by Barefoot, LW
I look around the room and take in the details. A large wood canopy bed, with thick posters welcome you like an oasis. Curtains billow down the posts and the top is solid wood all the way across. The same material was used on every large window. The bedding is modern and white. The fancy molding on the walls and ornate fireplace mantel is subdued in a neutral color. This is Evan’s bedroom, the one he expects me to share with him.
“So Mae works for you?” I ask pulling us both away from staring at the bed and the innocent touch of our hands leading to less innocent touching.
“Does Mae strike you as someone who has a boss?” he asks with laughter coloring his voice.
“No. Actually she doesn’t.”
“She worked for my father. She doesn’t work for me. Once I was grown, her commitment to making sure I was taken care of continued, regardless of how much I argued about her wasting her time. I pay her handsomely so she doesn’t want for anything.”
“So Brad and Mae are your family?” I ask despite the contrasting color of their skin.
“No. They’re better than family. Brad and I grew up together, Mae and I schemed to get him to move back home after his training was complete. I pay him enough that working for the government has no appeal. Mae comes and goes at her whim. She makes sure there’s a constant staff on my payroll to take care of this place, the fridge is full so none of us go hungry, and she scandalously borrows cars out of my collection.”
“I love that,” I admit.
“She does too,” he smirks.
“I need to show you something.”
I follow him to a room next door to the master suite. The sun’s almost blinding, blazing through large windows and spilling across the room. I gasp when I realize what I’m looking at, when my eyes are able to focus. I’m stunned speechless as I try to put my thoughts back together.
There’s a large easel a few feet away from the gigantic windows. Every different kind of paint and medium imaginable hangs on hooks and sits on open shelving on the right wall. Dangling, tempting me to use them and make something of them. Everything new and the sheer amount of supplies alone is staggering. A large sink and a speaker system that would embarrass my little portable speaker I love dearly. Evan’s attention to detail is immaculate and over the top. I walk over to the hanging tubes of paint and run my fingers over them, itching to touch them as they swing back and forth.
“Say something, Harper,” Evan commands.
I turn to study him, but I can’t tell what his look means.
“I’m speechless, Evan. I’m sorry, but I don’t understand.”
I try not to sound ungrateful, but I fail. What would possess him to do this for me? Here of all places. As of yesterday, I believed he didn’t think of me at all and here I am in his home with an entire space dedicated solely for my use.
“What is there for you to understand? You saw your clothes in our room and now I’m showing you your studio here at the plantation. I know how passionate you are about your work and I thought you could use a space out here.”
I’m stunned. He said ‘our’ room and ‘my’ studio. Giving me ownership and making whatever this is between us more serious than I imagined. It’s more than I want to process right now, more than I need to jeopardize my emotions with. The recent turn of events makes everything a blur. While I was upset about his absence these last two weeks, he was having this space transformed just for me.
I manage to mumble out a ‘thanks.’ Not sure what to think or how to handle myself. Custom canvases are stacked and leaning against the far wall. I have to budget and expense that cost out and here is thousands of dollars’ worth of unused canvas and craftsmanship.
“Come here and show me your appreciation then, Harper.”
The way he made that sound, quiet and heated, makes me almost pant, but there’s displeasure in his voice. My insides warm with anticipation of what he intends to do to me.
I approach him slowly, presenting myself in an obedient manner. Evan pulls me against him and kisses me. His lips punish mine. His fist finds its way to the hair at the nape of my neck. He wrenches my head back. It stings as his teeth bite down on my lower lip, his tongue quickly smoothes over the offense. Dual aches compete for attention, pulling a suppressed squeal from me.
I feel like the man who stands in front of me is different from the one who would plan and execute this gift of a studio. Small whimpers come out of my chest as he continues to squeeze my hair, wrapping it around his fist. My scalp’s still sore from his treatment last night. I move to push his hands away and out of my hair.
He shoves me away from him. Finally letting go of my lips, a wry smile graces his perfect mouth. He measures me up in predatory amusement. My panic flares his lust.
Evan spins me to where my back is to his chest. I can’t catch my breath as he roughly grabs my breasts, feeling me up. He pushes me down to the ground, forcing me to my hands and knees. I try to crawl away from him, but his unforgiving grip has the back of my head on fire.
I feel wet, my underwear soaked with his rough treatment. My rational inner voice condemns me, reminding me how I should like to be treated and how fucked up I am. He’s handling me like a piece of meat or an animal you try to force compliance from.
He bends over me, hiking my dress up and stretching my underwear down to my knees. I hear the zipper on his pants slide open.
To my shame, I grasp for his length to help guide him to me, anything to take this ache away. I need him to make me lose myself. His palm strikes across my bottom, causing me to moan at the sensation. I put my hand back on the ground, pushing my ass up for him to take me, arching my back. I need Evan to fuck me like the desperate slut he turns me into. This painful pleasure will help eclipse the warring thoughts threatening to surface.
He grabs my hip prolonging his torment and slides the head of his cock over my wet folds, moving up and down.
“Beg for it, Harper.”
Everything in me wants to submit and convulse with the power of his words. He strikes me again, making me arch higher and moan under his hands.
“Show me how much you appreciate what I’ve done for you.”
His left hand never gives up the grip he has on my hair. Another strike follows another. I feel my hot liquid run down my inner thigh. Evan swears under his breath.
“I’m barely containing myself. Don’t make me hurt you, Harper. Beg for it,” he says.
He curses in approval when I stay silent. Delivering another blazing slap across my skin. The force pushes my body forward and his grip in my hair pulls me back for more. His tongue takes a long, savoring lick from the front of my slit and travels all the way up to my lower back. I almost shatter apart.
“Please. Evan,” my voice barely has sound behind it.
“What do you want, Harper?” he asks, still holding himself back from me.
There’s a long mental list of all the filthy things I wish he would do, but I can’t voice them.
“Fuck me, Evan. Please,” I command after another spank on the top of my thigh.
He slams into me. From this position, it’s harder for him to fit all the way in, but by the sounds he makes I can tell he loves it. Hitting me deeper than he has before or deeper than I have memory of. His length powers into me inch by satisfying inch.
I feel lightheaded and his pace is unrelenting. His balls slap me as he fucks me like I requested, like I begged him to. His left hand pushes the front of my body to the ground. I melt underneath him, begging for him to use me.
It makes no sense, but I can’t help it. I should feel dirty, but maybe that’s why I like it so much. Nothing could make me feel dirtier than the Sculptor already has, so this is nothing. This is claiming selfish sensation for myself. Deep down I know I don’t deserve any other treatment than what Evan provides me with. That too is a lesson I have already bled for.
“That’s it, Harper. Squeeze that precious little pussy,” he shouts. Pussy sounds like an endearment, as his tempo kick
s into high gear.
He punishes me while worshiping my body and delivering my demands. My orgasm blasts through me, the sounds and moans I can’t control fuels Evan to match my release. His hand lets up on my hair and my head falls to my crossed forearms. Both of his hands grip my waist, slamming me back, shoving his pulsing cock deep.
Evan pulls my panties up and adjusts himself back into his pants after we are both wrung out. He bends down to scoop me off the floor. He carries me back to the master suite and sits me down on the edge of the bed. He steps between my legs, holding my face in his palms.
“What are you doing to me, Harper?” he asks, low-pitched as he gently kisses me.
His lips brush against mine in soft reverence, his hands massage my scalp. I kiss him back. I’m just as confused as he is.
When he pulls away from me, he wraps me in his arms and holds me, raining kisses on my neck and standing to his full height, linking our fingers together, I watch them intermingle, lightly stroking and paying close attention to the delicate skin on the sides of our fingers. The same delicate touch he applies to my neck and across my collarbone. Tracing the outlines of crevices and valleys. My skin tingles with the light attention, such an opposite contrast to the way he was just using his hands on me. I watch his eyes heat as he looks down at my spread legs.
For a moment I think he’s going to continue, but he steps away. Taking off his clothes, making me the one who wants to continue. He moves to the large curtains around the room, pulling the thick swathes of fabric, enclosing us in darkness.
“Come lie down with me. Let me hold you,” Evan says.
He helps me pull my dress off. My bra and panties follow. His amused expression watches me climb under the sheets of the massive bed.
‘Let me hold you’ is the most gratifying and tempting thing I’ve ever heard. He definitely won me back over.
The cool fabric lulls me to relax, whispering promises of much needed rest. Evan pulls me tighter against him like he had last night. Our bodies mold into each other with graceful ease and a sense of belonging.
‘Let me hold you, let me hold you,’ echoes through my mind like a forgotten lullaby and casts a spell of peaceful sleep I wasn’t sure I was ever capable of succumbing to again.
Evan
Harper’s breathing finally slows as she falls asleep. I hold her and she lets me. I pull her close and she snuggles in even deeper. I watch her for any signs of a repeat performance of last night, or maybe it was early this morning.
As she shifts against me, I ignore the flare of lust and feel her scars against the side of my body. They force my thoughts to digest and run through worst case scenarios. Between the both of us, we have too many variables to single any one out, so I focus on something I can fix. Any ounce of power, because there’s too many things I have no control over.
I need to do something about that scar on her. I couldn’t do anything about the stab wounds and I don’t want to. Every time I see them, I’m reminded of just how precious she is, how lucky she is to be alive. How I could have lost her before ever finding her in the first place. Those wounds explain how treasured life should be. How treasured she is.
But that arrogant number on her has to go. The claim is dangerous if anyone else were to see it. Jamie was correct in his assumptions that it would be used against her. My attempt in Chicago to dig into her flesh, my disturbing desires were to tear into her and mark her. Putting my claim on her in much the same way the Sculptor had. I can’t look too closely on what that says about me.
The more time I spend with her, the more I need to rectify that problem, because every time I see the number, I go insane. It makes me do things to her that push me past my limits. Needing to inflict more pain on her than I normally crave. My weak, shallow gashes don’t hold a candle to his fucking brand. It’s a hideous reminder that he had her first.
I surrender to sleep after waiting for reassurance that Harper’s slumber goes undisturbed. The warm weight of her head on my chest accomplishes the task.
Hours later, I stretch out across the empty bed and wipe the sleep from my eyes. My pulse kicks into overdrive when I feel for Harper, but she’s gone. I bolt off the bed and throw on a pair of boxers. I move to the bathroom in search of her, but it’s empty.
I barge into her studio to find her standing in front of the loaded easel with a paint brush in her hand, wearing nothing but my undershirt.
The setting sun engulfs the room in warm rich hues. The outline of her perfect body shines through thin cotton fabric.
Bon Iver whispers through the air with intangible lyrics and a haunting melody. I walk up behind her and try my best not to startle her. Thankful the old floor announces my approach as the planks groan and give under the weight of my steps. She leans back against me as I wrap my arms around her.
“Did you sleep well?” I whisper against the delicate shell of her ear. My lips unable to stop from brushing over her skin.
“Better than I’ve slept in ages.”
Her soft exclamation makes my pulse speed up. Pride swells in my chest as a result of her comfort and it was in my arms. The opposite of how we slept last night. I can’t imagine falling asleep again without her.
“We need to talk about Tom’s news,” I say because we need to get it out of the way and move on.
She steps away from me, unlocking my hold. She walks to the couch, crossing her legs as she sits down.
“That’s why I came in here. I keep turning it over in my mind and I can’t make sense of any of it. I know enough about the Sculptor to know he wouldn’t go after another one. Especially not someone with red hair. That’s why I chose this color. I knew he would hate it.”
That gorgeous riotous hair I love. I hate she chose the color because she had to think about that lunatic’s preferences. Her twisted consideration of his tastes leave me raw.
The thought of his hands on her, the scar I need to fix, makes me sick. I can understand using pain for release, probably better than anyone, but not in that way. No matter how many similarities I find between myself and the Sculptor, I comprehend the difference as well.
I hoped that number one on her meant she was the last. Since Jamie’s confession about who she really is, I’ve done my research. All the Sculptor’s victims were marked with larger numbers, but the order was out of sequence and it wasn’t some kind of countdown.
“Do you need to talk about what you remember?” I ask, even though it’s the last thing I want to hear leaving her beautiful mouth.
“No. I don’t think that’s something you can handle.”
Her large eyes now fixed and focused on me.
“What makes you say that?”
“Your eyes give you away. I see the way your face clouds over when you look at the numbered scar. It scares me, Evan. You scare me in those moments,” she admits with reluctance.
“You’re wrong, beautiful girl.”
“Okay,” she whispers.
She’s hesitant, not trusting me, trying to weigh her words.
“He told me things, horrific things. Some about art and how I was his canvas, his muse. I thought there was a correlation between the blond victims and blank canvases. The lead detective immediately dismissed that, but I know there’s more to it. The way he touched me and all the references he made. He swore he was only fascinated by me. He assured me I was different. He swore he would prove that I was his one and only.”
Her eyes look off as she’s lost in memories and I know it has to be painful to talk about. I want her to stop, but I need to listen to her.
“I just can’t remember all of the words he spoke. He tried to be nice to me. He thought that would make a difference. He never beat me like he did his past victims. He kissed away my tears.”
Her eyes sparkle with unshed tears as she continues, “I was the art and he was the painter. I was the putty and he the creator. My true sculptor. He would arrange me like a puppet or a prop. I was visual and creative aid for him.”
“Shut up, Harper,” I can’t take it anymore and I need her to stop talking before something inside me breaks free, but she doesn’t listen and more treacherous words spill off her tongue.
“He was my first, you know? He used the blood he drew from me and used it on a canvas. He used my paintbrush,” she chokes as if I want to know she lost her virginity to this fucker that still has his hold over her.
“Shut. The. Fuck. Up,” I bite out.
Tears drop from hazel eyes that have seen too much. Her body trembles and her throat moves as if it’s painful to swallow, but she keeps going like she has to get it out.
“He swore I would never be free of him. His exact words were, ‘I’ll follow you into the dark, my love, I swear I will come after you.’ And the worst part is, he whispers those same words to me every night before I wake up, and after today I feel like his promise is going to come true because he got so much closer to me last night.”
“Stop,” I roar her safe word and her mouth slams shut when she catches the significance. “I can’t stand here and listen anymore. I’m sorry, Harper, it’s too much,” I snap.
“Tell me about it. I have to live through it. Night after night,” she exclaims, her expression blank. She schools her features to remain calm, but there’s no mistaking the salty streams flooding down her perfect face.
I feel guilt and shame and sick to my stomach. I’m afraid I’m going to take it out on her. If she had kept going and went into more detail how he treated her sexually, I would not have been able to see past my own anger. I’m such a cruel fucking bastard and now I’m a coward as well. She just spelled out why she allows me to treat her the way I do and it kills me. I’m no mister nice guy, and now I know she absolutely couldn’t handle that.
“I’m sorry. Please, I didn’t mean it the way it sounded,” I plead, trying to reason with her and myself at the same time. She doesn’t answer me, she shuts her mouth and shuts me out. Locking everything back inside herself. Carrying that pain and sorrow alone. I’m such a complete ass. I’m selfish and I’ve never hated that about myself until this very moment.