The day the painter approached her on the bridge and asked her to pose for him was the beginning of a lust Melissa wouldn’t be able to bridle. When Killian Stone offers her a month of submission, she’s already too captivated to turn him down. His unhinged sexuality lets her explore her own dark fantasies, but his anger outbursts are scary and devastating. As the time goes by, Melissa realizes there’s something more than just irritability and anger. He has done something which doesn’t let him rest.
Targeted Age Group:: 18+
What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
“Venus in Furs” by Leopold von Sacher-Masoch.
How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
For years I had a story in my head about a painter who sees a red-haired girl on the bridge and asks her to pose for him, and who soon becomes obsessed with her. It took me a while to see the whole story and understand why the hero was so moody and temperamental and what secret he had been keeping from the world.
He sat in front of me and gripped my arm, then the brush, dunked with paint, patterned a line around my wrist. Blindfolded, I wondered what he was painting. The brush was moving over my hand with quick, abrupt strokes. With his strong grip around my forearm, I wished very much the goosebumps would sink back into my treacherous skin. The brush rolled smoothly around my wrist one more time.
“Are those flowers?” I asked.
He said nothing. Wrong guess.
I wondered if he was looking at me or if he was engrossed in painting, if he was smiling or was somber. He lowered my right arm and took up the left one, which I clenched into a fist to hide its tremble. The brush was damp, but its coolness was pleasant on a hot summer day. When he finished with my left arm and his hands slid down to my thighs, then groped my calf and began painting around my ankle, I started feeling giddy. Blindfolded, I felt the room swirl around me, heard The Rolling Stones sing “Gimme Shelter” outside, the loud, piercing sounds of music coming out of someone’s car and reaching the sixth floor. Then I felt his breath over my ankle, blowing at the paint. His hands moved up to my knee, then slithered down and took a short pause over my hips before resuming the trip across my body, passing over my panties and crossing on the small of my back, cradling my waist inside his forearms.
My breath became short when a finger traveled across my heaving bosom, moving along the bra strap, warming up the spots on my skin where he touched me. As he rested his finger in the hollow of my neck, I remembered I was alive too, and had hands as well. As I lifted up my hand, groping blindly for him, he let me out of his embrace. I knew he was watching me, teasing me, waiting for me to find him. As my palm pressed against his chest, I gasped quietly, not expecting to touch bare skin. He had been in a t-shirt when he blindfolded me. Somewhere between painting on me and exploring my body, he had managed to take it off. His skin was smooth and hot: warm-blooded as opposed to my always cold limbs. His solar plexus was right under my palm, and I debated over going up or down. Both equally tempting. I wanted to know what was going on in his head—was he smiling, grinning, nonchalant? My hand traced across his taut chest, touched his throat timidly, felt his Adam’s apple throb, and that throbbing caused a sharp twinge to break out between my legs.
My other hand found his face and caressed the jaw with five-o’-clock shadow. My lips trembled as I tipped his. I didn’t track a smile, but when my two fingers lingered in the center of his lips, he kissed them almost imperceptibly. I reached the corner of his mouth, a tiny hollow that twitched just a bit. Now I knew he was smiling, and I went after his nose like an art connoisseur evaluating a statue. It would be considered big on my face, but it fitted him, harmonious with the rest of his features. Slowly, so as not to poke his eyes out, I reached his eyelids, and the short lashes tickled my fingers. I tracked his eyebrows, boyish and a bit scruffy, swept away the short strands over his brow. Then I dug my hands inside the roots of his soft hair and bade goodbye to his beautiful face, sliding my hands down across his arms, feeling his gentle skin with the pads of my fingers. He still didn’t touch me, instead continued to sit still and let me survey him to my heart’s content. And I used that opportunity to its full extent, getting to know his shoulders and chest and abs, like a glassblower looking for possible cracks on a newly made vase. Blinded, I began to “see” more than I had noticed before: the embossed veins on his forearms, a scar behind his ear, the chiseled muscles on his back. As I reached the small of his back simultaneously with both of my hands, I felt him flinch involuntarily. He was ticklish, too.
His hands returned to me, pushing me onto the mattress. My heart pounded. I leaned against my elbows as he gripped my leg, folded it, and pressed my foot against his chest. The brush was back on my skin, painting around my second ankle.
About the Author:
Ella Adamian lives in Armenia and writes in English. She has recently published her debut erotic novel “His Name is Killian.” When not writing, Ella is reading 5 books a week and is planning to start a blog to help authors who, like her, write in a foreign language.
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