Page 84 of Beautiful Savage
The audience is silent. No one even coughs. Every person in that theater is holding their breath, watching as his cock splits me open, as my body takes all of him and then some. I clutch the velvet, knuckles white, and force my face up. I want to see them. I want them to see me. The thrill is like a drug.
He pulls almost all the way out, leaving just the tip inside, then slams back in. Again. Again. The sound is obscene—wet, slapping, primal. My tits bounce with every thrust, the painted bougainvillea flowers smearing against his skin and the chaise. I can see in the reflection of a mirrored pillar to our right: the whole tableau, my body spread and trembling, his hands gripping my hips.
He leans forward, his chest flush to my back, and growls, "Look at them. They're watching me fuck you. Watching you take every inch. Do you like it?"
Yes," I gasp, and the word is a whimper, a confession. "Harder."
He laughs, low and vicious. "Beg for it."
"I want it," I say, louder now. "I want everyone to see how you ruin me."
He obliges. His pace becomes brutal, relentless, his cock pistoning in and out so fast I can't even keep my eyes open. I hear a moan from the balcony, almost a wail. There's a ripple through the crowd, a few illicit breaths and suppressed cries. Someone is openly masturbating in the back row, a man's arm moving in frantic jerks. In the front, two women are kissing, one of them sliding a hand under the other's dress.
Gunner's hand slides around my throat, not choking, just holding me in place. His other hand finds my clit and rubs in tight circles, cruel and precise. The pressure is overwhelming; I'm so close to coming I can't think. My body shakes with the need, with the desire to let go, but I want to make it last. I want everyone to see exactly how I come apart for him.
I'm so close, my pussy clenching around him, when he does something that changes everything. He shifts us around so we're side-on to the audience, so they can see him driving in and out of me, then he looks directly at them. Not a glance, but a sustained gaze that holds them while his cock drives into me.
"Watch her come," he tells them, his voice carrying through the room. "Watch what I do to her."
He leans forward and whispers, just for me, "Come for me. Now."
That's all it takes. I explode, my pussy spasming around him, my whole body convulsing with pleasure so sharp it's almost pain. I scream, not caring who hears. The sound echoes through the theater like a gunshot. My orgasm is endless, wave after wave crashing through me, each thrust drawing it out even longer.
He doesn't stop. He fucks me through it, prolonging the agony, the ecstasy, until I'm sobbing and pleading for mercy with every breath. He slows, finally, then pulls out and spins mearound. I fall back onto the chaise, legs spread, chest heaving, and he climbs on top of me, pinning my wrists above my head with one hand.
He lines up and plunges inside again, this time facing me, and the intimacy is almost worse than the violence. He holds my gaze, his eyes wild and soft at once, and I realize that he needs this as much as I do. He fucks me slow, deep, letting me feel every inch, every vein, every pulse of him. The audience fades away. There is only us.
He kisses me—hard, desperate, all teeth—and I taste blood and sweat and paint. His hand moves to my jaw, holding me still as he thrusts in, over and over, until he shudders and groans my name:
"Daphne."
He comes with a force that leaves me shaking, his cock pulsing inside me, filling me so full I feel it dripping out past him, pooling on the chaise. We stay like that, joined, both panting, his cock still twitching inside me. The paint between us is completely smeared now, our sweat and cum mixing with the colors. His hand cups my face with unexpected tenderness, thumb tracing my cheekbone while his cock softens inside me.
The lights begin their slow fade, and thunderous applause erupts through the room. We don't stand. Don't bow. Don't acknowledge them at all.
Gunner pulls me against his chest on the velvet chaise on the now-dark stage, both of us naked and painted and dripping with each other. His arms around me feel like the only home I need. Which is insane, given he kidnapped me mere weeks ago. But maybe home is just the place where someone sees all of you and doesn't look away.
The paint on our bodies has mixed into something new. Not his garden or Papa's watercolor anymore, but ours.
"You're mine," he says against my hair, his hand sliding between my legs to feel the mess he made.
The words feel like a beginning. Dangerous and irrevocable. Tomorrow, all of Miami's underworld will know what happened here tonight. The ballet teacher and her kidnapper, fucking their way into infamy. The Delgado empire's newest monsters, painted in flowers and cum and unashamed hunger.
His fingers trace through the wetness between my thighs, and I realize with dark satisfaction that this moment is everything I've been denied. Everything I've been told to hide.
"And you're perfect," he murmurs against my throat, and I feel his appreciation in every syllable.
The conservatory dismissed me for unprofessional conduct. Their polite way of saying I was too sexual, too hungry, too much. Pristine tried to make me small. But here, painted and held by the man who sees all of me, I'm finally exactly the right size. Big enough to scandalize. Big enough to terrify. Big enough to take everything this violent, beautiful world wants to give me.
We stay on the chaise as the room empties, as the lights dim to nothing, as Miami's underworld disperses into the night with our performance burned into their memories. Neither of us moves. Neither of us needs to.
We're exactly where we're supposed to be.
Epilogue—Adrian
“Mira, mira — no, you have tocommitto the lie.” I lean both elbows on the bar, grinning at Tomás, our newest busboy, nineteen and terrified and three weeks into the job. “When table six asks if the lobster is fresh, you do not say ‘I think so.’ You say —” I press a hand to my heart like a man wounded by the question. “‘Señora, it was swimming this morning and dreaming of you.’”
Tomás laughs so hard he nearly drops his tray. "That's a lie, though. It's frozen."
