“Use your words,” he reminded sharply.
“Please, sir, may I come?”
“I don’t think so,” he said, boredom dripping from his words like my arousal was from his fingertips.
“Puh-please,” I begged as he swiftly pressed two fingers inside of me and curled them towards my front wall, pressing against the small patch of tissues that always made me detonate.
“Tell me what you are thinking about,” he demanded.
Thoughts swirled around my head before disappearing too quickly to verbalize.
I groaned.
The next spank was especially brutal. I hissed through my teeth and teetered closer to orgasm.
“Not good enough. Tell me; are you worrying about the show, about what anyone may think of your art, of yourself? Or are you thinking about me; about my fingers inside your sweet, wet pussy and my hand branding your ass a nice, scarlet red?”
“Your hands, your fingers,” I panted, pressing harder into the erection I could feel poking my stomach. “Want your cock.”
He chuckled wickedly. “Good girl. I should be the only thing on your mind. I am the master of this body, the owner of your thoughts. When I touch you like this,” he plunged another finger inside me while circling my asshole with his arousal damped thumb, “you know who you belong to.”
“You, sir,” I cried out, so close to climaxing that my vision was growing dark at the corners.
“Yes, me. Come for me now,” he ordered.
A second later, I was lost. Blackness surged towards me, hot and cold, a swirl of sensation that pummeled my body and made my skin sing from the inside out with sensitivity. Every negative sensation that had weighed down my body was obliterated by the welcome darkness and I think, for a least a moment, I blacked out.
When I came to again, Sinclair was cradling me to his chest and my clothes were righted. He smiled against my hair as he stroked it, satisfaction oozing from him even though he hadn’t been the one to orgasm. I loved that as a Dominant he got off on orchestrating my pleasure as much as I did from experiencing it.
“I’m going to keep your underwear in my pocket and you are going to walk around this gallery tonight knowing that I own you, feeling that and only that between your thighs.” He paused to let the words sink in. “Are you ready now, Elle?”
I tipped my head back and beamed up at him. “Let’s do it.”
There were dozens of people. Every time I was introduced to someone new, there was another person over my shoulder waiting for an introduction. Some of them I knew immediately, like the art critics Jerry Saltz and Holland Cotter, Jace Galantine, the famous movie star that Sebastian kept a wide berth from, and Louis Vuitton Foundation’s CEO Bernard Arnault who had first championed my work in Paris. They all had something nice to say about my paintings. It was also supremely difficult not to break into a happy dance when Rossi informed me that over half of the paintings had sold and it was only three hours after we opened the door.
I tried and probably failed to be cool about it.
Of my family, only Sebastian was there, having flown in from filming his new movie in Los Angeles just to be a part of opening night. He apologized on behalf of Mama who was at the restaurant managing a private party, but I knew that if she had wanted to be here, she wouldn’t have missed it for the world. It made me sad for a moment, Mama’s continued distance and Cosima’s inexplicable absence, but I had reason to be happy still. All the friends I had in the world were there to support me, including Stefan, Santiago, Kat, Richard, Duncan, Robert and even Odile, who Sinclair had flown over as a surprise for me.
The Paulsons were there too, their first public outing since the scandal. Mr. Paulson looked mildly uncomfortable but after their experience being ground through the rumor mill, he seemed lighter somehow and was less careful about his gestures of affection and dominance over Terry.
Even Brenna showed up.
“C’est un blague,” I exclaimed in French when I found her lingering by a portrait of Sinclair.
She laughed, but her expressive face didn’t light up the way it usually did. “Not a joke.”
I leapt at her, completely oblivious to the persona I had tried to cultivate throughout the night. She caught me, staggering backwards under my weight as I squeezed her roughly.
“Je te deteste,” I told her over and over again, as I reined kisses down on the top of her golden head.
Her shocked laughter quickly dissolved into silent tears as she brought me closer still.
“I missed you too,” Brenna whispered.
“I was always right here,” I reminded her gently.
She nodded and squeezed me once more before taking a step back. I watched her wipe the tears from under her eyes and noted that she was healthier looking than the last time I had seen her, depressed on the arm of her famous husband.