I place kisses along her shoulder before moving down her body, gently capturing her nipple in my mouth and tugging. I trail down her body and kiss the beautiful stretch marks adorning her stomach like abstract art.
I fall to my knees. My fingertips grip her panties, and I drag them down. She gazes at me before swiftly looking away. “Keep your eyes on the mirror, Sweet Girl. I want you to see what I see. Every single inch of you is perfect. Every part of you gets me rock hard. You’re beautiful, Stella. A fucking work of art.”
She intakes a shaky breath as I kiss her pussy, moving down her legs until I reach her feet and place a kiss on each foot. “Now be a good girl and get into the tub.”
She sighs as I massage the shampoo into her scalp. “That feels so good.”
I chuckle. “Well, I want you to relax.”
I dip my hand under the faucet, checking the water temperature before rinsing the excess shampoo from her dark hair.
“Where did you learn to wash hair?”
I give her locks a playful tug. “I know I’m an artist, but we do bathe. That dirty artist thing is an atrocious stereotype.”
“No, don’t be silly. I mean, how can you wash hair with such care and tenderness? Usually, this is the service one finds at a salon. I would never have expected a man like you to wash hair like this. You got a secret identity you’re not telling me about?”
“I used to wash my mother’s hair.” I’ve no idea why I told her the truth. My mother is a topic I don’t discuss with anyone. Besides Axel and Ronan, no one knows where I came from, so I don’t know why I’m telling her things. I’ve buried the memories so deep I’ve forgotten them myself.
“Was she sick?” Stella asks, her voice shaking. I don’t like that she’s scared to ask me hard questions.
“Yes. I don’t talk about her much. My dad left when I was ten. He married a woman twenty years younger and started a new family in California. My mom never got over it. She started drinking, and that led to drugs. I spent my childhood caring for a heroin addict who could barely get out of bed, let alone wash her hair.” I pour the conditioner over her head and rub my fingers through her hair.
“Conditioner? What did I do to deserve this five-star treatment?”
I’m relieved she doesn’t press about my mother. “You deserve way more than this, Stella.”
“Can I see you paint?”
I freeze. When I paint, I’m manic. It’s like darkness takes over my body. The paintings don’t come out dark, not all the time, but the part of me that creates art isn’t light. I’ve let no one view my paintings or sketches, but I’ve never had someone I care about ask to see them.
I rinse the conditioner from her hair, hoping she’ll relax and forget all about me and the art. Maybe she’s too tired, and once I tuck her into bed, she’ll pass out, and that will be the end of the conversation.
I remain silent as I lift her out of the tub. Water sloshes on the ground, soaking my shirt and pants. I grab the fluffy white towel from the towel rack and wrap it around her. “Sit,” I say, placing her on the bench and grabbing a brush.
She sighs and lets me brush her hair, getting all the tangles out. “You’ve got a lot of welts from the belt.” I gently trace my fingers along one of the lash marks. “Does it hurt?”
“A little.”
“Why didn’t you say ‘red’?”
She shrugs. “In the forest, it was about proving something. I didn’t want to be scared. I needed to prove I was in control.”
“You don’t need to prove you’re in control, Sweet Girl. You are.” I chuck my shirt and stand beside her, my chest bare. I whip off my belt and hand it to her.
“What do you want me to do with that? Strangle you?”
“No,” I laugh. “I want you to whip me. Payback and all.”
“I don’t want to. Truth is, I liked all of it.”
“What do you want, then?”
“I want to watch you paint.”
Chapter Fifteen
STELLA
I’m taken aback by how gentle Kian is. He’s a wild animal in the forest, but the remorse in his eyes while he gazes at the marks from the lashes he gave me cracks a piece of my heart.
I rub my thighs together as I take in his sculpted chest and how his pants ride low on his hips, exposing the perfect V.
He tugs at my hand, forcing me off the bench, and walks me to a giant glass window. I’m not worried about anyone seeing my flesh because the penthouse is so high, like a tower overlooking the Chicago skyline. “What are you doing?”