by Vremont, Ann
Maybe he isn’t a trust baby after all, she thought as she bent down to examine the first unwrapped painting. It was a nude of a middle-aged black woman. She was smaller than Bryce, but her body was a sensuous example of her heritage. She was propped against white fur, her dark gleaming skin stretched over full hips and heavy breasts. Her hand rested between plump thighs as if she’d been caught mid-caress.
Forcing her thoughts away from what Diaz must have felt painting women who looked caught in a moment of passion, Bryce bent lower to see if the portrait was dated. She smiled; the mahogany goddess was over a year old and Bryce would have remembered the woman if she’d ever shown up at the apartment building while Bryce was going in or out.
Above the date was his artist mark. She couldn’t read it at first, would have sworn it was written in a blocked kanji, but then, tilting her head, she saw it was pure tagger techno. Would a trust fund baby sign his name like a graffiti artist, she wondered?
The initials were reversed, the “D” before the “G”, with something like a Gemini symbol or a Roman II forming the bridge between the letters. Bryce straightened, wondering whether she should interpret it as “Galtero Diaz the Gemini”, or “Galtero Diaz the Second”? And if it was the latter, was Papa Diaz the Napa Valley vintner?
And, oh, dear God, no—that would make Artemesia Diaz his mother.
While it was only through her perverse fetish for the local gossip columns that Bryce had ever heard of the woman, Bryce felt she had every reason to believe Artemesia Diaz was pure bitch. The idea of having to meet her was terrifying—overriding the reality that everything would be over with Diaz come Monday anyway. Artemesia subscribed to the existence of two types of women—those who were served and those who serve. Absent the right pedigree from birth, you could never be more than a servant. And it was a well-known fact that every up-and-comer in Hollywood had better be prepared to kiss her well-toned ass if they wanted to join any foundation or club she held a board directorship on.
More like a board dictatorship, she thought and turned to where Diaz was supposed to be doing paperwork but sat watching her instead.
“You don’t like it?” he asked, misreading the look of horror on her face.
Bryce looked over her shoulder at the picture he had nodded at—the untitled mahogany goddess. “She’s beautiful,” Bryce said. “You painted her beautifully.”
She chewed on the inside of her cheek for a few seconds and toed the concrete flooring with her shoe. “Uhm…when were you born?”
“Tax Day,” he smiled. “Nineteen seventy-nine.”
April fifteenth, she didn’t know whether that was Gemini or not. “And what sign would that be?”
“Sign?”
She could almost hear the laughter in his voice. She nodded.
“Aren’t you supposed to use that question to get me into bed?”
Bryce frowned at him and mustered up her most commanding voice. “Just answer the question, Diaz,” she said. “Or I’ll be forced to leave and find a paper or something to figure it out on my own.”
“Aries.” He blurted the answer, like a child about to lose a favorite toy.
“You’re sure --you’re not a Gemini?”
He shook his head, his mouth somewhere between a frown and a bemused grin. “You’re not going to say we’re star-crossed now—ill fated and all that?”
“No.” She waved him back to his paperwork before she moved to the next picture. If there was going to be any silver lining to Monday’s dark clouds, not having to be introduced to Artemesia Diaz as her son’s new girlfriend was definitely it.
“Where do your parents live?” she asked, taking a different tack.
“Oh, uhm.” His attention seemed to re-focus on the paperwork with a jerk. “Dad’s, uh, well, kinda off in his own little kingdom and Mother is local.”
Dad versus Mother? Little kingdom? She dissected his choice of words, looking for clues both on the identity of his parents and his relationship with them. His use of “Mother” had sounded like it started with a capital “M”. As for “little kingdom”—Artemesia, of course, only left L.A. for Europe and Galtero Senior seldom left his vineyards. With more land than some small European countries, it would definitely qualify as a private kingdom. “Are they divorced?”
“Ah…just kinda separate, really.”
Bryce offered a sympathetic “I see”, and turned to look at the next painting.
“This isn’t going to work.”
Heart stilling, Bryce turned to find him stuffing the paperwork back into a desk drawer. He stood and started across the room, a devious smile on his face as he watched her. But she wasn’t the prey he was stalking, at least not yet. He was headed for a cabinet that, given the rainbow assortment of splashed paint on it, probably held supplies.
“What’s not going to work?” she asked.
“Trying to do invoices when I could be doing you.”
His answer should have seemed crass, instead it made her instantly wet, particularly when he was smiling at her like that.
“And you’re going into a supply closet, why?”
He was opening boxes, grabbing and discarding handfuls of charcoal and pastels before moving on to the next container. “Body markers,” he answered. “I know I have them here somewhere from last Halloween—I figure if I can’t have you long enough for me to paint you in the flesh, you’ll let me paint your flesh.”
Finding the box of markers, he tucked them in the waistband of his pants and took his hunt to the footlockers stacked next to the supply cabinet. From the top trunk, he pulled a blood-red faux fur and spread it on the floor. Sinking onto his knees in the plush pile, he reeled his ultimate prey in with a tilt of his head and the play of his hands down the front of his shirt as he undressed.
Bryce came to him, stopping at the edge of the carpet to step from her sandals. She was intent on disrobing in the same unrevealing manner she had used at the apartment, but Diaz held something else in mind.
“No. You’re going to let me undress you.”
He grabbed her hips, and the sudden action forced her to place her hand on his shoulder or risk falling. Even after she felt steady, she kept her hand there, her attention absorbed by the way the sunlight in the room gave his skin a golden glow.
“Starting with this,” he said, and reached for the charm bracelet.
Bryce had to wonder if he had some sort of reverse psychic ability—his intuition taking him straight to the one thing it was essential she leave on. “It won’t get damaged,” she said, failing to hide her hand before he could catch her by the wrist.
“No, but it gets caught in my hair.” He looked up at her, his smile disingenuous as he gave the dark locks a shake.
Oh, he was so lying to her.
“You’ve never mentioned it before.”
“And you’ve never mentioned why you’re so attached to it,” he said before casually dropping the suggestion, “Was it a gift from some almost lover?”
Even with the short amount of time they’d spent together, Bryce knew he was only feigning disinterest. She let the shock show on her face. He was jealous? Actually jealous?
“My maiden aunt,” she answered and plucked at the hem of her shirt. “You remember?”
He pocketed the bracelet and then grabbed the waistband of her pants. With his other hand, he held hers, his head bowed, lips hovering over it. “If I lose it, I will beg her forgiveness on my knees.” He finished the vow with a kiss.
“And what about my forgiveness,” she teased, bringing her hand up to play in the rich silk of his hair.
“Oh, Brycie baby,” he said and started the slow removal of her pants, “you’ve already got me down on my knees.”
*****
And the things he was going to do to her.
Walt pulled Bryce’s pants and underwear down together, stopping when the full split of her labia came into view. The loft was kept cool only by high placed fans and a light sheen of moisture covered h
er bald mound. A thicker syrup glistened at the seam of her pussy. He pressed his lips to her mound, his tongue flicking out to taste her earthy flavor. Pulling Bryce’s clothes lower, he broke the seal of flesh and honey with his tongue and slowly teased her clit.
She had both hands tangled in his hair now, her thighs and ass trembling with the anticipation of his sucking and licking her to climax. He took a few more leisurely swipes at the line of her pussy, lowering his body and tilting his head up so that he could probe her cunt with each lick.
Every time he touched Bryce, she was slicker than the time before, her apparent desire for him never waning. It made him hotter, more desperate to be in her, to have her beyond a short fling. He wanted to know just how wet he could make her. He felt like he’d only just scratched the surface. The promise of an even wilder, more passionate lover lurked beneath her shy, self-conscious reserve.
Impatient to mark her as his, Walt pulled the pants the rest of the way down and helped her kick them to the side. Then he ordered her down on her knees. When he had the shirt up over her head, her arms still inside and raised high, he had to fight off the impulse to use the shirt as an impromptu binding.
But he had the markers for that, he reminded himself. He stripped the rest of the shirt away and pressed Bryce down onto the fur. She looked up at him, then looked away in a half-coy gesture. He placed the box of markers next to her and stood to remove the rest of his clothing. Stepping from his shoes, he could see that she was fighting the need to cover herself.
“No, Bryce,” he warned. Barefoot now, he used his foot to coax her legs further apart, so that her lips opened and he could see the full, dew dropped flower of her sex. He pushed his pants over his hips and his erection popped into view.
“Let me see you touching yourself, Brycie,” he ordered, his voice thick as his cock and jumping with the same need. She hesitated, and he hardened his command. “Just rest your finger against it.”
She wanted to, he felt that. Fresh cream dampened her pussy at the rough slide of his voice and, when she finally obeyed, she instantly jerked and moaned. Forgetting her embarrassment, she stroked the tip of her finger the length of her clit, stopping at its end to pinch and roll the engorged hood. She moaned, then bit her bottom lip.
Was she trying, he wondered, to silence any other traitorous sound?
It didn’t matter. Bryce belonged to him at that moment, no matter what she might say or do later. She was his to command or worship. She could bite that pretty little lip all she wanted. There was nothing she could do to hide the intense need charging the air around them like an electrical storm.
Fully undressed, he sank to his knees and pulled a red body marker from the box. Pushing her knees apart, Walt lay between her legs and kissed the inside fold of her left thigh. And since she was swollen and creaming just for him, he uncapped the red marker and put his artist’s mark in the spot he had just kissed.
Bryce glanced at her leg just long enough to acknowledge his subtle claiming before she pushed her shoulders and head against the floor. The motion caused a slight lift of her bottom, raising the puffed lips of her cunt to demand his kiss. He kissed her, lightly, and then gently took one of her swollen labia between his teeth. Softly, he pulled. Holding the marker in his right hand, he threaded his arm under her left leg and back over her hip. Holding her steady, he continued his careful teething and drew a pentacle enclosed in a pentagon to the side of her abdomen, just past the soft bump of her hip. His Venus, hot and sensual, ripe and so very fuckable. When the mark was made, he took her clit into his mouth, his tender suckling pushing her another inch closer to oblivion.
With her body telling him she was a breath away from climaxing, he withdrew his pressure, bypassing her mound on his way up to kiss her navel. Beneath the dip of her belly button, he drew a two-horned crown, its center filled with an enormous pearl. Reaching her firm and ready breasts, he drew a circle with an inverted cross at the bottom of the left breast.
This is for the daughter she will bear me.
He took her nipple in his mouth, his pressure bruising a fresh blush of passion from her as his free hand reached between Bryce’s legs to stroke more heat into her pussy. When he brought her to the brink of climax once more, he stopped. Only the marker touched her as he drew a circle with an arrow shooting out its side on her right breast.
And this is for the son she will bear me.
He began licking and kissing the breast, his hand keeping it gripped firmly in place. With his lower torso, he kept her thighs spread, his weight pressing her legs open in a wanton’s position. Pulling three fingers into a tight triangle, he invaded her pussy and stroked her hard while he sucked and squeezed at her breast.
She was panting, squirming against the fur’s crimson mat. When she was just at the point of screaming his name and filling his hand with her climax, he pulled back again.
She did scream his name, her voice drenched in frustration. But mercy and relief would have to come later. He placed the tip of the marker just left of center on her breast bone and drew his artist’s mark once again. It didn’t matter to him that the ink would last only a week or so. He willed that she would always see it.
“Please, Walt.”
She was pleading for him now, her agile hands pinching and squeezing the succulent breasts that would one day nourish their children. The thought brought his cock to a new level of hardness and he moved down to leave one last mark before he relented to their mutual need. Over her mound, another circle, the line leaving it stopping at the top of her labial split. He drew the line of Venus’s cross, and then, at the split, the hard “V” of Mars’s manhood.
Walt replaced the marker and pushed the box off the fur blanket. Fisting his cock, he teased her pussy, making sure she was ready to take him. Her faint, rhythmic moans had him so hard and swollen that he was afraid of hurting her. Her cunt looked like it was all cream and honey, but he could feel how tight she was, and he wasn’t sure he would be able to fit inside her completely this time.
Leaning low over Bryce’s body, Walt positioned the head of his cock at the center of her opening. She was pushing against and around its head, trying to pull him in before he started another round of teasing.
“Slow, Brycie,” he cautioned. If her pussy didn’t stop pulling at his dick, he was going to anoint the marks he’d made on her clear, supple skin. The thought alone of coming on her stomach and creamy thighs made his cock twitch and he had to squeeze the base hard.
“Roll over.” He couldn’t see her like this—her whole body begging to be fucked—and keep control.
Bryce rolled over, lifting the drenched rosebud of her cunt up in offering. Walt put his palm on the small of her back, forcing her stomach and hips back onto the fur. Wedging Bryce’s legs open with his thighs, he entered her pussy in one fast, slick thrust. When he was embedded inside her, he let the full weight of his torso rest on her back. He pushed her arms away from her body, snaking his own under her armpits and then gripping her shoulders from beneath.
Locked tight to Bryce, her body immobilized, Walt began to gently roll his hips. The sensation was delicious. Her pussy was incredibly hot, her heavy desire making her slick enough so that he could still move inside her while she clamped down on him. With every little stroke Walt made, Bryce punctuated it with a sharp pant.
“Are you coming for me, Brycie?” he asked. “Can you feel it building, taking everything away but just you and me?”
“Yes.”
Delirious, her whole body was an inferno, the flames licking at his skin and threatening to singe his hair.
“You don’t want me to stop?” He didn’t stop, he kept grinding inside her pussy, each thrust and hip roll crushing to powder more of her resistance.
“No, please don’t.”
“You don’t want me to stop now.”
“No, I said ‘no’.”
“And tomorrow, is this sweet body mine?”
“Yes, please—” The pre-orgasmic t
remor that ran through her body cut off the rest of her plea.
He made his thrusts tighter, more powerful, his cock swelling from his own looming climax.
“And the day after that,” he pushed. “You do want to be with me the day after that, don’t you, Brycie?”
Everything was shutting down to short, intense twitches and gripping contractions. When he thought he couldn’t swell any thicker, that her cunt couldn’t hold him any tighter, the pressure built higher until he almost didn’t hear her answer.
“Yes!” she screamed, her control disintegrating in the explosion of her climax. “The day after that—I want you every day, Walt Diaz.”
Chapter Thirteen
Sitting in the passenger seat of Walt’s Suburban, Bryce fiddled with the charm bracelet. Yeah, so what? she thought. She had finally admitted the truth. Did he have to gloat about it?
Apparently, he did.
She twisted in her seat, trying not to make eye contact with him. At least he wasn’t gloating out loud—not yet, anyway.
I want you every day, Walt Diaz! How fucking corny was that? Her, being all schmaltzy over a man. Okay, a sweet man, intelligent, caring and sensitive. A man whose tremendously large cock came with its own slide belt. Still, I want you every day? That had to come from Erato’s book of phrases because it sure as hell didn’t come from her own.
Walt finally broke the silence. “Do you want dinner in, or out?”
Bryce gave a definitive “In”. It had been hard enough when they’d stopped for gas and the women had visibly ogled Walt as he lounged against the Suburban’s side. Then their gazes had invariably skipped up to the front of the vehicle to see what lucky girl was in the passenger seat. For the most part, it was only the strength of the reactions that were mixed, from the curled lip and mouthed “what the fuck?” to the politely arched, but incredulous brow. Only one woman had given Bryce a thumbs up accompanied by a silent “woot” of approval.
