Page 83 of Beautiful Savage
By the time his shirt is open to the waist, I'm shaking with anticipation. My nipples are hard enough to throb in the cool theater air, and the crotch of my leotard is soaked, the fabric darkening visibly the lower his hands travel.
His abs flex as he shrugs the shirt from his shoulders, letting it fall to the stage floor.
The audience inhales again, sharper this time. Hundreds of people seeing what makes me soak through my underwear every night. The scars, the ink, the massive body built for violence that knows exactly how to make me scream.
His body is at odds with itself: built for violence, yet now moving with almost balletic grace as he circles me, hands never leaving my body for more than a second.
He guides me toward the plum-red chaise with a flat palm against my lower back. My knees nearly buckle with every step. Every time I catch sight of the audience—an ocean of eyes, glittering with hunger and jealousy—I get another spike of arousal. Some are watching with pure lust, some with envy, a handful with the disgust of people who think themselves above this. But no one is looking away. No one even blinks.
He spins me at the last second, so I land on the chaise facing away from him, spine arched like a bow. The velvet is dry against my bare thighs, a sharp relief from the swelter of lights and my own fevered skin. I can feel the paint drying on my body, the slight tug of pigment every time my ribs expand with breath. The colors look obscene under the spotlights, stranger than any bruise, more permanent.
Gunner stands behind me, hands braced on my shoulders, and then he slides down to one knee, so he's level with the small of my back. I don't know if he's doing it for the audience or for himself, but I feel a pulse of possessive pleasure as he brings his face close to my skin, almost but not quite kissing it.
In one movement he stands again and starts with my hair, shifting it to one side to bare my shoulder. His lips graze the exposed skin, careful of the paint, but still leaving a ghost of warmth where his mouth travels. Then lower, the tip of his tongue tracing the outline of my shoulder blade, following the painted petals. The audience is silent. Not even a cough or whisper. The rustle of Gunner's breath and the low hum of the house lights are the only sounds.
He takes my right arm and lifts it with the gentleness of a man who knows how easily a body can be bruised. He kisses the inside of my elbow, then lower, down to the wrist. I realizehe's showcasing the art—the way it curves around the bicep, the details, the hyperreal wetness of each painted bloom. He wants them to see it, to see me. To see what he's made and what he's about to destroy.
He leans in closer, mouth at my ear, and whispers, "Beautiful. So fucking beautiful. You have no idea what you do to me."
His words are quiet, but the front row can probably hear.
His hands return to my waist, thumbs digging into the seams of the leotard. He lifts me slightly, just enough to make my legs tremble, and pulls me back against his body so I can feel the full length of his cock pressed to my lower spine. He grinds up, slow, deliberate, once, twice, and I almost forget where I am. The only thing anchoring me is the knowledge that hundreds of people are watching, and that I want them to see the way I come apart for him.
I look out across the audience and lock eyes with a middle-aged woman in a green silk dress, the kind that says she's come here for the thrill of the forbidden. She's biting the inside of her lip, one hand gripping the stem of her wine glass, the other tracing lazy circles on her own thigh. She doesn't flinch away from my gaze. I hold it, daring her to look away, and then Gunner slides his hand between my thighs, fingers pressing hard against the soaked fabric, and I gasp so loud the woman's lips part in shock.
The sounds from the crowd shift, a wave of collective arousal and envy and reckless, animal thrill. Gunner's right hand moves to my chest, cupping both breasts at once. His thumbs draw slow, brutal circles over the painted blooms and the rigid peaks beneath. Every touch is both a caress and a blunt-force claim.
He lets go long enough to reach for the handprint on my thigh. I know what he's doing before he does it. He brings his fingers to his mouth and sucks the paint from them, eyes neverleaving mine. The audience shudders as one. I can hear the collective intake of breath, the exhale when he finally licks his hand clean.
He moves behind me again, hands framing my ribcage. I feel the warmth of his lips at my nape, the graze of his teeth as he nips at the delicate skin there. His erection pushes so hard against my ass it almost hurts, and I push back in a way that's more plea than invitation.
He speaks again, voice hoarse but perfectly audible: "You want them to see you, don't you? You want them to see how wet you are for me?"
I nod, unable to trust myself to speak.
He slides the leotard down my arms, freeing them, then moves to the front of the chaise and kneels between my knees, spreading them wide so the leotard pulls taut against my cunt. The wet patch is a dark, obscene stain, the kind that would have gotten me expelled all over again, only now I want everyone to see it. He runs both hands up my legs, then hooks his thumbs in the sides of the leotard. The movement is slow, almost ritualistic. As he peels it down, the fabric drags painfully over my nipples, which are so hard they ache.
The room is so silent you can hear the fabric whisper as it moves over my skin. He takes his time, never looking away from my face, until the leotard is at my waist, then my hips. I lift my hips so he can work it free, spreading my legs slightly so the front row gets a clear view of my dripping pussy. The bougainvillea glows on my skin, but all I can think about is how empty I feel without him inside me.
He leaves the leotard on the floor, a blue puddle on the velvet, and for a second Gunner's hands are the only thing keeping me from floating away.
I feel something shift in me—an ancient, animal part that's been waiting for this. I want to ruin him, to be ruined by him. To leave a mark that won't wash off.
He stands, looming over me, and gestures with one hand for me to turn. I do, slowly, so the audience sees my ass pointed in the air, sees my pussy quivering with need.
"Good girl," he says. "Now come and free my cock."
I stand up and reach for him. I drag my nails down his abs—slow enough to leave faint pink lines—but his gaze never leaves my face. He's daring me, taunting me, and I rise to it. I cup his cock through his pants, his entire body tensing at the contact. I can feel the shape of him—thick, iron-hard, the fabric already darkened by a wet spot at the head. I glance out at the first row. The woman in the green dress is breathless, lips parted, her wine glass abandoned. Next to her, a man in a navy blazer is so hard he's palming himself through his trousers and doesn't care who sees.
I drop to my knees. There is a scrape of velvet and a collective intake of breath from the crowd. I want them to see me worship him, to see what it looks like to be consumed by need. I make a show of it: my hands bunching at his waistband, my lips brushing against the bulge before I pop each button, one by one, with my teeth. His cock surges under my touch, desperate to be freed. Under the lights, I can smell his skin—clean, but with an animal undertone that is all Gunner, all power. I nuzzle my nose along the length of him through the fabric, then finally, finally, I tug his trousers down and his cock springs free, monstrous and beautiful, the tip already glossy with precum.
Someone in the audience actually gasps. He's massive, and every inch of him is going to be inside me while they watch. I wrap my fist around him, pumping once, twice. He's so thick I can barely get my fingers to meet. I look up at him, at his face—the mask of dominance is slipping, replaced by a naked, franticneed. I lick a stripe up the shaft, then swirl my tongue over the head, collecting the salty slickness there. He nearly doubles over, swallowing a groan.
"Is this what you wanted them to see?" I say, loud enough to carry. "How much you need me?"
He grits his teeth, jaw clenching. "Get up here. Turn around. Show everyone how you want it."
I stand and do as he says, moving back to the chaise. My thighs are slick with my own need, and I know anyone close enough can see it. I bend over the arm of the chaise, ass arched high, legs spread, pussy glistening in the stage lights. I don't care how obscene I look. That's the point. That's the art of it. Gunner comes up behind me, cock in hand, and lines himself up. He's not gentle. The head pushes at my entrance, just the tip, then he slams in so deep and hard I nearly scream.
