by Kitty Thomas
He laughed. “It’s true, you do need something to thin your paint and to clean your brushes, but you can do it in a less harmful way. These harsh chemical solvents are a solution looking for a problem if you ask me. We’ll use linseed oil, sometimes walnut oil or a little spike lavender oil. Though you won’t need very much. I use very high quality paints with high pigment loads. You’ll find, the higher quality your paints, the less you have to mess with them to get the desired effect. You can use walnut oil and artist soap to clean your brushes. And we’ll use palette paper. I find the mess of palettes completely ridiculous.”
Once all the paints and brushes were out, he took a clean canvas from one corner of the room. It wasn’t pre-stretched, Saskia could tell by looking at it. He’d stretched and prepared the canvas himself.
“Won’t it hurt the brushes to clean them that way?” Saskia asked, still not sure she could wrap her mind around his methods, even if they did make sense, and she would like to breathe clean air while she painted. It was the only thing she’d hated about oils.
Quill raised an eyebrow. “Really? You think turpentine is gentle on brushes? And no, it won’t hurt them. But even if it would, brushes are cheap in comparison to your health. You can always buy more brushes.”
No, he could always buy more brushes. But she was in his world of nothing but the best now. If he wanted to supply her with ridiculously high quality art supplies, she probably shouldn’t try to talk him out of it. Saskia didn’t know what compelled her to keep pushing, but now that she was on a roll, she couldn’t seem to stop. “I thought you wanted me to suffer for my art.”
He was becoming clearly exasperated now, and she wondered if she’d gone too far. Maybe the plan for the day would change to punishment instead of painting if she continued to be so belligerent.
“I don’t want you to suffer, Saskia. I want you to have an experience and a feeling deep enough and raw enough so you can translate it to a canvas and make collectors care. Otherwise no one will give a shit about you. There are too many artists, and the world doesn’t care that you want to be one, too.”
He really wanted to teach her.
She let that thought settle in her mind for a moment. He wanted to paint her. And he wanted to teach her. Maybe he also wanted to punish her, but that motivation seemed a distant third to the other two things. Even the idea that punishing her was little more than background for the art felt like too much to hope for.
“Okay, but won’t it take forever to dry, thinning the paint that way?”
Quill laughed again, this time more of a deep rumbling chuckle. At least she amused him. “You certainly do have a deep-running masochism, don’t you? It can, yes. There are simple ways around that, but it won’t be necessary. We’ll be painting wet-on-wet.”
“But I can’t paint that way.”
“You can’t paint that way, yet,” he said.
Quill took a large portfolio from beside the wall where all the art supplies were stacked and organized. Saskia hadn’t noticed it leaning there before. Or if she had, she hadn’t given it any thought. It had been just more background shrubbery in Quill’s artistic landscape. He laid the portfolio on top of the island.
Saskia gasped when he opened it. “Where? How?”
This was her work. Work she thought she’d lost in the fire. All that had remained in her cramped bedroom studio had been charred remains.
“I don’t understand. Were you following me? Did you set the fire?” Her hands clenched at her sides as tears of rage moved down her face. If she were looking for the thing that could finally wake her up and make her hate him, this might be it.
“I didn’t set the fire. How could you think that?”
“I honestly don’t know what the hell you’re capable of. And it scares the shit out of me.” She edged closer. The paper and canvas were unmarred. There was no sign any fire had ever happened. In the portfolio were charcoal sketches, some watercolors, some paintings in both oil and acrylic on canvas board. It was less expensive than pre-stretched and primed canvas, and she didn’t have the tools or help she needed to stretch her own. Something on canvas board was unlikely to ever sell or hang in a gallery, but who was she kidding anyway?
There were landscapes, portraits, still lifes. She’d dabbled in a bit of everything except modern abstract, trying to find her way, figure out who she was and what it was that she wanted to paint. She’d even done a few pieces that mimicked Quill’s style and subject matter. And, of course, the fire had spared it to mortify her later.
“I couldn’t save everything, but I got what I could before the fire got out of control.”
Saskia gaped at him, certain the confusion had tied her face into knots. He couldn’t have this stuff. He didn’t know her then.
Quill sighed. “After the night you met Derick, I kept tabs on you.”
“You mean stalked me. Just say stalked.”
“I mean it’s complicated. You thought my assistant was me. I couldn’t tell you the truth. I saw some of your work and thought you had potential, that I’d like to mentor you.”
Was that what he called all this? Mentoring?
“I was deciding how I wanted to handle things. You were out. Your idiot neighbor on the main level under you had an electrical fire. I knew your place was next. I climbed the trellis, busted the window, and took everything I could save.”
Well, that explained some things. Given the origination of the fire, the busted window hadn’t made much sense to anyone. The fire department had utilized it for their purposes, but swore up and down they hadn’t done the damage themselves. And in all the chaos and destruction, the police had never gotten any clean prints.
“You couldn’t have given me my stuff then?”
Quill laughed. “Right. And how would that conversation go down? ’So, I’ve been stalking you off and on for a while and happened to notice your apartment going up in flames. Here’s your art.’ The media would have had a field day with that.”
So he was admitting to the stalking.
Saskia thumbed through her work again as if she couldn’t believe it was all really here. “I mourned this stuff. Of all people, as an artist... you should understand what I went through thinking I’d lost everything. I couldn’t bring myself to paint anything new after that.”
“I know.”
“And then, before the fake heist, you had the gall to ask me why I didn’t do original work when you knew why!”
“I didn’t know. I suspected.”
“So, after the fire, you bumped into me on purpose at that party when I was drunk?”
“Guilty.”
“Did you set me up to con you so you’d have something to hang over my head? So you could coerce me into your bed... I’m sorry, cage, since you won’t let me fucking sleep in the bed!”
Quill’s eyes narrowed. “Careful, Saskia. I’m being generous with you. You should be lashed for this much disrespect. And you give me far too much credit. I had no idea you were planning to fake the theft and run off with my money. That was just a stroke of luck. But I realized you had before I let you leave my house that night. I chose to wait and consider my next move.”
He sure liked to wait and consider things.
At the very least he’d been positioning himself to get close to her for clearly nefarious reasons.
“You could have met me in a sane way and asked me out. You knew how I worshiped you. You knew I’d go for this. I would have gone for anything you suggested if you’d asked like a civilized human.”
“I didn’t know that. I didn’t see you at any clubs or parties. I didn’t know you were into the things I’m into.”
“But you knew I was into your art. That wasn’t enough?”
“Not really.” Quill began to close the distance between them. “Either way, let’s say I met you in some normal way, asked you out, started some kink thing. We’re all painting and happy together and all of that nonsense, and then one day it’s too much for you and you leave
. Like she did.”
“Oh, anything to justify your felony.”
“Glass houses,” he said unperturbed by her accusation.
“Do you know what I think?”
“No, but I think you should be careful with that mouth.”
Saskia ignored the warning. “I think you don’t want something consensual. I think you just wanted what you wanted. Just like you wanted to take that painting from the Raine Estate when they wouldn’t sell it. You think everything is for sale. And if it isn’t, you’ll just take it.”
“It’s been working for me so far.” Quill stood mere inches from her. He dragged his finger across the front edge of her collar. His voice dropped an octave. “Tell me who you belong to.”
She just stared at him.
“Tell me, Saskia!”
She shook her head.
“You fought to stay with me last night.”
Already everything at that weird isolated club felt like a blur. Or a dream.
“Because I’m a starstruck little idiot!”
“Still. It meant something that you did it. And I told you there was no going back. So you may as well get over this snit. Who do you belong to?”
She didn’t know why she was upset with him. He’d saved her work. Not all of it, but most of it. She thought she’d never see any of it again. Maybe it was that a small piece at a time he kept breaking apart her image of him. He’d been this lofty untouchable artist. She hadn’t wanted to learn he was just a man. And not the nicest one sometimes. But at other times...
Beyond that, he’d set up this fucked-up scenario, and a part of her thought all of this was a lie as well. She wasn’t his. She’d never really be his—even though some destroyed part of her that she didn’t want to think about still kind of wanted it. To be his. The ground under her feet didn’t feel solid anymore.
“Do you think this is a game, Saskia?”
“Yes. I very much do. I think you’re rich and bored, and playing with people’s lives is what gives you a buzz. I think you’ll drop me off in a gutter somewhere the moment you grow restless again. And God help me if I ever actually feel something beyond this childish crush for you.”
“She abandoned me. Not the other way around,” Quill said.
The mystery woman in those early paintings. The only one with a jeweled collar. She was an enigmatic Mona Lisa, and Saskia was sure he’d never utter her name—as if he’d sworn some blood oath to never allow that word to caress the air around him again.
He pulled Saskia away from her salvaged art and pushed her back on the chaise. He stood straddling her, holding her down against the furniture. “Let me take away your foolish illusions. You know far too much you shouldn’t know. You have information that could destroy my company before the next opening stock bell rang. More than that, you could have me behind bars.”
“I thought you said you wouldn’t go to prison, but I would.”
“That fucking mouth,” he hissed. “If it’s the last thing I do, I will fix that fucking mouth. I said I probably wouldn’t go to prison. But that was about the art theft, not keeping you here as my slave. There is no way out with me, and you don’t want there to be. You love the fucking cage I’ve put you in. Admit it.”
“Fuck you.” She knew she was pushing his buttons, and a part of her was afraid he’d just haul right off and slap her. She’d seen that look in his eyes. He was already holding back, but she just kept pushing. And she wasn’t even sure what she was pushing for. Or why.
But all he did was arch that smug perfect brow. “I said not until you beg. That wasn’t nearly sweet enough for begging.”
Quill got off her and backed up a few feet, giving her space. “Come with me.”
“W-where are we going?”
“We’re going to teach you who you motherfucking belong to, and if after this point you ever forget again and refuse me the title I demanded, there will be hell to pay.”
“Master, I’m sorry.”
Quill laughed in response. “A few seconds too late, I’m afraid.”
He dragged her into the large, open gallery. This time they bypassed the columns with the attached shackles. Instead, he led her to a piece of sex furniture at the north end. It was made of dark stained wood and soft black leather. It looked a like a spanking horse, except the angles were all wrong and part of the furniture dipped in a way that wouldn’t work lying across it on her stomach.
She eyed it skeptically but didn’t say another word as he unbuttoned the artist’s smock he’d just put on her and removed her dress. Silent tears slipped down her cheeks.
What if he decided not to teach her? She’d been so close to the dream of one-on-one instruction from Joseph Quill. That fucking mouth was right. If not for her smart mouth, they’d be painting right now. After all the drama, who knew if he’d still consider her worth the effort to train her in any art beyond being his slave.
“I’m not punishing you, so you may as well put those tears away.”
The only consolation was that he didn’t know the real reason she was crying.
“You’re not?”
“No. It’s been a fast-paced few days, and it occurs to me that you haven’t had the opportunity to really understand this. Given the unusual nature of things...”
False imprisonment. Coercion. Threats.
“... I’ve gone a bit off script.”
Was that a good thing or a bad thing? It was hard to know with him.
He stepped back and appraised her. She knew from the way he looked at her that he couldn’t escape the desire to have her in the best light, from the best angle—the artist in him constantly setting up the next piece he might paint.
Quill pointed at the furniture. “Sit on it, facing me.”
Oh. Now it made sense. The small concave space of leather was meant for her to sit on.
“Spread,” he said.
Two short, narrow padded benches protruded from the sides of the concave space, meant for her to straddle in a sense. It was something like gynecological exam stirrups, except without the stirrups. Her feet rested on another piece of padded leather that came out from the bottom of each side.
Metal cuffs were built into the furniture, and Quill wasted no time locking them around her ankles. The design of the furniture made her body spread wider than she’d thought possible.
“Are you in pain?” he asked.
“No, Master. I just feel really stretched.” Like one of your canvases. Was that the point?
“Good. Stretching is good for you.” He took her arms and crossed them directly over her head to bind them with the cuffs coming out from the top.
She wasn’t lying flat, but was instead arched at a small angle so she could see him without straining or craning her neck.
Quill dragged his box of terrible wrong things from the other side of the gallery where he’d last used it, making sure to put it behind the furniture she was strapped down to, obstructing her view.
But that wasn’t enough for him. He took a strip of black silk from the box and blindfolded her.
She felt more vulnerable than she’d ever felt, exposed and open to him, unable to even know what to flinch from.
“I-I thought you said you weren’t going to punish me.”
“I’m not. But I still don’t want you to see what’s coming next. It kills the experience. Just trust me.”
She snorted at that, and he smacked her thigh in response.
“Don’t make me change my mind about punishment.”
They hadn’t started this from a place of trust, so how could he possibly think they could end there? Between her con and him taking her as property in retaliation, how could this ever end well? It was hardly a Meet Cute story.
In a warped way, she understood how losing his muse might make him avoid attachment or connection with women. And once he’d decided he wanted Saskia, it was also easy to see how he’d chosen this course to secure it.
He didn’t want a repeat of the mystery w
oman, and he seemed willing to do whatever it took—however extreme and immoral—to prevent that unsavory outcome a second time. Despite how he’d acquired her or how he kept her, when his hands were on her, she wanted them there.
Saskia tensed when something soft began stroking her skin, starting with her neck, then moving slowly downward over her body. She relaxed when she realized it was a dry paint brush. When she concentrated, she could see it in her mind. It was a very large, soft-bristled fan brush. It could be used in landscapes to cover an oversized canvas. She imagined giant, lush green bushes might be painted on an enormous mural with such a brush.
But Quill wasn’t a landscape guy. He’d obviously bought this brush only for the purpose he used it for now.
These brushstrokes didn’t feel like foreplay meant to arouse her, although it was beginning to. Instead, she felt what it must be like to be his canvas. Each stroke was deliberate, focused. Some strokes long, some short, moving over her body the same way he moved over his paintings as he worked.
Saskia jerked in her bonds when he brushed over the top of her foot.
“Ticklish here?”
“Yes, Master.”
He didn’t comment further, but he didn’t stop his meticulous torment either. He avoided her face and the place between her legs. When he’d given her the sensation of being total painted—save for the small details—he put the brush away.
A much smaller fan brush—just as soft—fluttered over the contours of her face around the blindfold. It gently caressed her cheeks, the tip of her nose, her lips. Then that same brush moved southward, in one long stroke down the length of her throat, stopping to tease over each of her nipples.
Then the brush resumed its trail down over her belly and to her mons. She writhed as the brush carefully stroked over each line and curve, each fold of flesh blooming with arousal and need in response.
“Please,” she whimpered.
His mouth moved to her ear. “Shhhhh.” The smaller brush clattered inside the box.
There was the rumbling sound of things being jumbled around and a plastic bottle of something being squeezed of some of its contents.
When he returned, his finger circled her clit in a careful pattern. She was already wet, but the cold lube from his finger joined her natural moisture as he stroked her. She arched up toward him, and the moment she did, he slipped something hard and lubricated into her ass.
