The Art of Redemption (5 page)

Isabel

Isa
may have had a dream job in an art gallery, but her elation was tempered by a boss from hell who wouldn’t keep his hands off her. She sat staring at her hands as Mr. Greer circled around her like a vulture seeking its prey. His fingers pushed her hair aside and skimmed along the back of her neck sending shivers of loathing down her spine.
God, she hated when he touched her
.

Her brain was yelling at her to say or do something to put a stop to it, but as usual, sh
e just sat there like a dim-wit and took it. What would she say to him anyway without risking losing her job? A career that she loved? An occupation that afforded her the luxury of being around beautiful images painted by
real
artists? She had been putting up with his sexual inappropriateness for practically a year now and with each passing minute, he only got bolder with his advances. Now here he was, in her apartment. He could have any woman in the office, so why her? Why now? It certainly wasn’t because of her
sexual appeal
or looks. Most likely it had to do with the fact that he could bully and dominate her. And she fucking allowed it. Disgusted with herself and unable to take anymore, she rose from her love seat to demand he leave when he reached into a small bag he had brought along and pulled out a bottle of wine.

She eyed it dubiously but reached for it.
A drink would ease her nerves and it might even give her the courage to kick his ass out. Just one drink, though.
Only one,
she promised herself.

Disjointed sounds, images and
sensations came next. Mr. Greer standing over her as his pants slid down his slim hips, his rigid cock coming into view. The ripping sound of a condom wrapper being opened and the snap of rubber. Hot, needy hands squeezing her breasts and slipping inside her panties. His fingers slick with her juices running across her lips. Her clothing being removed piece by piece. A raspy tongue felt on her cheek. A nibble on her neck. A tweak of her nipples and then a mouth in places that hadn’t experienced male attention in almost a year.

God, no
.

She thrashed and tried to push him away, but her limbs
were too thick and heavy. She opened her mouth to voice her objections, but her vocal chords refused to cooperate.

“You taste so good, Isabel,” she vaguely heard from between her legs, but the light was too bright in her eyes and her vision
too bleary to tell if what was happening was real or imagined.

Please let this be a horrible dream…

Hands on her knees pushing her legs apart. Penetration. Grunting. Her body being flipped over and manipulated into uncomfortable positions. A sheen of sweat across Greer’s forehead as he pinned her below the weight of his firm body. His lips curled into a satisfied sneer.

The room around her began to spin and h
er dinner and alcohol rumbled in her belly and threatened to spill out of her. When he draped her legs over his shoulders and pushed deeply into her, she gagged.

Struggling to stay lucid,
she combated the booze and heard herself pleading with Greer when he hit her cervix. Instead of showing her mercy, she felt more pressure between her legs and heard wet sounds.

“I knew this pussy was worth the wait...
I know you want it… stop begging me…”

The
words spoken by him in his English accent kept seeping into her semi-conscious reality but she couldn’t make sense of them.

Why did she drink so damned much
?

When she awoke eight hours later,
she was naked on her couch and her clothes scattered on the floor next to her. The smell of sex and Mr. Greer’s aftershave still lingered in the air and she bolted to the bathroom where she vomited violently. She dry heaved repeatedly until there was nothing left in her stomach and her abdominal muscles ached. She tried to remember the details of what had happened the night before, but it was all a fuzzy memory.

His dick inside of her
. That’s all she could recollect. That’s all she wanted to recall. To think about any of the other ghastly details was too much for her to handle.

Dragging herself to the shower, she washed o
ff all traces of the asshole who had taken advantage of her and began to sob when the realization of what had happened sunk in. She had betrayed her own body by allowing that man inside her home, getting drunk and then allowing him to have his way with her, and her body had betrayed her by giving Greer the impression that she was aroused by his hands on her.

You’re so wet for me, Isa
…

Greer’s statement sent another wave of nausea crashing over her.
With the cool water cascading down her used body, anger raked over her like hot coals. At that moment, she hated herself. If she hadn’t drank so much this never would’ve happened. Yes, Greer was culpable for his actions, but in her eyes, she was ultimately the one to blame. She knew better than to drink. She could’ve fought him harder. Did she really say
no
? Did that word ever actually come out of her drunken mouth? She had no idea. She was too damned inebriated to remember.

Her father had been right about her all along. She was nothing but an ign
orant little slut who didn’t deserve love.

***

Dylan

With his heart pounding
in his chest and his pulse hammering in his stiff cock, Dylan circled methodically and slowly around the thin, leggy, chestnut-colored haired woman hanging from the suspension rig in front of him. As he brought the cat up midair, he slowed his breathing and widened his stance. A shiver of arousal crept up his spine and hardened his cock when, in one swift movement, he brought the leather down across her stomach. The sight of her welted flesh and the pained shriek that followed sent power coursing through his veins. Her eyes grew liquid and her body writhed against the restraints. It felt so good to be in control again… The sound of chains jangling over her head lulled him into relaxation.

Right he
re… in this moment… he owned this woman. It made no difference who she was, just that she belonged to him -
all of her;
mind, body and soul. With a series of deliberate strokes, he snapped the cat on her upper thighs and then swept the cowhide against her clit in one short burst of fury. With her eyes closed tightly, she screamed his name and he felt like a God.

Damn,
he had missed this
…

The cool sensation of pre
-come wet the front of his pants and he gripped his shaft, anxious to plunge balls deep into her tight ass.

“Please, Sir,
I want that big cock of yours in my mouth,” he heard her begging. “Give me more pain…
please…”

Something off to his right broke his concentration
. He tried to ignore the dull buzzing as he began to unshackle the woman in preparation of giving her what they both wanted, but it only got louder.

Buzz
.

“Don’
t leave me, Sir. I want you to fuck my mouth…”

BUZZ.

“I need the pain that you give me…”

Hell yes
, he wanted to fuck her mouth and to feel the tightness of her throat around his cock, but to give her more pain?
Fuck yes
. That’s what he craved the most.

Chirp.

Dylan pried his eyes open. His sweet moment of ecstasy had only been a dream. Glancing at the side table, his cell phone lit up with a message and Sawyer’s name flashed across the screen.

Where was he?
His eyes scanned the unfamiliar darkened room and when he sat up, he felt the warmth of another body next to him and smelled perfume.
Shit
. He must have unintentionally dozed off after sex with…
what the hell was her name?
He flipped on the lamp and pushed her dark hair away from her face. Carrie? No.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Something that begins with the letter C.

He
threw the bed sheet aside, slipped out of bed and grabbed his clothes that were strewn on the floor. Just like his dream, it made no fucking difference what the woman’s name was. He had gotten what he wanted from her. As he dressed, he shook his head in disappointment. No, he hadn’t
really
gotten what he wanted from her. He had simply
gotten off.

As he dressed quietly, he eyed her nude body once again. It was no wonder he couldn’t remember her name; she looked just like all the rest.
Hell, she even fucked just like all the rest. Boring, Vanilla fucks… every single God damned one of them and all of them with no sense of adventure and without a kinky bone in their fit, toned bodies.

Cassie.
That’s her name. Just another fucking waste of pussy and another woman to file away with all the rest.

Isabel

If it wasn’t for her love of all things art related, Isabel would’ve quit immediately after her one-night mistake with Greer. Instead she was being further degraded on a daily basis by his lewd comments and undressing of her with his eyes. As if it wasn’t bad enough that she had to always look over her shoulder for Greer, Monica, his crony and event coordinator, had it out for her, too. Holy royal bitchiness, that woman needed a good ass whooping. If only Isa had a set of balls, she would do it, too.

Another charity gallery show
was scheduled for the following night and she kept herself busy arranging the various paintings of local artists throughout the gallery floor. As she delicately hung each one with love, her fingers itched to touch the texture of the paint on the canvas, but she knew better. These were prized possessions, the likes of which she was lucky to even be allowed to gaze upon. What she wouldn’t give to have as much talent as anyone of the artists who had painted them. A coworker joined her on the floor and slipped the guest list into her hand.

When she read
a few of the names, she was in awe. Monica may have been a bitch, but she sure knew how to put on a good show. Art collectors from all over the U.S. would be in attendance, including a few local ones. Resentment quickly washed away her excitement. She had begged Monica to allow her to be involved in some small way with the festivities during the show, but she had refused. It wasn’t because they didn’t need the help, either. It was out of spitefulness on Monica’s part because she had eyes for Greer.

When she was done helping out, she had just begun her next task
at her desk when she felt Greer’s eyes on her. Looking up from her paperwork, he was standing directly in front of her with his head cocked to one side as he stared at her. Sexual innuendo was oozing off of him as he licked his lips and winked at her.

Str
oking his hand over his square, stubbled jawline, he tipped his head back and glared down at her. His mouth parted as if to speak, but Monica suddenly appeared and interrupted him.

Once home, she readied for a shower when she heard the door buzzer notifying her that a visitor was calling. Her stomach churned.
The only visitor she ever received was Greer. She stared at the intercom, refusing to answer it. She didn’t want or need his shit tonight. The buzzer chimed two more times before going silent. Just as she let out a sigh of relief, a knock on her door startled her. It occurred to her that he must’ve buzzed all the apartments until he was let in. Without making a sound, she stood near the door. If she was quiet enough, maybe he would just leave.

“I know you’re home, Ms. Ibanez,” she heard from the other side of the door.

Only wearing a towel, she reached for her robe and quickly covered herself before allowing him in. When he pushed past her, the smell of his repugnant cologne floated into the room.

“
We had an unexpected sale today,” he paused to smile lewdly at her.

Taking one step, he reached his hand out and trailed a finger down the smooth line of her jaw. Repulsed by his touch, she jerked away from him. He chuckled and turned his body away.

“I want to borrow a few of your paintings to fill the blank space in the green room. I’m here to pick them up.”

Horrified
and panic stricken, she violently shook her head. “No, you can’t. Those paintings aren’t meant for anyone’s eyes but my own,” she blared as she tightened the strings around her waist.

Greer spun on his heel to face her. His
dark eyebrows lowered and the lines around his mouth deepened. “I
what
? I
can’t?
Did you really just say that to your boss?” His nearly six-foot frame, broad shoulders and rugged European face screamed beware and she quickly backed away. “Anyway,” he gave a careless shrug as he moved to her bed and reached for a painting. “I wasn’t asking.” With his back turned to her, he casually glanced over his shoulder. The edge of his mouth curled into a sardonic grin and he let out a short breathy laugh. “I
can’t.
Silly little American Girl. I can do whatever the fuck I want.”

Isa clenched her hands
into fists until her knuckles blanched.
Damn him
. Anger consumed her at his assumption that he could do whatever the hell he wanted. Infuriated, she strode toward him, ready to lunge at him and rip him a new asshole for touching her belongings.

Gathering her courage, she put her hand over his just as he loosened the
second piece of art from the wall. “You’re
not
taking those.”

A muscle in his jaw twitched.
“How thick are you?” he belted out. “Do you want me to tell everyone at work how you got drunk and fucked your boss or would you rather just lose your job altogether?”

Isa gasped out and raised her hand, ready to slap his
arrogant mouth for saying such a repulsive thing.

“Do it and see what happens,” he growled.

His glacial stare froze Isa in her spot and her hand dropped to her side.
What the hell had gotten into her?

With three of her paint
ings in his arms, Greer ambled to the door and turned the knob. Just as the door creaked open, he shot her an aggravated look over his shoulder. “If you weren’t being such a little bitch I wouldn’t have had to get shitty with you. I just don’t understand why you’re making such a big deal about this. It’s not like anyone will give them a second glance, anyway. You’ll get your precious fucking paintings back in a few days. Now cheer the hell up and maybe I’ll dick you again later.”

Yuck.

Isa whipped her head around and glared at him. “Just get out,” she whispered angrily under her breath.

She watched with tears in her eyes as
the door closed behind him. When he was gone, she stared out the window and down at the lonely street and watched as he loaded three pieces of the puzzle to her shattered soul into the back of his car. Trying to get her raging emotions under control, she could feel the tears building at the back of her eyes. It was her own damn fault that Greer thought he could do anything he wanted with her. She should’ve gone through with her initial reaction to his vile statement and slapped him. He deserved far worse than that after what he did and said to her.

If only the same strong girl within her would make a
n appearance in the real world, her life might be easier. Okay, maybe not
easier,
but she sure as hell would be happier for it. He may have been a complete asshole, but he was right about one thing: no one in their right minds would want to look at her wretched paintings. My, God, the subject matter alone was enough to put anyone off.

Again, she rebuked the thought. They weren’t wretched and even if they weren’t worth a lot monetarily, they were the only thing of real value that she owned. When she felt alone or afraid, her art was the only thing that gave her solace. Her creativity was the only outlet she had to express her inner desires.
It had saved her sanity. Her ability to put down on canvas what was in her mind was the only redeeming quality she had gained from the cruel man who was her father and the woman who had abandoned her. So what if those images were considered taboo or erotic? They belonged to her. But, damn it, those paintings were private. She didn’t want stranger’s eyes looking them over, assessing and critiquing them.

Sinking onto her bed, she lay back and stared up
at the empty wall above her before turning onto her side and hugging her knees to her chest. The tears that were lingering in the corners of her eyes streamed down her cheeks and she let out a pitiful sob. She was alone and now her paintings were gone. Despair tore away at her heart and she hid her face in her pillow. No one would ever love her and no one would ever understand what her artwork meant to her.
No one.

***

Dylan

With an
irritated glance in the mirror, Dylan eyed his appearance. Running his fingers through his thick, dark hair, he pushed it away from his eyes and cursed under his breath. He was in need of a woman’s company badly, but having been too busy with work, he didn’t have the forethought to invite anyone to the charity art show he was getting ready to attend.

He reached into his pocket and touched the invitation. He hoped this show would be better than the last two he had attended.

The drive to the show was long and boring, and his mood was glum when he arrived. He waited in his car, contemplating whether or not to go inside. Outside his car, he could hear the muffled sounds of the excited voices as other art collectors and local celebrities arrived, the familiar noise rasping against his fragile nerves. As he sat watching from his car, he could see the usual pretentious assholes milling around inside. The flash of a camera went off on the red carpet only a few feet away as he put his car into drive to leave. Just as he turned the wheel to pull out into traffic, the parking attendant approached him.

Fuck it
. He didn’t have anything better to do with his time anyway.

He stepped foot
inside the gallery, the brightness of the room highlighting the colorful images nearly blinded him with all their cheerful hideousness. As he checked his watch, he sighed with bitter resentment at what his life had become.
Dull.
In every possible fucking way. The women he encountered - unexciting and lifeless; the sex he had - tedious and dreary. Even the one thing other than BDSM that used to bring him pleasure had become lackluster
– his beloved art.

Only his dreams brought him any kind of joy. There, he could be the man he once was; Dominant; powerful;
God-like.
While he was sleeping, he was still King of his Domain. Only the occasional reappearance of
her
in his dreams jacked with his sleepy calm. Rubbing his palm over the back of his neck, he clenched his teeth.
Erica fucking Lawson.

His
promising life as a Dom had cruelly been struck down by the dreaded
vanilla syndrome
and there seemed to be no cure for it in sight.
None whatso-fucking-ever.

And so their story begins…