Now that night has fallen, I’m irrationally stressed out that she hasn’t eaten. How can I provide for her if I’m not given the chance? Should I wake her up to feed her? Does she need to be bathed and dressed and will she allow me to do those tasks for her?
There are levels to this…relationship…I didn’t see coming.
My relationship with Thea.
Just saying those words makes me dizzy. Makes me want to punch the stone courtyard wall in triumph. Maybe do something completely out of character like…smile.
“Thea,” I whisper into the near-darkness, my rasp of her name blending in with the soft wind that tousles the branches of the surrounding trees. “Thea. My relationship with Thea.”
She is my task master.
My sexual agony in the flesh.
But when it’s time to come, she opens her thighs and whines for her Duncan to take care of business. I grind my back teeth together to keep from moaning. About all of it. How she tasted. Smelled like fresh lavender. How she made me crawl, slapped me, deprived me, shamed me—came like a harlot—and then buckled like an innocent girl, replete in her servant’s arms. Each facet of her personality is one hundred percent authentic. And every second of it felt exactly right, as if it had been woven into the fabric of the universe. Fated.
I hear a soft groan of the back door behind me and blood rushes to my cock. I turn around and find her in a short white nightgown that’s ruffle hem stops at the tops of her thighs, her hair tousled from sleep, mouth puffy. It takes a summoning of my full willpower not to storm over and find out who she’s going to be tonight, the queen, the harlot or the princess, so I can indulge her. So I can be whatever she needs at this very moment.
“You should have woken me. I slept so long.” She looks past me and sees the canvas I’ve laid out, the bottles of paint—and her steps falter. “What are you doing?”
“These things were under a tarp against the wall,” I say smoothly, grateful I don’t have to lie. Although I’m omitting the fact that I’ve seen her paint in the moonlight. “Are they yours?”
Her shoulders relax at my easy tone. “Y-yes, they’re mine.”
I nod and step back, giving her room to approach, her head tilting as if deciding what to put on the canvas. I’m powerless to stop my gaze from moving hungrily over the supple curve of her bottom, which isn’t quite covered by the hem of her nightgown. Her hair is in sleepy disarray down her back, grass threading through her delicate toes.
I’d like to devour her in one fucking bite.
I’d like her to tease me into a state of misery.
I just need need need anything she can give me.
My insides are chaos.
“My uncle didn’t know that I painted,” she says, her cheeks coloring slightly. “He wouldn’t have been a fan of mine, I don’t think. He said art is an executed plan. That it’s an accurate expression of the world. That it’s truth.” Her eyes are a little bewildered when she cranes her neck to look up at me. “But what if I don’t know what the world looks like?”
I feel inadequate being asked this question. It’s important to her. My answer is going to mean something. Unfortunately, I don’t have much practice with serious conversation. With any conversation, really. Relating to people isn’t something I do. My home is in the darkness. I’m given my jobs and I return there, to my basement haunt on the edges of the city. Away from people and light and voices. There is no socializing. Not beyond what is necessary to purchase food and the tools of my trade.
This is my angel, though. Giving her what she needs is in my blood.
So I search for the remnants of my humanity, surprised to find she’s already reanimated pieces of it, making the answer come somewhat easier.
“Maybe you’re painting your own truth, Thea. Maybe it’s what you understand as truth. The world is what surrounds someone. No one has the same understanding of it.”
Thea takes in my answer, nodding. Giving me a light half-smile. “Thank you.” She swallows, her flush deepening. Shyly, she asks, “Do you want to watch?”
Our height and age and size difference has never been more obvious than now, when she looks up at me as if for guidance, reassurance. Hope in her eyes.
My heart nearly tumbles out onto the floor.
So she’s to be my princess tonight, is she?
“Very much,” I say gruffly, gesturing to the canvas. “Please.”
Pressing her lips together, she bends forward and picks up a blue bottle of paint, presenting her bare ass to the evening air, turning my hands to fists at my sides and stretching the confining material of my pants. “I’m most honest when I paint,” she whispers, slowly unscrewing the cap and letting it drop from her graceful fingers. “At least…until today. I was twice as honest in my throne.”