Escape From Paradise

by Gwendolyn Field

  Oh, my gosh. I needed to breathe. The intensity there was unlike anything I’d ever seen. It was startling. So much more than lust was going on behind those dark blue eyes. He looked away, dragging in a breath and blowing a plume of dark smoke to the side. My hand shook as I set the lighter on the table. The clanking caused Marco to look over at me and I gave him a quick, small smile of apology, dropping my eyes.

  I needed to stop shaking. I focused on Mr. Douglas’s hand, trying not to let the allure of the Middle Eastern music and my own crazy thoughts sweep me away. He held his cigarette in that sexy, manly way, between thumb and middle finger. His lips as they went around the filter made me tingle between my legs. I shifted and he gripped my hip as if to stop me from stimulating him further.

  The dance ended and everyone clapped politely. One man got up, clearly aroused, and left with Jin. Another dance began, the music mournful and sultry. Mr. Douglas made no move to get up. He seemed happy to sit there song after song, touching my skin, kissing my neck, but mostly staring at the dancers with far-away eyes, as if lost in thought. I wondered if he was day dreaming about his next painting.

  People came and went from the room, but Marco and Mr. Douglas remained. I couldn’t help but notice the look of peace and contentment on Perla’s face as she sat on Marco’s lap, her long, slim legs crossed, and her fingers in the back of his hair.

  Across the room the Italian man was sitting with his slave on her hands and knees next to him. He was fingering her roughly from behind. Her eyes were closed and her forehead creased with discomfort. My stomach churned and I looked away. Any second he’d be on his knees behind her. I was so thankful that wasn’t me, but I couldn’t help but empathize.

  I snuggled even closer to Mr. Douglas and then wondered if I’d done wrong, because he abruptly stood, catching me around the waist. I dropped to the floor in kneeling position.

  “I think I’ll have a walk,” Mr. Douglas said to Marco. “I thank you for allowing me such beautiful company. I’ll see you at dinner.”

  “Until then,” Marco said with an incline of his head.

  “Come,” Mr. Douglas said to me.

  I crawled at his side as he strolled through the house. He stopped to admire every piece of artwork he passed. It started to feel like he was purposely wasting time. He’d chosen me, but he was making no rush to get me alone. In fact, so much time passed that we were back in the dining room for dinner without ever having made it to Mr. Douglas’s bedroom.

  Paranoia rose up inside me. Why wasn’t he making use of me? This was unknown territory, and I didn’t know how to take it. What was I doing wrong? I felt scared, like at any second he would change his mind and ask for a different slave. It’s not like he wasn’t a sexual man. So what was the problem?

  I felt like I’d somehow failed to entice him enough. I wanted to be wanted by him, and that was a rare, overwhelming feeing. To be denied was a sting of rejection. My head hung low, and I accepted morsels of tender scallops and seared tuna without joy.

  After dinner I followed him back to his room.

  “Make yourself comfortable on the bed,” he said to me.

  As I climbed up into the downy comfort he went on his balcony for a cigarette. I lay in the middle on my back with one knee up. When he entered the room he didn’t even look at me; just strode right past into the bathroom. I heard the shower come on and I felt completely dejected.

  Were all artistic people this confusing?

  I lay where I was without moving until he came back in the room. My head turned and my breath caught at the sight of the towel around his waist, and the fact that it was slowly rising as the hardening length of his arousal became apparent.

  I made the mistake of looking in his eyes again. Why did he seem so at odds? Almost…pissed off?

  I desperately wanted to wipe the menacing look from his face. I slipped from the bed onto my knees and crawled forward, stopping in front of him to give him full access to me, but letting him have the first move, as always. Please want me.

  He gave the towel around his waist a tug and let it fall to the floor alongside my fears, because it was pretty safe to say he wanted me.

  “Señor,” I whispered, staring at the solid beauty of his body.

  “Stand up,” he commanded. I lifted myself to stand in front of him, staring at his chest.

  He moved forward and pulled the silky material down my shoulder, placing his hot mouth against my neck. I cried out and reached down, wrapping my hand as far around his cock as I could. The sound of his deep groan gave me shivers. He grasped my wrists and pinned them behind my back, devouring the skin at my neck and shoulder, nipping my collarbone, running his warm tongue down the trail of my jaw. My chest rose and fell rapidly.

  In a quick motion he was on the bed, grabbing me around the waist, lifting me, and pulling me to straddle his face. He shoved the material of my dress up and held it around my hips.

  Oh, yes. His tongue delved into my core, all hot softness, and he squeezed my thighs as I moved against him. I circled my hips so that I felt the scruff of his chin against my most tender parts, then the sensitive nub of my clit. When I vocalized my pleasure, he lifted my hips and spun me to face the rest of his body in a sixty-nine position. The dress pooled silkily around my waist.

  I immediately went down, taking as much of him as possible in my hands and mouth. He groaned loudly against my thighs and raised his hips to meet the bobbing of my head. Then his attention went back to his mouth on me. I squirmed a little when he reached up and kissed the bud of my anus, flicking his tongue against that dreaded hole, and shocking me by sending a delicious throb up into my belly.

  His mouth ventured back down and attached over my clit, sucking and flicking at the button of nerves as I moaned, taking him deeper, pushing his head to slide against the back of my throat as I kept my hands squeezing and pumping at his base. All at once we were both crying out, tensing, pleasure rippling through our joined bodies. His hot come shot into my mouth and I swallowed the waves as they came.

  I was so sensitive, quivering deep inside in a way that told me I could come again and again if he were to be inside me. But he made no attempt. His body went lax beneath me.

  I climbed off him and kept my distance. It wasn’t unheard of for a patron to want to cuddle, or fall against me like a pillow, but most of them didn’t want to be touched afterward. I prepared myself to ask the dreaded question of whether I should stay or go, but Mr. Douglas spoke first.

  He lay there breathing hard, his eyes closed, hands on his abdomen. “You will stay with me tonight. Aye?”

  “Sí, Señor,” I whispered. Inside I was jubilant. I allowed myself to lay back, momentarily spent, and closed my eyes.

  A moment later I heard him say, “Don’t move.”

  I stayed still, but cracked my eyelids. He was staring down at me, a sort of wild look in his eyes. His gaze raked me up and down, and he slid quickly off the bed, rushing to his easel and propping up a blank canvas.

  Was he going to paint me? Goose bumps sprang to life across my skin. The thought of his artistic eyes all over me…immortalizing me. Shit. It made me want to cry. Standing there naked, he practically fumbled the paints in his hurry to get them open, as if the sight of me would somehow disappear. I tried to imagine myself. My hips were twisted, one knee falling across the other. The loose silk of my black dress was around my stomach. It still clung to one shoulder, but drooped lower on the other side around my elbow, revealing one taut breast. One of my hands was draped over my waist, and the other was lazily flung over my head. My hair was pretty much everywhere. The silver-gray covers were bunched up around me. But he seemed to be seeing so much more than all that, and that’s what made me emotional.

  I swallowed it down and lay very still, letting this strange, confusing, alluring man paint me.

  She was fucking extraordinary.

  Colin hadn’t come to the villa seeking a muse, although that had been the ruse. He hadn’t expected to exp
erience any true inspiration. It was a fucking job. But every moment there, every moment with this girl, was a surprise. This place dug into his depths and unearthed urges and emotions he never allowed to surface. He felt it all here. With her.

  His hand stilled on the canvas as he watched her eyes flutter closed, and with a jolt she opened them again. Shite…how long had he been at it? Hours?

  “Close your eyes,” he ordered her. “Rest.”

  She complied, immediately falling into a deep breathing pattern. Awhile later she shifted in her sleep, but that was okay, because every detail was engrained in his mind. Every curve, angle, shadow, and color. At some point during the night he finished. His eyes were drooping as he climbed into the bed. When he pushed back the covers Angela must have felt the movement because she wiggled and burrowed under as well. Colin flicked off the light and they both slept soundly with a sliver of moonlight spilling over them through the balcony door.

  It wasn’t the sun that woke Colin the next morning. It was Angela’s soft, perfect arse nuzzling against his morning wood under the soft sheets. His sleepy eyes cracked open to find the girl still half-asleep, her eyes closed. She moaned, feeling for his hand, finding it, and pulling it over her breast. When he squeezed it must have fully woken her because she gasped in alarm and tried to turn, saying, “Lo siento, Señor!” What the hell was she apologizing for? Her forwardness? Colin felt a stab of anger at anyone who’d be such a prick.

  “Shh, lassie, I don’t mind.”

  The look of fear subsided from her face and he pulled her back against his chest again. Now it was his turn to moan, rocking his hips against her crack as they spooned. He kneaded her breast in his palm and felt her nipple harden inside his hand. She reached back and found his cock, making him hiss.

  When she moved her hips so as to take him inside her, Colin panicked.

  “Fuck,” he groaned. He let her keep stroking him, but he pulled her arse against his balls and reached around, finding her soaking wet center. “Fuuuck,” he moaned again. She moved against his hand and he knew she needed him. But he couldn’t. He just couldn’t. Not under these circumstances. Not unless there was no other way.

  He pushed two fingers inside her and felt her whole body constrict around him at the contact. She let out a guttural cry of ecstasy and he adjusted his body to have better access. Pushing his fingers even deeper, he curled them against her tight walls, stroking in and out, rubbing her pulsing button with his thumb. Her hand tightened over his cock, squeezing him to the point of fucking pain. He growled, loving it, and Angela gave a shout that morphed into a long moan. Her body bucked and shook with the waves of her orgasm.

  Bloody fucking gorgeous.

  But she wasn’t about to leave him unsatisfied. As soon as he released her she rolled and straddled him. Her drooping silk dress and the sheets tangled around them hid their actions from view. Angela made a reach for his dick and he grabbed her wrists, locking them at her sides. He shifted himself so she was comfortably seated atop the length of his erection. A split second of something like hurt or confusion passed across the girl’s face before Colin growled, “Ride me.”

  They moved together, her arms still not allowed to participate. She looked so beautiful, her hair disheveled from sleep. Wild. Lines from the sheets still creased her chest. Colin pulled both her wrists into one of his hands so he could reach up and cup her exposed breast. He tweaked her nipple, adoring how she reacted positively and erotically to every action.

  Because she has to, ya fuckwad, his conscience corrected him.

  Could she really be faking it? Was she trained that well? Or did she truly take her pleasure every time she was with a man? The thought made him squeeze her breast harder than he meant and she cried out in pain, the sound whimpering into a moan.

  How similar the sounds of pain and pleasure, Colin thought.

  She began to move like crazy on top of him, sliding up and down the length of him, squeezing with her thighs.

  Ah, fuck me, Colin thought. She looked like she was going to come again. So beautiful, the way her eyebrows came together and her lips parted with the effort of breathing. And sure enough, her panting turned to gasps and she pressed harder against his shaft, vocalizing every sensation as it rocked through her small body. Colin wished like fuck he was deep inside her to feel those throbs surrounding his cock.

  He’d never come close to wanting to fuck anyone as badly as he wanted Angela at that moment.

  The second she was done he bucked his hips, lifting her, and giving her body a gentle shove downward. She took his cue like a pro and went down, engulfing his thick head in her mouth and swallowing every drop.

  When she was done she slid off the bed and went into that fucking kneeling position. But then her eyes caught sight of the canvas and she did a double take, staring at it. Colin watched as her eyes widened, sliding over the image, her mouth slightly agape. He held his breath, wondering what she thought of the way he’d depicted her.

  He was nervous all of a sudden. Colin Douglas, who never gave a flying shite what anyone thought, was practically breaking a sweat. Her eyes seemed to drink it in, and he envisioned the scene of the portrait as she gazed.

  He’d painted her skin a creamy richness with golden hues. Her face had been at an angle which thwarted any facial features that would have made her recognizable in the picture. Everything about her in the painting was supple. Glowing. Sensual. And then there were her surroundings. The dark bedding was painted in slashes of grays and black. Dangerous. The headboard was a dark, ominous thing looming over her. The bedposts were like sharp daggers. Every rough thing surrounding her glorious image was at odds with her softness. Like an angel caught in hell.

  As he stared at her, staring at the painting, a crimson blush rose up her chest and throat, coloring her cheeks. Her eyes moved to his with something akin to shock, and she dropped her head when she caught him looking.

  “Puedo ser excusada para ir a limpiarme, Señor?” she asked in a small voice.

  “Um…” Damn it. He wished she’d speak English because his Spanish wasn’t the best. He thought she was asking to be excused. So she could wash up? “Yes.”

  She stood, adjusting the dress’s fabric down over her arse and up to her shoulders, then left him with her head still lowered.

  The second she was gone a heaviness settled on his chest. He missed her. He didn’t like not having her in his sight.

  Colin lay back heavily, running his palm roughly over his short hair. He was exhausted, both physically and mentally. That painting had taken a lot out of him, and then this morning…the way she’d seemed to need him inside her.

  He couldn’t do this much longer. And if he was being honest with himself, the things he was doing with her made him just as guilty as sex would have, but he just couldn’t bring himself to take full advantage of her. At this point he didn’t know if it was for her future benefit or his own. Her parents had basically hired him to save her, and here he was enjoying the fuck out of their enslaved daughter. Wishing he could have more.

  The thought made him want to vomit.

  He rolled out of bed and took a scalding shower. Then fell back into the sheets and slept restlessly until after lunch. He woke with Angela’s sweet, feminine scent around him.

  Immediately, he became hard.

  And his stomach growled.

  Hungry and horny. Fucking fantastic.

  It was one thing to be turned on by the girl when she was right in front of him, but craving her when she was out of sight was not acceptable.

  Still, he wondered where she was now. Marco knew he preferred her. He wouldn’t have leant her to that Italian bastard before he had to leave today, would he? Colin sat straight up in bed, his heart hammering at the thought of that arsehole touching her.

  Easy, laddie, he told himself, but he couldn’t seem to calm. His chest constricted and his skin flushed as something shifted and changed inside him. Marco had no right to give her to another man.
>
  No right? Ha. Colin scrubbed his face with his hand and fought back an ironic laugh as reality hit him.

  Somewhere along the line in these few short days he’d stopped thinking of Angela as Marco’s, and started thinking of the girl as his. His to protect. His to save. His to…pleasure. The very idea that another man could have his hands on her at that moment had him climbing out of bed and throwing on clothes, pissed off and ready to beat some serious arse into the ground.

  Christ Almighty. Colin was right fucked.

  That painting…

  Oh, God, that painting. It was all I could think of as I lay on my small bed listening to Mia hum a European folk song as she played solitaire at the table.

  Mr. Douglas’s image had detonated some kind of bomb inside me, hitting every nerve and conjuring every emotion. I was a mess. The painting was like a nightmare—vivid in its terror, and in the midst of it all had been me. Beautiful.

  He thought I was beautiful. Not just a sex object or toy. Nobody at the villa had ever made me feel that way except Josef, but he was my friend. Mr. Douglas had depicted me as soulful. Alive.

  And I felt it.

  It’d been so long since I felt alive. It almost hurt to feel that way in a place like this, where I had no chance of acting on it. I was a caged animal with a will to live fully. I’d worked hard to kill that will, because it did nothing but hurt me to feel that way in here.

  Why was he doing this to me? Part of me felt angry at his insensitivity. How dare he paint me like that, drudging up old hopes and wishes, when it was only a short matter of time before he’d leave me and possibly never return?

  Stop! There I went again, thinking as if Mr. Douglas saw me as anything other than a slave. Less than human. Which he couldn’t possibly. He was only seeing me with his artist’s eye. I was over-thinking the whole painting.

  My feelings were all over the place.

  Josef came in the room, his hair a mess. Must’ve been an active morning for him. He grinned at me and stripped naked. He was so cute. Marco kept him lean by not feeding him enough and not letting him workout with weights, which made Josef appear younger. He looked like a teen when he was actually in his mid-twenties. He came over and squatted next to me, running a hand over my forehead.