Read His Inspiration Online

Authors: Ava Lore

His Inspiration (2 page)

BOOK: His Inspiration
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His hand stilled and I cried out, bereft. “No speaking,” he
commanded. His dark cherrywood eyes had fixated on the flesh of my inner thigh
and the tip of his charcoal stick poised there. I bit down hard on my lip and
waited, trembling, for his indulgence. The hum of the plane was all around us,
under my back, in my bones. At some point we had broken above the clouds and
sunlight poured in through the windows, spilling across the cream and gold and
mahogany interior. Warm light touched my shoulder, and I realized that I had
finally escaped the cold. I was surprised my skin wasn't incandescent with the
fire Malcolm stoked in me.

At last he began to write again, and his finger picked up its
magical rhythm. “'I have gone out,” he repeated, his eyes wandering over my
nude body, marked and branded as his own, “'a possessed witch, haunting the
black air, braver at night. Dreaming evil, I have done my hitch over the plain
houses...'” My release began to coil within me again, hard and tight, and I
struggled to hold my body still, the way he had asked me to. The charcoal left
off suddenly, then alighted on my elbow where it lay against my ribcage as I
cupped my breasts in the palms of my hands. “'Light by light,'” he whispered,
and another finger slipped inside me, “'lonely thing... twelve-fingered...'” A
third inside, and then he picked up the pace, slamming his fingertips into the
soft yielding mound inside me, and I tried not to cry with the unbearable
delight of it.

He crawled over my body, let the charcoal reach my forehead.
“'Out of mind,'” he murmured. Then he dropped the charcoal stick on the carpet
by my head and moved his newly freed hand down to my pelvis. There he laid a
heavy palm across me and began to work my tight cunt as vigorously as if he
were feeling the same mounting pleasure and needed it just as badly as I did.
Faster and faster he went, and my body left me behind in the dust. My brain
became blank as every muscle within me tightened and coiled around his fingers,
a dark wave swelling up inside me, threatening to take me over, wash over me
and drag me out to sea.

“Come, Sadie,” he whispered fiercely then. “Come for me.”

I broke.

The black wave of pleasure crashed into me, bowling me over,
sweeping me under. I became lost inside it as it filled me up. I shrieked,
terrified, transformed, just a blaze of light and heat on the floor of his
private jet. The staff may have heard me. I couldn't say. Everything melted
away and I writhed and thrashed, my body jumping and leaping on the carpet as
though I had been struck by lightning.

It felt as though I had.

The sensation drew out, longer and longer as he pounded his
fingers inside me, holding me down by my hips until at last I began to cry from
the intensity, the incredible, wonderful, mind-altering force of it.

At last he stopped plumbing me, and I sank down to the carpet,
my body slick with sweat. I gasped staring at the ceiling of the plane while
the hum of the engines filled my head.

Malcolm let his fingers slip from my tight passage and moved up,
covering my body with his own. Hiking my legs around his waist, he cradled me
against him as I panted, exhausted and fulfilled. His lips brushed over my ear.

“'I have gone out,'” he said, voice low and rough with arousal,
“'a possessed witch, haunting the black air, braver at night. Dreaming evil, I
have don my hitch over the plain houses, light by light: lonely thing,
twelve-fingered, out of mind...'”

Pulling back, his eyes drifted up to my own, and he held me with
his gaze. “'A woman like that is not a woman, quite,'” he murmured. “'I have
been her kind.'”

I bit my lip and tried to catch my breath. “What... what was
that?”

“Anne Sexton,” he said. He watched me, his eyes burning with
desire. “After I bought you at the auction, I thought I might become a poet as
well.” He smiled as though this were a far sillier notion than becoming a
tortured artist. “I was very drunk at the time. Poets are notoriously drunk,
you see, and I thought it would be perfect. I have never written poetry before,
though, so I went looking for a poem or two to describe you. I found that one.”

Releasing the hold of his hand on my shoulder, he moved it down
again, between our bodies and then ran his fingers over my slit, sending
another shudder of bone-shattering pleasure rocking through me.

“A twelve-fingered witch?” I said, grasping at rationality.

“A singular woman, unbound by society,” he corrected me. “You
exist outside of all things.”

For some reason, tears stung my eyes. I felt that way sometimes.
Often. I felt that way
often.
How did he know?

“Or perhaps,” he said, his smile growing, “I just felt as though
you had laid a spell on me.”

I rolled my eyes and he laughed. The bulge of his cock, covered
in rough denim, rocked against my slick entrance as he did so, and I realized
that perhaps he understood me better than I'd ever thought. He'd struck at the
heart of me with his poem, revealed sides of me I hadn't known existed with his
art. Cradled against him, I felt strangely small and vulnerable.

Lowering his head, he captured my lips in a slow, sensuous kiss,
his tongue reminding me that it loved to give me pleasure as well. I returned
the kiss, hard and insistent, as though I wanted to fight him, and it made him
laugh. One hand tangled in my hair as he slipped his other arm beneath me and
scooped me up, rocking back onto his heels and holding me around him. Too spent
by the orgasm he had given me, I collapsed against him, my arms moving around
his shoulders, limp and weak.

For a long while, he kissed me, and I let him, too tired to do
anything but let him. He could have done anything he wanted with me—dressed me
up in a clown wig and a tutu for all I cared—and I couldn't have put up a
fight. In my brain, the realization that I had put myself completely at his
mercy without ever feeling the bite of a rope against my skin was,
intellectually, a bit jarring, but I felt no emotions about it at all. So what?
If he did crazy things like
that
to me, I really had no objection.

After a bit he pulled away. “You seem tired,” he said, smiling.
“Perhaps you would like to take a nap before we get to Croatia?”

“Oh,” I said, “I hate sleeping on planes. It's always so
uncomfortable.” Well, except for that one time to Barbados with Felicia. First
class. My god. The
seats.
I'd been a class traitor and I hadn't been
able to care, what with the champagne and the seats that sort of became beds.
It had been crazy. Also? Fucking steak for dinner. That had been a good time.

But Malcolm was smiling, his dark brown eyes crinkling at the
edges. “Oh?” he said. “But you have never slept on
my
plane before.”
Gently he set me down and stood up, helping me to my shaking feet. His clothes
were streaked with paint and charcoal, and so was I.

We're rubbing off on each other,
I thought, and giggled.

Placing a warm arm around my shoulders, he guided me to the back
of the plane, where a wood paneled wall stood. An unobtrusive door was set into
it, and he opened it to reveal...

...a bedroom.

Oh
my.

“This is
decadent,”
I said.

“Not even the best part,” he told me. “See that?” He pointed to
a door set into the back of the bedroom. “Through there is a shower. Hot water.
Massage head. Would you like to try it?”

I looked down at myself, covered in paint and charcoal. “Don't
you want to take a picture of your masterpiece?” I asked.

I felt the surprise radiate from him. “This?” he said. “This
isn't my masterpiece. A thumbnail sketch, at best.”

Jesus,
I thought. The masterpiece might very well give me
a heart attack if this had been a thumbnail sketch. I took a deep breath and
moved away from him. He let his hand fall from my shoulder. “Yeah,” I said.
“Then a shower would be great.”

“Wonderful,” he said. “I'll leave you to it, if you don't mind.
You have given me some lovely ideas and I'd like to write them down before we
land.”

I nodded, and he reached out, capturing my hand. Pressing a kiss
to the back, he bowed to me before backing out of the bedroom, a smile on his
face.

As soon as the door clicked closed I wanted to collapse, but I
was afraid of getting his jet any more dirty than I'd already made it, even
though he clearly didn't care about its interior. Stumbling to the door in the
back, I let myself into the bathroom.

And it
was
a bathroom. Utterly decadent. I felt like a
jerk just standing in it, but I wasn't about to let a good hot shower go to
waste. I turned the water on and stepped inside.

For a long while I stood in the hot spray, watching the water
run black and brilliant as the pigments on my skin washed down the drain, until
finally it ran clear. Only then did I use the luxurious soap and wash myself.
By the time I was done the water was running cold, and I shivered as I stepped
out and wrapped myself in a large, fluffy towel that had been sitting on a
heated towel rack. I took the opportunity to relieve myself before stepping
into the bedroom.

Someone—Malcolm perhaps, but probably a private and discreet
in-flight steward—had drawn the shades down on the windows, making it lovely
and dim inside the bedroom. The bed stood against one side of the plane, up
against the windows, and for a weird moment the thought of sleeping next to a
line of windows thirty thousand feet in the air gave me a little thrill of
fear, and I realized that if I slept here, I wouldn't have my gun with me.

It'd been years since I'd slept without my gun by my bedside. I
always had it. I never stayed over at men's houses. I had to have my gun.

I hadn't thought this through very well...

On the other hand, I didn't think Malcolm was the sort to
assault me while I was asleep, seeing as how I was quite willing while I was
awake. And it wasn't like someone could just break into a plane, thanks to the
aforementioned thirty thousand feet of air between me and the ground. I should
be safe.

I didn't really expect to sleep, though. I felt naked. Far more
naked than actually being naked felt, which I didn't care about.

I bit my lip, then decided that since I had no idea what was in
store for me, I'd better at least try to get some shut eye. Shedding the towel
to the floor, because I'm classy like that, I slid under the soft white down
comforter and thousand thread-count sheets. The bed was surprisingly warm, and
I wrapped myself up in it.

I must have been more tired than I thought, because the moment
my head hit the pillow, I passed out.

It was the best sleep I'd ever had.

 

*

 

I
really
had been more tired than I'd thought, because I
slept until we landed in Croatia early in the morning the next day. I'd
forgotten that we were passing into a whole new time zone. When I opened my
eyes, I was reaching for my bedside table as I always did before I realized it
was Tuesday, and I was nowhere near New York city.

The thought shocked me and I sat up.

“Oh, you're awake.”

I turned my head to see Malcolm sitting in a buttery leather
chair at the other side of the plane, drawing in a sketchbook. Had he been
drawing me while I slept? The thought should have creeped me out a bit, but
instead I just felt a burning curiosity to see his sketch. I kept my tongue,
though. I hated it when people asked to see my rough work. Or loved it. I could
never tell. But I didn't want to know if he was good or bad at it. It would
ruin the illusion he had built up around himself, a brilliant man capable of
anything.

I wanted to believe in that. I'd been disappointed in too many
men before. I wanted to live the fantasy just a few days longer.

While I'd slept, Malcolm had changed into a beautiful pair of
slacks, another incredible sweater, and a jacket that was far too fashionable
for a man of his age. But he made it look good. He worked it. I realized I was
still naked. Behind him, one of the window shades had been pulled up,
presumably to give him some light to work by, and I saw the runway outside.
Mountains hulked beyond it.

“I need to get dressed,” I said.

“Your clothes will be here soon,” he replied. “I will be very
upset if they are not.” He continued sketching in his book. He looked like he
actually knew what he was doing. For a moment I watched him, the light from
outside illuminating his beautiful face, all planes and angles and hidden
strength. The sun on his hair gleamed golden, and I longed to run my fingers
through it, but before I could gather up the energy to act on the impulse, the
door opened and a young woman entered, carrying an armful of clothes.

Immediately I felt shabby. Impeccably dressed and with long,
golden hair curled up on her head in an elaborate coiffure, she was gorgeous.
Wide blue eyes took me in, assessing, then laid her burden down on the chair.
“Thank you for your patronage,” she told Malcolm, her beautiful accent rounded,
with sharp ends bracketing each word. Smiling at me, she exited.

“Please,” Malcolm said, “get dressed.” He closed his sketchbook
and leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers in front of his mouth and
fixing his eyes on me. It took me a moment to realize he wasn't going to leave.
Instead, he was going to watch me.

I swallowed and stood up, letting the comforter and the warmth
of the bed fall away. I shivered a bit in the cooler ambient air, but I threw
my shoulders back and padded over to the chair where the pile of clothes
threatened to tip over. Reaching out, I began to flip through them.

Every single one was beautiful. Lovely, well-made. And
not
fussy.
Thank god. I just hate fussy clothes. Pulling out a dark shirt and holding
it up, I realized it was warm cashmere. For a long moment I ran my fingers over
it, enjoying the fine texture.

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