush from him. “Why don’t you do the same for me? Bare yourself, let me see your darkness and what terrifies you,” I said, challenging.

  He shook his head, looking away from me to his art, as his small Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. I stumbled backwards when his shoulder bumped into mine while he tried to maneuver around me. I snatched his arm, gripping his wrist forcefully to stop him.

  “Your stories for mine,” I said, holding up the brush.

  I gasped when he jerked forward, my arm being drug forward and he pulled me into him. Our chests aligned, our mouths barely inches apart, and I could feel the heat of our bodies colliding into one another’s.

  “What terrifies you?” I asked.

  “You,” he said, rasping it out. My heart plundered against my rib cage. What the hell was that supposed to mean? “You,” he repeated, as if that one word was supposed to explain everything.

  “What?” I chocked out.

  “You are what terrifies me.” His confession seemed to shock the both of us.

  “I’m what terrifies you?”

  And it dawned on me. I was wrecking him. He wanted me, the only man I’d ever wanted to want me did, but we couldn’t do anything about it. His want for me tortured him. I was his weakness. I was the sinner lying next to him at night tempting him with forbidden desire. That made me feel like shit.

  I took a step back, slowly finding the strength in my body to move, but it was his turn to stop me. He didn’t say anything. He only stood there, keeping his hold on me, while we both internally fought with ourselves. We were starving, ravenous, but too terrified to take that first bite, scared it would turn us into gluttons for each other and we’d never stop.

  “Let me finish,” he demanded.

  “You don’t have to finish,” I said. My eyes fell to the floor. “I’m sorry.”

  He caught my chin between his thumb and forefinger and stroked my skin. “Don’t be sorry, and please don’t leave,” he said. His caress relaxed me. He slowly lifted my chin higher before grabbing me around the waist and walking backwards with me in his hold.

  We settled next to the pain cans and he dipped a finger a bucket, playing with the liquid in his fingers. “You’re my work,” he said, tracing my bottom lip with color while I stared up at him transfixed. “You’re the one person I’m not supposed to want, to crave. It’s forbidden for me to want you as bad as I do. I have to resist taking you right here, right now, no matter how bad I want to because it’s wrong. I shouldn’t want you like this, but I can’t fucking he
lp it.”

  His hand returned to the paint pot as I struggled to keep breathing. He covered his entire palm with red paint and placed it across my cheek. “I lose all of my sanity, my rationality, my principles, when I’m with you. I forget to think. I’m reckless. Every rule in my head is broken and replaced with my feelings for you.”

  I held onto him, feeling the cold liquid drip down my cheek and onto the sheet, as I let his words sink in. “Out of everything in this crazy world,” I said, tasting the paint on my lips. “I’m what scares you?” He nodded. “I’m your forbidden fruit.”

  He nodded, his hand stroking my cheek, and then descending down my neck. “You are,” he said. “And I’d drink all of that poison as long as it tasted like you.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY- TWO

  ELISE

  He stared at me, our eye contact thickset, while he fought with his desire. He was battling with himself, deciding if I was worth the risk or not.

  I pushed away any lingering doubts from my thoughts. I had my mind made up. I undisputedly wanted him and I didn’t care if he was out of bounds or forbidden.

  I stood up on my tiptoes and grazed my lips against his. “This isn’t a good idea,” he muttered. I could feel the hard air of his breathing pushing along my lips.

  “To hell with good ideas,” I whispered. He trembled when I slid a hand behind the back of his neck to hold him in place while moving my tongue along his lips, testing him to see how he’d react. A blitz of titillation flowed through me when his tongue slid into my mouth slowly. The taste of cinnamon and paint blended on my tongue.

  A deep growl broke from his chest when I bit into his plump bottom lip, capturing it with my teeth. He deepened our kiss, his lips claiming mine like he’d always owned them. My veins pulsed, shooting all of my blood to the center of my thighs. His fingers curled around my waist, putting deep pressure into my sensitive skin while he slowly walked me backwards.

  I grew wobbly, almost falling down on my ass, as he settled me down on top of the sheet. I struggled to pull myself up on my elbows to watch his every move when he moved away from me. He enveloped the paint cans and brushes in his arms and then dropped them down next to me.

  “Now let’s not forget the task at hand,” he said in amusement, kneeling down at my side. “I told you that you’d be expressing yourself today and that’s what we’re going to do.”

  My eyes turned wild, unable to focus on anything but him when his hand dipped underneath my t-shirt. I shivered against his palm, splayed out across my stomach and moving in circles.

  My skin quivered, silently begging for more. The only way I was interested in expressing myself was with him inside of me.

  “I think I like this form of expression,” I said, gasping when his strong hand palmed my breast. “But I think we need to dig a little deeper, get a little more personal.”

  He bent forward to push my hair back and ran a finger along my cheek. I felt the weight of his body when he climbed over me, his eyes burning with dominance, and straddled my thighs. The hard bulge between his legs nudged against the exact place I needed it.

  Then it hit me. He looked down at me when I frantically snatched his hand up. “Do you want me to stop?” He asked, scooting away from me, looking guilty. “I’ll stop. I’m sorry”

  “No,” I said, my tongue feeling heavy in my mouth. I didn’t want to him stop, I only needed to make one minor adjustment. “I need to be on top,” I told him, shamelessly. “I have to be on top, I don’t do the bottom.”

  Never had I willingly allowed anyone to fuck me missionary, doggy style, or any other way. Call me boring, but the only way I took dick was how I wanted it: riding it. No Kama Sutra, no reverse cowgirl, just plain old dick riding was my specialty, and that wasn’t open for discussion. When I agreed to have sex, it was my choice to say how I wanted it.

  He pulled out of my grasp, and paint spread through his curls when he ran his hands through them. “This isn’t going to happen. I won’t touch you anymore if you don’t trust me.”

  I warred with myself, trying to muster up my best argument, but I couldn’t focus. I ached for his hands to be back on me, his skin on mine, and decided I needed that more than I needed to be in control.

  I’d lose him if I didn’t tell him what he wanted to hear. He’d stop right then if I didn’t validate how I felt for him. He wouldn’t go there with me until he knew I trusted him and didn’t see him as a product to make myself feel better. He wouldn’t let me use him like I had other guys.

  “I trust you,” I said, pushing my hand down and placing a finger into the paint can. “I completely trust you,” I lied, running a streak of red paint down his arm.

  “Thank God,” he growled, kissing me.

  The only thing he wanted from me was the hardest for me to give. Fucking trust.

  He hastily dragged my shirt over my head, my declaration empowering and exciting him more, and tossed it to the side. Next was my bra, disposed to the side along with my top. Butterflies swarmed through my stomach when I watched his hungry eyes fasten on my bare breasts. He used an elbow to spread my legs open and scooted closer between my thighs.

  My back arched at the feeling of the cold liquid floating along my stomach and then circling around my breast. The brush tickled like tiny sparks crackling across my skin. The sound of my jeans unsnapping and our breathing were the only noise in the room. I hiked my ass up, assisting him in pulling off my jeans, and then kicked them off my heels.

  “You’re breathtaking,” he said, licking his lips. Then he went silent. He used his hands to express himself. His five fingers, like tiny weapons, generated everything he wanted to say. I waited, withering underneath him, while he created his masterpiece, my skin as his canvas, and awakened all of my senses simultaneously.

  The bristles of the brush combined with the soft touch of his fingers set me ablaze.

  The pungent taste of lacquer glaze on my tongue.

  My heavy eyes watching him concentrate on my sprawled out body, like he was getting paid millions for his creation.

  The heady scent of chemicals dragging through the air and engulfing my nostrils.

  The sound of our low, steady breathing drawing in and out.

  He worked meticulously, taking his time to focus on my most sensitive spots. “Can I kiss you here?” he asked, tossing the brush to the side, his cold hands roaming along my inner thighs.

  “Yes, please,” I groaned out, pleading. “You can kiss me anywhere you’d like, but definitely there, yes.”

  He looked up at me, grinning sheepishly, before lowering his head. I lifted myself up, watching him ease his hand underneath my panties and slide a finger through my warmth. I wanted him to lick me. I wanted his tongue in between my legs, lapping me up, and then I wanted him inside of me.

  “Whoa, eager one,” he said, around a chuckle when I tilted my hips up to meet his touch. “Patience.” He took off his glasses and rested them at the top of his head.

  “Fuck patience,” I muttered, pulling my panties down my legs hastily.

  I let out a moan when he spread me wider. Liquid poured between my legs and I bucked forward when he came into direct contact with my slick folds. His breath caught in his throat, his face scrunching together, when he felt how soaked I was for him.

  “I thought you were going to have your mouth there,” I said, my voice shaky.

  “Lie back,” he whispered, a hand going to my chest and pushing me down. “I’m going to take care of you.” His fingers went to work between my legs, touching me everywhere but the place I wanted it most. The hand resting on my chest wrapped around my needy breasts and my back arched when he flicked a nipple.

  “What the hell are you doing to me?”

  “I’m going to make you feel good,” he told me, confident. “I’m going to make you feel more and cum harder than any of those men you use.”

  I thrummed with pleasure when he drove a finger inside of me, using it to slowly tease me. Just a single finger
–in and out, in and out- as he hit every nerve ending in his path. My body was completely receptive to his every touch. He added another tentative finger, pumping inside of me with the other, and my head fell back. Shit, that felt amazing.

  I yelped, my mouth flying open, at the brush of his tongue in between his fingers working me. He used his tongue and fingers in intervals, replacing one with the other over and over again.

  “Keep doing that,” I gasped, moving my hips to meet his finger. I sighed at the loss of his touch, losing a finger one by one, until only his tongue coiled inside of me.

  “I love the way you taste,” he said, his voice vibrating against my pussy, and a finger went to my clit. “So fucking good.”

  I made noises in the back of my throat while he sucked me and licked me up. I whimpered when I lost the feel of him playing with my breasts, but grinned when he used it to lift my hips up closer to meet his mouth. I tried to hold back, wanting to turn my body down so this could last longer, but it was all too much. His tongue devouring me, his finger toying with my clit, and the look of his head completely shoved in between my legs. I snapped up when a thousand waves moved through me, hitting me in places I never knew possible.

  “Holy fucking shit!” I yelled out, my head spinning when I let out my release. I gripped his hair, needing something to hold onto, while my body spiraled out of control.

  His lips brushed up against each thigh before he lifted up to look at me. He grinned in triumph, licking his lips, and then sliding his finger covered with my juices between of them. “You, my dear, taste fucking fantastic,” he said. “Even better than I imagined.”

  “You’ve imagined eating me out?” I asked, coming down from my high.

  He laughed, shaking his head. “More times than you think, love.”

  “Oh really?” I asked, raising a brow. “Do go on.”

  “That will have to wait until I’m inside of you, taking you slowly, and whispering every fantasy I’ve ever had of you before I act them out.”