Painted Trust

by Elsa Holland

  “Can I touch you too?” Her breath whispered over his lips.

  “No.” He’d explode.

  “But—”

  “Shh. Next time.” His fingers glided over her hip, her pelvic bone, the soft texture of her flesh, her mons. His Apple’s breath panted next to his ear, ragged, expectant, and tight. Each uneven puff, each unaware wriggle making him harder as the sound relayed her want, her need for him to continue.

  His tongue thrust between her lips as they wrapped around it and sucked him in. Immediately the sensation shot to his cock, imagined it between those lips, under that suction. He slipped fingers into damp heat and his mind followed. Vaughn took control of her open mouth as his fingers pushed deep into damp folds.

  CHAPTER 22

  Edith pressed her pelvis up into his hand, held his head as she kissed him. Her skin was alive, every nerve ending sensitive to the touch of his fingers, his palm as it pressed down on her, the feel of his lips on hers, the hard shaft pushing from under her. This is what her body had wanted when she first saw him. This is what she wanted.

  This was her taste, this was her one chance to feel pleasure and desire and she would unashamedly take it.

  Edith moved her hand down over her skirt until it lay lightly over his, so she could feel his hand as it moved under the cloth, pressing his fingers in and out of her sex. Fingers that wielded instruments that fought to chase away death. Those fingers knew every muscle, every nerve that lay between her legs, had the dexterity to isolate optic nerves, and now they knowingly delivered pleasure. Edith opened her thighs wider, wanted him in deeper, wanted more, so much more. She wanted the weight of him on her, wanted to feel the thrust from his hips, have her body rocked with the force of it, be pressed deep into the mattress as passion took them.

  She understood now, understood how women lost their virtue to a man, how they got so caught up they forgot the need for precautionary measures. Each stroke, each thrust was releasing chemicals that made her body euphoric with need, climbing tighter and higher.

  Edith twisted a little allowing her to move her hand and tug his undershirt from his trousers and slipping her hand underneath. The warmth of his chest, the feel of another human body, warm, alive and powerful, cloaked her, and protected her. There was nothing to which she could compare this kind of intimacy, no other ordinary exchange hinted at this closeness.

  Her experience with anatomy, and as a Painted Sister, had made her comfortable with nudity, yet this—in the dark, the feel of his chest rising from her touch—was an alchemy.

  Vaughn clasped her lower lip with his teeth and made a sound of affirmation that turned into a growl as her fingers squeezed his nipple. His fingers slid into her deeper then out again, then he rubbed the dampness from her around a spot above the opening of her sex and her mouth flew open as she sucked in air. The clitoris. He slid back inside her then out again to circle that wonderful spot.

  “More,” she demanded as pressed her sex against his hand.

  Vaughn groaned, his hips rocking her hard from below as he ran his fingers over her again, and again, circled, flicked and pulled.

  Her skin burned, her muscles tightening, sweat beaded at her brow. Her back arched as he touched that place and didn’t move away, instead circled, flicked, and pinched the sensitive nub.

  Her hips rolled and bucked into his hand, the movement rubbing the hard length of him under her.

  He reared up against her downward roll, moved his fingers in a solid rhythm. A very female growl came out of her and they set up a rhythm of thrusts, hands and hips until she could almost taste oblivion.

  Edith started to stiffen. She broke from his kiss but didn’t move away, breathing hard against his mouth. Her hand clutched at his back, nails pushing in. Every muscle tensed. She looked at his face, his teeth were clenched, and he was close to his own release.

  Her hips stiffened, and his hands worked her as her world exploded and she cried out. A shout, pleasure verging on pain, of elation and loss. She arched on his lap as wave after wave of mind numbing bliss washed away the world.

  CHAPTER 23

  Swollen, damp flesh pulsed around his fingers. Vaughn held her down on his lap as he pushed his hips up in quick succession, once, twice, three times, then came.

  They didn’t say anything for a long time but neither of them moved. His hand stayed under her skirt and between her legs, as she rested against him. He wanted more, wanted to cart her to his room and do every imaginable act of pleasure they could think of.

  Eventually his Apple stirred.

  “I need to move,” she croaked as she unravelled her hand from his clothing and started to get up. His arm was stiff as he pulled her into a sitting position.

  “Can you stand?” His voice sounded scratchy.

  “Yes.” As she stood he reached out into the shadowy light for her. His hands found her hips. She was doing up her buttons. His shirt and waistcoat were open, the air cool against his chest without her. He stood, straightened himself.

  “Lights?”

  “Yes.” Her voice was strangely matter-of-fact.

  Vaughn walked to the switches, gave her a few moments to right herself. Gave himself a moment. She wasn’t slotting into the sexual experiences he usually had, not fitting into a category he could define and manage.

  All of the relationships in his experience were easily delineated, a coming together of two people with vested interests. For him, it was usually the desire for sexual pleasure, for gratification; for the women he encountered, it was for the generosity of a benefactor, and hopefully the ministrations of a skilled lover.

  He was attracted to women that were everything his life and work were not, entertainers who lived in the night, who partied, danced, sang. Their ambitions were to be on the stage, to be in the limelight, to buy the latest fashions. He was fond of them, enjoyed them, and eventually they both moved on.

  Except for Henrietta. He had loved her, in his way, and would have married her; she, it turned out, planned to use their marriage to support her lover, a man she presented as her second cousin at their engagement dinner.

  He turned on the light for the far side of the room, leaving their side in shadow.

  Apple was different. If she’d had another man, he’d never kissed her, had never brought her to orgasm, and, if Vaughn’s learned fingers were correct, had never slept with her.

  When had she crawled under his skin? The moment he saw her, and she stood up to him, small little fists on her hips before she knew what was good for her?

  ‘ You’re not throwing me out? ’

  ‘ Not yet. ’

  Or when she’d looked at him as if he were affixed with wings . . . ‘You look like you dueled with death and won.’

  By the time she found him in the shadowed light of the corridor he was already hungry for her, already knew a drink from her well would be an elixir for his growing despair.

  Vaughn walked back to her. Her face was tight, not what he expected, nor wanted to see.

  She was checking buttons that were never touched. Perhaps he should need to read up on compulsive disorders.

  His hand reached out to touch her cheek. “Are you alright?” She pulled away. His mind raced back over what they had just done and found nothing for her to be upset about, but she was; something had changed.

  His Apple faced him. “Thank you, I . . . I really enjoyed that . . .”

  “I did too, but . . .?” He braced himself.

  She straightened herself. “I can’t do this again,” she said firmly. “I did ask you . . . before . . .”

  “Ah, in the corridor.”

  “Yes.” She coughed and looked over at the table which held the work she had been doing. “Looks like the magnifier missed my work.”

  “Thomas’s work, I believe.”

  She walked over to the table. “I wanted to help.” She picked up the magnifier and started to place it back on her head.

  Of course, she wouldn’t be open to a dalliance
, she was a respectable woman and dependent on him for her livelihood. Vaughn walked over and helped slide the contraption on, then turned her to face him, those enormous eyes again looking at him through the lens.

  He reached out and tucked a stray lock behind her ear. “Was it just me then who felt something?” His throat tightened.

  She stilled, he stopped breathing.

  “No,” she whispered. “But I can’t afford to do this again.”

  His jaw tensed, and he stepped back.

  “Is there someone else?” Bile tickled the back of his throat. He wasn’t sure how he would deal with an answer in the affirmative. How he would deal with another man who had rights over his Apple.

  “No,” she gave a half smile. “No, there is no one else.”

  “Then I don’t understand. You have been as interested in me as I in you.”

  Her eyes softened. “You’re an easy man to want.”

  “Don’t sound so worldly,” he ground out. “There’s something between us, more than the physical.”

  “Not from my side,” she drew her shoulders back and that stubborn chin came up. “For me it’s just physical.”

  Vaughn trailed a finger over her face as it tried to hide her confused feelings for him. “Liar.”

  “Not that I can take up.” She drew her face away. “I never meant to. It’s just, have you ever wanted to do something just for yourself, knowing that it will be the only time you will have it?”

  Hope flared through his chest. She did want him, but she was not the kind of woman to lift her skirt at a wealthy man’s request. Of course, she didn’t see a long-standing dalliance as something she could consider.

  “I’m not going anywhere and, if I recall, you just signed a one-year contract to stay here, so we have plenty of time to see what this is between us.” But he knew what this was. Knew that this attraction between them, the way they spoke at a level deeper than words or thoughts, was a connection that came once in a lifetime, if ever. His heart started to hammer in his chest. Perhaps he should just cut all of this short.

  She was saying something, but it wasn’t registering as his pulse swelled into a deafening beat. Vaughn held up his hand to silence her.

  “I’ll marry you.” He froze as the words fell into the space between them. Froze as his desire was laid out before he even had time to register its truth. But if she said yes . . .

  “No!” Her reaction was instant.

  A sharp pain came and went through his chest, leaving his heart still thundering in his ears.

  No.

  She took a few steps away from him, turned in a half circle, hands moving with no purpose before turning to him again, her expression angry, pained. “What a preposterous thing to say! That is unimaginable, impossible . . .” Her hands moved around aimlessly again as if searching desperately for something in the air; she was horrified at his suggestion.

  Her reaction cut him to the quick.

  Vaughn schooled his features.

  A sober clarity replaced the ardent heat of moments before.

  “I’ll bid you goodnight, then.”

  She gave him a single nod, her hands moving to her buttons again, those enormous eyes behind the glass looking everywhere but at him.

  Vaughn turned and placed one foot after the other despite the numbness in his legs. The outside air ran cool over his face, and the barn door clicked closed behind him.

  CHAPTER 24

  Edinburgh Herald Sept 4th 1898

  Woman killed, skin removed. Authorities struggle to find facts in the Manchester ‘Little Princess’ case. Not twenty-four hours ago, in the early hours of the morning, a young woman was found dead in a Manchester boarding house, her skin removed. Sources say Scotland Yard are involved and the body is in the hands of the medical examiner. Has our old friend Jack returned? Or has he inspired another?

  The edges of the newspaper crumpled in Edith’s grip and the small bedroom felt fragile and in no way sturdy enough to protect her from her past. Her legs gave way and crumpled under her. She sank to the floor, her nightgown catching the air and puffing around her. The Skinner had found one of them and done his assigned task.

  Bile rose in her throat, an acrid burn. She swallowed.

  He’d skinned his quarry and would now be treating and preserving it, to give to its Collector. No interest in the girl, no, she had sold her right to her skin when she became a Painted Sister. She should have been protected, sought-after and treasured as the living piece of art she was. Painted Sisters were girls chosen for the beautiful quality of their skin then tattooed in beautiful designs and displayed as living art in the sometimes macabre yet always opulent and elite world of the Collectors.

  Tears blurred her vision, hot aching streams of saline. Edith closed her eyes and let the hot fluid run down her cheeks.

  She remembered: The spectacular parties where they had all been exhibited, their beauty celebrated, their every wish and need delivered. Every three years a worldwide gathering was called for all the Collectors and their collections. For the Painted Sisters, that meant their tattoo artist was brought in from wherever they resided in the world to stand beside their creations and be applauded, their artistry revered.

  There were other collections that did the same; the Human Aviary, the Contortionists, the Freaks strange and wondrous in their natural uniqueness, and the Dark Collectors with their pierced and braced adherents, and more, so much more of the beautiful and the bizarre. A magical world, a protected world . . . until now.

  That safe protected world was now well and truly gone for the Painted Sisters. A Skinner had been born, cultivated by the resurrection of an outlawed sect in the ranks of the Collectors. A sect that wanted the beautifully tattooed skin and not the girl.

  Which one of her friends had it been? Was it Hanna? Was it Poppy or Janice? Gillian was still missing. She hadn’t been seen since failing to show up at the London meeting point, where those Sisters at risk had gathered to be spirited away from their rogue Collectors, thanks to Elspeth and Blackburn.

  Edith looked down at herself, her tattoos visible through the fine linen of her nightgown. She, too, was a Painted Sister, she, too, was tattooed—her full torso, three-quarters of her arms and half of her legs covered in intricate designs.

  Twelve weeks ago, she had barely escaped with her life from the Skinner. If Elspeth and Blackburn had not put their lives at risk to save her, she would have been nothing but a flayed mound of bones, organs and muscles; her skin would have been cured and folded into a box, waiting the next viewing of Painted Sisters and the skins of Sisters passed, her disgruntled Collector the final victor in their tug of war over sexual favors. What kind of man, who could have his sexual wants and needs fulfilled by a thousand others, chose to threaten the one woman he couldn’t have? And, when that threat went unheeded, worked to end her life?

  Power.

  It had been a battle of wills. It was evident he didn’t particularly desire, let alone like, her, but he enjoyed having the power to force a woman to submit to him. Enjoyed it even more if he knew she didn’t want him.

  When she and Painted Sisters in similar circumstances had run, they had given themselves a chance, but there were dire consequences when living art chose to run. Eleven of them had escaped over the last couple of weeks before Collectors closed ranks at the disappearances. Now, at least one was dead and one missing, if the dead girl was not Gillian.

  Nothing could be done. They’d all agreed that each should try to save herself. Money was not an issue. Each had substantial funds, being a Painted Sister came with a hefty payment to the Painted Sister as well as her broker, the Hurleys. Her London bank account held enough to have a chance to escape.

  Hours ticked by without rest or sleep. Now, rereading the words shed no new light on the situation, or how her fate had changed. Her plan was still solid, and she was on track: get into Dr Vaughn’s employ, forge his medical degree so she would have a qualification in her own name, be accepted into
the Missionary’s medico position in Africa, and disappear somewhere up the Congo, never to be seen again.

  Edith drew the curtains closed, locked the door and tested it, then removed her nightdress and washed at the basin. The gaslight flamed a yellow glow into the bedroom and its soft hiss filled the room. Edith reached out and picked up the small mirror that leaned against the wall at the top of the dresser, studying her reflection in the rectangular shape.

  She followed the fine curves of the oriental flowers. Her artist Kobayashi-san was one of the most renowned of the tattoo artists the Collectors used. She had felt so beautiful when it was done, so exotic. A part of her had basked in the attention at showings, where her body was displayed and admired. Now she looked at it and saw only the horrifying position she was in.

  Outside the world of the Collectors, she had to hide her skin, hide her past. There would be no lover who would understand what she was or accept her body. And most likely she would one day be found and brought to the Skinner’s table.

  Edith dressed in one of the three dark-blue day dresses she owned. Every flash of her skin reminded her who she was and what was at stake if her plans failed. She remembered again the three things Elspeth told her she needed to do to survive. Show no one her body, tell no one her past, and when in doubt, run.

  Her hands shook as she fastened her jacket over her dress. She checked and checked again that all the buttons where done up at the neck and wrists, then smoothed down her hair, ensuring all stray ends were tucked into the tight bun at the base on her neck.

  She never thought the first rule, ‘show no one your body,’ would be such a challenge to uphold. Heavens knew what Vaughn thought of her request but what followed had been worth the embarrassment. He had gallantly misunderstood her, and perhaps been a bit put out by her refusal to marry him, however men had a way of placing these things into perspective. They had both enjoyed themselves, she had preserved her secret, had tasted passion with a man she deeply admired, and now she had to return to her plan.