Empress in Lingerie

by Penelope Sky

  I stayed rooted to the spot, still afraid of the place he wanted to show me.

  “Vanessa, if I were going to kill you, I would tell you. Believe me, I want to see you cry and scream. I get off on that shit. But that’s not on the itinerary today.” He came back to me, his large arms stiff by his sides as he approached me. He stopped in front of me then looked down, annoyance written all over his face.

  “Promise me?” I whispered. Listening to him make a promise was the only way I could really trust him. He said he would always be honest with me, so listening to a promise shouldn’t make a difference. And if he was a liar, he wouldn’t have a problem making an endless line of promises because he would break every single one of them.

  But it made me feel better.

  His hands slid up to my face and cupped both of my cheeks. “I promise.”

  He was the man I was afraid of, but once the danger passed, he somehow became my savior. I shouldn’t be grateful for his gentleness, not when he threatened me every day. I shouldn’t appreciate his good days when there were so many bad ones. He dropped my expectations so low that every good thing he did was received as a gift. It was a form of psychological warfare.

  He kissed me softly on the mouth, his fingers reaching into my hair. He bent his neck down to kiss me and yanked me onto my tiptoes so our mouths could reach each other easier. He pulled me into him and let me balance against his chest, his warm touch surrounding me.

  I felt better once I had that kiss, but I shouldn’t love his affection so much.

  He took his kiss away then walked toward the hallway.

  This time, I followed him.

  We walked across the hardwood floor and then turned to the door on the left. He grabbed the doorknob but didn’t turn it right away. Instead, he looked at me. “I had someone help me with this. If it’s not what you want, let me know. I can change it.”

  My eyes narrowed, having no idea what he was about to show me. Was it my own bedroom? Why would I care about having my own space, especially when my apartment was just fifteen minutes away?

  He opened the door and stepped inside first. He moved to the left, so I could walk in past him.

  I stepped inside and stared at the floor-to-ceiling window that had a perfect view of the entire city. So much natural sunlight flooded inside, along with the open skylight at the top. It was a painter’s dream.

  There were three easels next to the window, all set up with different paint colors, brushes, and other tools. A large table was in the center of the room, storing all the extra supplies I needed.

  Two large couches were centered around a coffee table in the corner, a place where I could sit when I wasn’t painting.

  I stared at everything, completely dumbfounded by the sight in front of me.

  He did all this for me?

  Bones studied my face, watching every little reaction I gave. “I thought you could do your artwork in here. You said that natural light was the most important component to any picture. In here, you have plenty of it, especially since the sun rises in front of the window. Now that you want to do this full time, you need an office. You’ll have plenty of space, and when I’m not around, you can come here and use it whenever you want.”

  I was still speechless, staring at this kind gift.

  From Bones.

  Was this really happening?

  “I…I don’t know what to say.” Bones was harsh, cruel, and lethal. He still vowed that he wanted to kill me and get the revenge he deserved. He wasn’t kind to me most of the time, and he treated me like a slave rather than a person. But then he did something incredibly thoughtful and generous. It didn’t make any sense. “I really don’t know what to say.”

  “You don’t have to say anything at all.” He moved his hands to his pockets and admired the view outside the window.

  I stared at his back, wondering if there was a heart inside that muscled mass after all. Maybe there was more light inside his soul than he let on. Maybe he wasn’t just a stone-cold killer but actually a conflicted man suffering from old wounds.

  “I have to be honest and tell you this isn’t entirely selfless.” He turned around again, his black hoodie stretching over the muscles of his shoulders. Even when he stood in a room with vaulted ceilings, he still looked incredibly tall. His muscled mass made him appear large, no matter what he stood next to.

  “It’s not?” I whispered.

  “No.” He walked back toward me, his blue eyes returning to their cold look. “I want you to make something for me.”

  “You want me to paint for you?” I couldn’t keep the surprise out of my tone. He seemed impressed by my work, but he wasn’t an art collector. The stuff he had in his home had been selected by Richard.

  “Yes.”

  “What do you want me to paint?” Maybe he wanted me to paint a portrait of his mother. He’d seen me draw lifelike versions of my family. It wasn’t as good as a photograph, but pretty close.

  He came closer to me, standing so close I could feel his breath fall across my lips. His hands went to my arms, his fingertips gliding across my smooth skin. He moved his forehead to mine, his eyes on my lips. “You.”

  11

  Bones

  I positioned her on my bed, her knees folded and her weight resting on her ankles. I had her in a lacy black bodysuit, the dark color going with her olive skin perfectly. I wasn’t an artist by any means, but I knew exactly what kind of picture I wanted. I grabbed the sheets and yanked them back then arranged them around her. I had her hold on to one piece, letting it cover some of her abdomen so the white sheet would contrast against her skin.

  I grabbed the diamond necklace I bought and hooked it around her throat before I added the bracelet. I layered her lingerie and jewelry, adorning her like the queen she already was. Her makeup was done and her hair slightly curly the way I liked. Her lips were painted a deep red, and her eyes were smoky and mysterious.

  I used the camera on my phone to get the shot, allowing light from the windows in the background to hit her face at the perfect angle. I captured the natural lines of her body, the way the thin material hugged the steep curve of her back. Her tits were pressed together, but nothing more than her cleavage was visible.

  I got the shot—and it was perfect.

  I didn’t even ask her to pose. I didn’t ask her to smile or not smile.

  She was just a natural.

  Sexy all the time.

  I shoved the phone into my pocket then walked back toward the bed. I was still pissed she thought I brought her here to kill her. Under the circumstances, it wasn’t a crazy assumption to make, but she couldn’t have been further from the truth. But surprising my victims wasn’t the way I operated.

  I wanted them to know I was coming for them.

  But eventually, I would kill her. And I wanted this painting to remember her, to remember the woman who captured my fascination. It would hang from the wall in my office, so when I drank myself into a stupor, I could stare at this image and think about her. And I could remember the fact that she made it, sealed herself in a priceless work of art.

  She pulled the sheets farther up her body even though I’d seen her naked on a daily basis. “I’m not sure about this.”

  “I am.” I’d never given her the option. She would make this painting for me, whether she wanted to or not. Sometimes she got comfortable with her bits of freedom and thought she had more of it.

  But she didn’t have anything.

  “What are you going to do with it?”

  “Hang it proudly.” We were eye level as I stood beside the bed. When she was raised on the mattress, I could stare at her head-on instead of craning my neck down. Being over a foot taller than her had its frustrations.

  “Where?”

  “Lake Garda.”

  “Why?” she whispered. “You already have a picture.”

  “Because I want you to make me something. And the only thing beautiful enough to hang on my wall is you.” I grabbe
d the sheet and pulled it away, so I could see her flat tummy. She had a cute belly button and flawless skin. Her only imperfection was the scar on her arm where she’d been struck by a bullet.

  We had the same scar. I just had it in more places.

  She continued to watch me with hesitance in her eyes. “I’ve never painted myself before. It’ll be weird.”

  “You painted yourself in that Christmas picture.”

  “But that was different.”

  “How?”

  “Because…it’s just in a different context. An image is about the viewer’s perception. I painted myself the way my family sees me. If I paint myself the way you see me…” Her voice trailed away, but her meaning was still in the air.

  “As a beautiful woman I love to bed?” I asked. “No shame in that. You know you’re beautiful, baby.”

  “I mean…as a prisoner.”

  That’s what made the picture even sexier. “I know you can do it.” I grabbed her hips and tugged her toward me, forcing her bottom forward and her shoulders back. I yanked until her back was against the sheets, and her hair was spread out around her. I unclasped the crotch of her bodysuit and revealed her gorgeous pussy. My fingers rubbed her clit gently, moving in a circular motion as I stood over her. My cock was already hard in my jeans after taking her photo, but I knew she needed my touch to get ready for me. It was difficult for my cock to fit inside a woman unless she was soaked, so getting her wet was always necessary. If not, I’d have to break out the lube.

  Her breathing filled the quiet room and became louder and louder. She stopped thinking about the painting I asked her to make and started to focus on the way my fingers made her feel. When I slipped two fingers inside her and rubbed her clit with my thumb, she breathed even louder.

  When her arousal flooded my fingers, I knew she was ready.

  I dropped my pants and boxers and positioned her at the edge of the bed. Her legs spread for me, and I slid my cock inside her, easily getting my length deep. I moved all the way inside until my balls hit her ass.

  She released a quiet whimper and pressed her hand to my chest. “Too deep.”

  I wanted to fuck her as deep as I wanted. If it hurt, I didn’t care. If she cried, that would just make me like it more. But the second she told me to stop, I listened. She didn’t say it to me often, so when she did, I knew she meant it. If she were anyone else, I probably wouldn’t care, but she earned so much of my respect that I couldn’t help but listen to her.

  I thrust into her slowly, making sure I kept the last few inches out of her body, so I wouldn’t hit her cervix again. At this angle, I could get even deeper inside her. She took most of my length anyway, so it would be selfish to ask for more.

  I gripped the backs of her legs and thrust into her at a slow pace, treasuring the way she looked on the bed underneath me. Her eyes were a little wet from my initial thrust, and it made her look even prettier.

  I liked to see a beautiful woman cry.

  She stopped pushing against my chest and started to tug on my shirt. She lifted it up my stomach, telling me she wanted it off.

  I pulled it over my head and tossed it on the bed.

  Then her hands were all over me, feeling the muscles of my abs and chest.

  I loved it when she touched me. She touched me with desire and eagerness. Her nails lightly dug into me, and her mouth parted slightly, showing those cute teeth. Her pussy became wetter and tighter, and her breaths turned to moans.

  “Baby…you have no idea how sexy you look right now.” She was perfect underneath me, as much of a queen on her back as when she stood tall. The lace still pushed her tits together, forming a delicious cleavage line. Her tanned limbs contrasted against the black color she wore and with her eye makeup. Her dark hair was spread out across the bed, the brown locks striking against my ivory sheets.

  “Not as sexy as you…” She dragged both of her hands down my body and gripped my hips so she could pull herself onto my length harder.

  Fuck.

  Vanessa was two different women. This version of her worshiped the ground I walked on and couldn’t get enough of me. The sex was so good it erased the war between us. When we used each other’s bodies, it brought us closer together. We even liked each other, needed each other. She was under this spell as much as I was.

  She told me I was the best she’d ever had.

  And she was mine.

  I stilled my thrusts and leaned over her, holding my mouth just inches above hers.

  Her hands slid up my back and into my hair. She fisted the short strands and breathed in my face, still moaning even though my dick was idle inside her. Her pussy was soaked, covering my dick from crown to balls.

  “You think I’m sexy?” I whispered.

  “You know I do.” She kissed me, giving me a delicate kiss in the corner of my mouth.

  “I love being inside you. I never want to not be inside you.” I was the kind of lover who rarely talked, but watching and listening to her want me put me in a sensual mood. I was more aroused than usual, pulsing inside her because this pussy was all mine to enjoy.

  “Then don’t be. Fuck me.” She kissed me again, this time sucking my bottom lip. “Fuck me and don’t stop.”

  Jesus Fucking Christ. “Yes, baby. Yes.”

  After I took that picture, we never left my bedroom.

  I fucked her deep into my mattress, pumping her with more come than I ever did before. It got all over my sheets, but neither one of us seemed to care. We fucked deep into the night, past two in the morning.

  I’d never fucked the same woman so many times.

  By the time I was finished, I couldn’t go anymore.

  My dick was broken.

  She fell asleep instantly, and I traveled into my living room. I stared at the plate she snatched as a weapon.

  Like she could have stopped me with a plate.

  The corner of my mouth rose in a smile, and I poured myself a scotch in the kitchen. There wasn’t much food here because I didn’t come here often. I only passed through. Richard stayed in Lake Garda because that was my primary residence.

  I liked to be away from people.

  People were shitty.

  I sat at the dining table and looked out the window to the city behind. The lights were bright, reminding me of other big cities I’d been to. They all looked the same at night. I drank my poison and sat in my boxers, letting the liquor do its magic.

  I could normally sleep after fucking Vanessa, but now I was wide awake.

  Thinking about that painting.

  I wanted her to make it for me so I would remember her after she was gone. I wanted to remember my conquest, like a notch on my belt, a mark on my bedpost.

  But then I felt like shit.

  It was sick.

  I was making her preserve her own memory, capturing herself in a way she didn’t want to be portrayed. Once my enemies were dead, I would have that painting as a trophy, to remember everything I accomplished.

  But was it really an accomplishment?

  I was hurt when she thought I was going to kill her, but did I have any right to be offended when that’s what I wanted to do to her? Didn’t that make me hypocritical?

  And since I didn’t kill her when I was supposed to, would I ever actually do it?

  Who knew?

  My phone lit up with a text message from Max. Are you in Milan?

  I texted back. Yes. I didn’t ask how he knew that.

  We need to meet. The usual place?

  I didn’t want them around Vanessa. I’ve got company.

  Barsetti?

  Yes.

  So you aren’t going to kill her?

  I dodged the question. I’ll see you tomorrow night. Let’s meet at our other place.

  I woke up later than usual because I was up so late. Vanessa was gone, and I assumed she went into the other room to begin her artwork. I changed into my gym clothes and went to my private gym on the next floor. I did an intense workout before
I returned and jumped in the shower.

  After I had breakfast, I went in search of Vanessa.

  She was exactly where I expected her to be, sitting on a chair at an easel. All the colors were in place, but her image wasn’t clear. She spent so much time detailing every little thing in the room, from the texture of the walls, to the light flooding through the windows, to the tiny details of the curtains.

  She was a perfectionist.

  She didn’t turn around when she heard me walk inside. Her brush was still against the canvas, perfecting the outline of her body against the bed.

  I walked farther into the room, my eyes glued to her painting. But the second I took my gaze away from her artwork and looked at her, I noticed something.

  Her shirt.

  It was my shirt.

  It was the shirt I’d been wearing when she asked me to take it off. It was the shirt that fell on the ground and lay forgotten while we screwed for the rest of the night. I left it there because I forgot about it, and when I woke up this morning I never picked it up.

  And now she was wearing it.

  Ten sizes too big, it reached her knees, and the sleeves almost touched her elbows. It didn’t show her curves, and it made her look even smaller in comparison. Her legs reached out underneath it, toned and beautiful.

  I’d never seen a woman wear my shirt before.

  And look so sexy in it.

  Time seemed to stand still as I looked at her, unsure how I felt about what I was looking at. She had a bag of her own clothes, so it wasn’t like she didn’t have anything else to wear. I was always possessive of her, but seeing her in my belongings seemed to change my hold over her.

  I felt like I owned her even more.

  And she wanted me to own her.

  I didn’t let my victims humanize themselves. I didn’t let myself get attached to them or pity them. I had to kill them, so they were nothing more than livestock. Like a cow that would be taken out to slaughter for meat.

  But seeing her in that black t-shirt changed everything.

  And I would never look at her the same way again.