Chapter 5: The Art Studio Ambush
The studio reeked of turpentine and old coffee, the air thick with the scent of dried paint and the faint, metallic tang of Grace's ink—her latest sketch of a skeletal hand clutching a shattered mirror still pinned to the corkboard beside a half-empty bottle of whiskey. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting jagged shadows across the cluttered desk where a half-unwrapped pack of cigarettes sat beside a cracked tablet displaying a live stream of her own face, grinning back at her from the screen, her black lipstick smeared just enough to look like she'd been kissed raw.
She'd been cleaning her brushes for twenty minutes. Maybe thirty. The same three brushes, over and over, the water in the jar gone from clear to gray to something closer to mud. Her hands moved on autopilot, muscle memory guiding the bristles through the soap and water while her brain ran in circles.
Two weeks.
Two weeks since the party. Two weeks since he'd looked at her like he wanted to eat her alive. Two weeks of replaying every word, every glance, every accidental brush of his hand against her arm. Two weeks of touching herself in the dark, biting her pillow, coming with his name on her lips and shame burning in her chest.
She hadn't seen him since. Not in class. Not in the dining hall. Not in the library where she'd camped out for hours pretending to study, her eyes scanning the doors every few minutes like a fucking idiot.
Part of her wondered if she'd imagined it. The intensity. The way his jaw had tightened when she'd sassed him. The way his eyes had dropped to her mouth and stayed there, dark and hungry, like he was already imagining all the things he wanted to do to her.
But she hadn't imagined it. She knew she hadn't.
And now she was standing in her studio at nine o'clock on a Tuesday night, scrubbing brushes that were already clean, because she didn't want to go back to her dorm and lie in her bed and think about him some more.
The door creaked open behind her.
She didn't turn around. Probably one of the other art students, coming back for a forgotten sketchbook. Probably not him. Definitely not him.
"Those brushes are clean."
Her hands stopped moving. The voice was low, familiar, and it sent a jolt of something electric straight down her spine.
She turned.
Jay stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame like he owned the place. He was wearing a gray hoodie with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, and gray sweatpants that hung low on his hips. His hair was damp, like he'd just come from the gym, and there was a fading bruise on his knuckle that she hadn't noticed before.
He looked like a predator who'd just found his prey.
"Jay." His name came out breathless. Too soft. Too revealing. She hated herself for it.
"Grace." He pushed off the frame and walked toward her, slow and deliberate, his sneakers squeaking against the concrete floor. "You're a hard girl to track down."
"I've been around." She turned back to her brushes, forcing her hands to move again, dipping them in the muddy water like she had something to do. Like she wasn't acutely aware of every step he took closer to her. "You're the one who disappeared."
"Had some things to handle."
"Things."
"People." He stopped right behind her. Close enough that she could feel the heat radiating off his body, smell the soap and sweat on his skin. "Business."
She set the brush down and turned around, crossing her arms over her chest. A defensive posture. She knew it, and she hated it, but she couldn't seem to stop herself.
"What do you want, Jay?"
He didn't answer. He just looked at her. That same look from the party, the one that made her feel like she was being dissected and devoured at the same time. His eyes traveled down her body, slow and deliberate, taking in every inch of her.
Tonight she was wearing a black crop top that showed off the snake tattoo curling up her ribs, a short plaid skirt over torn fishnets, and heavy boots that added two inches to her height. Her hair was pulled up in a messy bun, and there was a smear of blue paint on her cheek that she hadn't bothered to wipe off.
"You're a mess," he said.
"Gee, thanks."
"I like it." He reached out and caught the paint on her cheek with his thumb, rubbing it into her skin instead of wiping it away. His touch was rough, proprietary, like he had every right to touch her. "You look like you've been working hard."
"I have."
"On what?"
"None of your business."
His lips curved into a slow smile. "There it is. That mouth."
"What about it?"
"I haven't stopped thinking about it." He stepped closer, crowding her against the supply cabinet. The metal handle dug into her lower back, but she didn't move. Couldn't move. "Since the second you sassed me at that party. Every fucking day. Every fucking night."
Her heart was hammering so hard she was sure he could hear it. Her mouth was dry. Her hands were shaking.
"Jay..."
"Don't." He pressed a finger to her lips, silencing her. "Don't pretend you haven't been thinking about it too. I've seen the way you look at me. The way you've been avoiding me. You're scared."
"I'm not scared of anything."
"Bullshit." He leaned in, his mouth brushing against her ear. His breath was hot, and it made her shiver. "You're scared of what you want. Scared of what I'll do to you if you let me."
She should push him away. Should tell him to go fuck himself. Should do anything but stand there, trembling, her hands fisted at her sides, her whole body screaming for him to touch her.
But she couldn't. She wanted this. She'd wanted it for two weeks, longer if she was honest with herself. She'd wanted it since the second she'd seen him across the room at that party, tall and golden and smiling like he knew exactly what she was thinking.
It wasn't just his looks. It wasn't just the way his sweater stretched across his shoulders, the way his sweatpants hung from his hips, the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled. It was something underneath, something darker, something that called to the broken, hungry part of her that had learned to hide behind smeared lipstick and sharp smiles.
She was just so tired of pretending.
"You want the truth?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper.
He pulled back, his eyes finding hers. "Always."
She took a breath. Let it out. Let the words tumble out before she could stop them.
"I've been touching myself every night," she said. "Imagining you. Imagining you holding me down. Telling me what to do. Making me yours."
His pupils dilated. His jaw tightened. For a second, he looked like he was fighting something, some internal battle that she couldn't see.
Then he snapped.
His hand closed around her throat—not hard enough to hurt, just hard enough to remind her who was in control—and he was on her. His mouth crashed against hers, bruising and demanding. His tongue forced its way past her lips, tasting her, claiming her. His free hand grabbed her hip and yanked her against him, grinding his erection into her thigh.
She moaned into his mouth, her hands coming up to grip his hoodie, pulling him closer. He walked her backward until her knees hit the worktable, then he spun her around and bent her over it.
Her palms slapped against the cold wood, slipping on wet clay residue. She heard him behind her, his breath ragged, his hands fumbling with her skirt. The fabric ripped—she didn't care—and then his fingers were hooking into the waistband of her fishnets and yanking them down.
"Fuck," he breathed. "Look at that."
She knew what he was seeing. Black lace panties, already soaked through, clinging to her pussy lips. Her ass was bare, pale and round, and she could feel his gaze on it like a physical weight.
"Please," she whispered. "Please, Jay."
"Please what?"
"Please fuck me."
He laughed. Low and mean and fucking devastating.
"Not yet."
He stepped away, and she heard something clatter against the table. When he came back, his fingers were slick with something cold—linseed oil, she realized, from the jar she kept on the shelf—and he was pressing them against her entrance.
She gasped, her hips bucking against his hand. He pushed one finger inside, then two, stretching her, preparing her. The oil made everything slick and dirty, and she could smell it mixing with the scent of her own arousal.
"Fuck," she moaned. "Please."
"Please?" He crooked his fingers, hitting something inside her that made her see stars. "You beg so pretty, Grace. I bet you've been a good girl for everyone, haven't you? Pretending to be sweet. Pretending to be easy."
"I'm not—"
"You're not sweet?" He withdrew his fingers, leaving her empty and aching. "Maybe not. But you are mine."
She heard him spit—fucking spit—and then he was pushing inside her.
The stretch was instant and brutal. He was bigger than she remembered, thicker than her fingers, and he didn't stop until his hips were flush against her ass and she was biting down on her own hand to keep from screaming.
"You good?" he asked, his voice strained.
"Yeah. Yeah, fuck, keep going."
He pulled out and slammed back in.
The worktable lurched forward, scraping against the floor. Grace cried out, her nails digging into the wood, her whole body racked with pleasure. Jay didn't give her time to adjust. He fucked her with brutal, punishing strokes, each one deeper than the last, each one hitting that spot inside her that made her see white.
"You like that?" he grunted. "You like being fucked on your own worktable? Like being bent over like a dirty little whore?"
"Yes," she gasped. "Yes, fuck, yes."
He grabbed her hair with one hand, yanking her head back, and the other hand landed on her ass with a sharp crack.
She screamed.
He spanked her again. Then again. Each impact sent a jolt of pain and pleasure through her body, and she was sobbing now, tears streaming down her face, her whole world narrowed to the feeling of his cock inside her and his hand on her skin.
"I asked you a question," he said, spanking her again. "Do you like being my whore?"
"Yes," she sobbed. "Yes, I'm your whore. I'm yours. Please, Jay, please don't stop."
He didn't stop. He fucked her harder, faster, the sound of his hips slapping against her ass echoing off the walls. Her tits bounced with every thrust, her tattoo of a snake seeming to writhe as the muscles in her back clenched and released.
Then, suddenly, he pulled out.
She whined at the loss, but he was already moving. He grabbed her arms and yanked them behind her back, crossing her wrists, and she felt rough fabric wrapping around them—her apron. The one she'd painted in, the one stained with years of colors, and he used it to bind her, tight and unforgiving.
"Please," she begged. "Please, Jay, I need—"
"I know what you need." He pushed back inside her, and the angle changed. Deeper. Better. She screamed, her bound hands clenching into fists, her orgasm building like a tidal wave.
He reached around and found her clit, his fingers slick with her juices. He rubbed it in rough circles, matching the rhythm of his thrusts, and she was lost.
"Come for me," he growled. "Now."
She shattered.
Her orgasm ripped through her like a bomb, her whole body convulsing, her vision going white. She screamed his name, the sound raw and desperate, and he fucked her through it, never slowing, never stopping.
When she finally came down, she was limp and shaking, her cheek pressed to the table, sweat pooling around her face. Jay pulled out, and she heard the wet sound of his fist moving over his cock.
"Stay still," he ordered.
She did.
He came with a grunt, hot ropes of cum painting her lower back, splattering across her tattoo, dripping down onto her ruined panties and her fishnets and her thighs. He came for what felt like forever, and she lay there, trembling, marked, claimed in a way she'd never been claimed before.
When he was done, he leaned over her, his breath hot against her neck.
"Two weeks," he said. "That's how long I've wanted to do that. And it was worth every fucking second."
She turned her head, looking at him over her shoulder. Her eye makeup was ruined, mascara streaking down her cheeks, but she was smiling.
"Took you long enough."
He laughed and pressed a kiss to her shoulder.
"Yeah," he said. "It did."
He untied her wrists and helped her sit up, then grabbed a rag from the shelf to clean her off. His touches were gentler now, almost tender, and she found herself leaning into them, craving more.
"Same time tomorrow?" she asked.
He looked at her, and something shifted in his eyes. Something softer.
"I was thinking maybe we start with dinner first."
Her heart stuttered.
"Dinner?"
"Yeah. You know, food. Conversation. That thing people do before they tie each other up."
She laughed, though it came out shaky. "Are you asking me on a date, Jay?"
"Maybe." He tossed the rag aside and pulled her to her feet. "Depends on if you say yes."
She looked at him—really looked at him—and for the first time in a long time, she let herself hope.
"Okay," she said. "Dinner. Tomorrow."
He smiled, and it was different from the others. Warmer. Realer.
"Good," he said. "Now get dressed. I'm taking you home."
She reached for her skirt, then stopped.
"It's ripped," she said.
He shrugged. "I'll buy you a new one."
She rolled her eyes, but she was grinning.
"You're a menace."
"And you're mine."
He said it like it was simple. Like it was already decided.
And for once, Grace didn't argue.
She pulled on what was left of her clothes, grabbed her bag, and let him lead her out of the studio. The hallway was dark and quiet, and their footsteps echoed off the walls.
At the door, he stopped her.
"Hey."
She looked up at him.
"I meant it," he said. "You're mine. Not just for tonight. Not just for the sex. You're mine."
Her throat tightened.
"And if I say no?"
He stepped closer, crowding her against the doorframe. His hand came up to cup her jaw, tilting her face toward his.
"Then I'll change your mind."
He kissed her, softer this time, almost sweet.
And Grace knew, with absolute certainty, that he would.
She was already falling. And for the first time, she didn't want to catch herself.