Chapter 32: The Gallery Aftermath
The elevator rose in a silent, golden glide. Elise leaned against Julian’s side, her fingers curled in the fabric of his coat, her head light. The scent of him, of them, mingled with the elevator’s filtered air. She felt stretched, used, profoundly settled. A part of her mind, the graduate student who wrote papers on Renaissance perspective, watched from a distance, horrified. The rest of her was a warm, liquid puddle of devotion.
“Did you like meeting Chloe?” Julian asked, his voice casual.
“She was… sharp,” Elise murmured, nuzzling his arm.
“Sharp is good. Sharp makes an impression. Her piece will be in next Sunday’s culture section. A profile of my methods. My new directions.” He stroked her hair. “You’ll be in it.”
The elevator doors opened directly into his penthouse. Evening sun poured through floor-to-ceiling windows, painting the polished marble floors and minimalist furnishings in tones of molten gold. The gallery’s cold silence was replaced by a radiant, expansive quiet. The air here was warm, scented with sandalwood and the faint, dry tang of very old paper.
In the dining area, a table of reclaimed oak was set with severe elegance: white porcelain, heavy silver, a single orchid in a crystal vase. Two places. Steam rose gently from covered dishes.
“Daddy’s hungry,” he said, shrugging off his coat. “And his girl needs to keep her strength up.”
He led her to the table, but instead of pulling out a chair for her, he sat in the tall, upholstered chair at the head. He patted his thigh. “Here.”
A giddy, nervous laugh bubbled out of her. She was still sore, sensitive. The evidence of what they’d done was drying on her skin. She climbed onto his lap, her back to the table, facing him. The cashmere dress rode up. The cool air of the penthouse kissed her bare thighs, the juncture where she was swollen and tender.
He reached for a silver dome, lifting it to reveal seared scallops on a bed of pea puree. He picked up a fork, speared a piece, and brought it to her lips. “Open.”
She obeyed, the sweet, briney flavor bursting on her tongue. As she chewed, his free hand slid up her thigh, underneath her dress, his fingers finding the wet, bruised heat of her. She jerked, a muffled moan escaping.
“Shhh,” he crooned, feeding her another morsel. His fingers parted her folds, tracing her slickness, sliding through the mix of their fluids. “My perfect girl. So messy. So obedient. Your cunt is still weeping for me, isn’t it?”
She nodded, her mouth full, her eyes wide. He fed her, bite by exquisite bite, while his fingers played idly in her slit, rubbing her clit in slow, knowing circles that made her hips twitch. Between bites, he whispered.
“You came on my cock in a public gallery. You let a stranger see your collar. You are the most beautiful project I have ever undertaken.”
His other hand worked at his trousers, the sound of the zipper loud in the sun-drenched room. He freed himself, his cock already hard again, nudging against her. He shifted her forward, the head pressing against her entrance. She was so wet, so open, it slid in with a single, sinking pressure.
“Oh, god,” she gasped, her head falling back.
“Eat,” he commanded softly, bringing another forkful to her lips.
She took it, chewing automatically as he lifted her slightly by the hips and then lowered her again, seating her fully on him. The fullness was shocking, a deep, claiming stretch. He began to move her, a slow, rolling undulation of her body on his, guided by his hands on her waist. The pace was languid, almost lazy. He continued to feed her. Scallop. Puree. A sip of crisp, cold white wine from his own glass, held to her lips.
“That’s it,” he murmured, his own breath starting to hitch. “Ride Daddy’s cock while he takes care of you. Such a good, hungry little slut. Taking my cum and taking your dinner. Both holes fulfilling their purpose.”
The obscenity, spoken in that calm, cultured voice in this temple of wealth, undid her. Her orgasm began as a low, deep tremble, a building pressure that had less to do with friction and everything to do with the sheer, degrading perfection of the scene. He felt it, his fingers digging into her hips.
“Come on, baby. Squeeze that greedy cunt. Milk me right here at the dinner table.”
His words tipped her over. She came with a shattered cry, her body convulsing around him, her inner muscles fluttering and clutching at his length in frantic, rhythmic pulses. She shook, dropping her forehead to his shoulder, her mouth open against the fine linen of his shirt.
He held her through it, his own movements stilling, letting her frantic body pull at him. Then, with a low, guttural groan, he thrust up into her, once, twice, hard and deep, and spilled. She felt the hot, sudden rush inside her, another claiming.
For a long moment, they stayed like that, joined, breathing in the dusk light. He gently maneuvered her off him, settling her back on his lap. He reached for his wine glass again, took a slow sip, his other hand possessively cupping her between her legs, keeping his seed inside her.
“Good girl,” he said, his voice relaxed, satisfied. He nudged the plate closer with his elbow. “Now clean your plate.”
Weak-limbed and dreamy, she picked up the fork herself. She ate the remaining food, every bite tasting of salt and surrender. He watched her, sipping his wine, his expression one of deep, satisfied contemplation.
When she was done, he lifted her, carrying her from the table toward the master suite. The setting sun painted the bedroom in fiery stripes. He laid her on the bed, on her back, and pushed her dress up to her waist. He looked at her, his gaze clinical and hungry. She was splayed, used, glistening.
“Stay,” he said. He walked into the en suite bathroom, returning with a small, soft towel. He knelt between her legs and cleaned her with a tenderness that felt more intimate than anything that had come before. He wiped his cum from her thighs, her curls, her swollen flesh.
“The article will run with a photo,” he said, as if continuing a conversation. “Chloe’s photographer will come tomorrow. I want you to wear the black velvet dress. The one with the high neck and the long sleeves. It covers everything. It says ‘innocent.’” He traced the line of her collar bone. “Only we will know what’s underneath. What you really are.”
He stretched out beside her, pulling her into the curve of his body. The city lights began to sparkle beyond the windows. Her body ached in a dozen delicious ways. Her mind was quiet, a blank canvas awaiting his next brushstroke.
“Sleep, Elise,” he whispered into her hair. “Tomorrow, we make it official.”