“Who taught you?” I ask, before I take a bite of my own sandwich.
He doesn’t answer, digging into his meal instead.
I finish chewing first, watch him. But he just takes a long sip of tea, and continues to eat. Guess he’s done being talkative. I shrug and lean back in my chair, bored after two days without anyone to talk to. “My mother taught me,” I say, to break the ice.
He sits up straighter. Casts me a strange sideways look. Takes another long drink of tea. “I didn’t know that,” he says finally.
“There’s a lot you don’t know about me, I’d wager,” I reply.
“I knew you were going to study art. I just didn’t know why you got into it in the first place.”
I narrow my eyes. “Great. So not only did you buy my virginity, but you stalked me before doing it. Why am I surprised?”
But instead of responding angrily, he passes me the sketchbook. “Draw something for me?”
It’s a request. A simple one. But it’s the first time he’s ever asked me to do anything rather than demanding. So I accept the pencil he passes me and flip to a blank page, setting aside my half-finished sandwich.
I start to draw the same thing he’d been drawing—the flowers. My style is more fluid than his, less exact to reality. He stands and leans over my shoulder, watching as I draw. I’m just starting on the first rose, when he touches my shoulder lightly. I inhale sharply, pausing. Then I keep drawing.
He trails that hand up the side of my neck, then runs his fingers through my hair, gently, almost a caress. I shiver and nearly draw a line straight through the rose.
“You’re not making this easy,” I point out.
“It’s not my problem you find me so distracting,” he replies, that ever-present smirk in his tone.
I try to ignore him as best I can and keep drawing, but soon, his hand is tracing along the neckline of my dress. Dipping beneath it to curve over my lacy bra. His warm palm cups my breast and he squeezes gently. He circles his fingers around my breast, closer and closer to my nipple, which hardens at his touch. It’s impossible to think, to catch my breath with the way he’s touching me. He pinches my nipple between his thumb and forefinger, rolling it back and forth, and spikes of pleasure build in my belly, rocketing along my spine.
I can’t help it—I arch my back, curling upward into his touch, pressing against his hand. His other hand slides down to caress my other breast, and I part my lips, head falling back as my eyes drift closed. I moan softly, and…
That’s when a loud clatter interrupts us. I jolt upright, forced back to the present, to remembering where I am—and who I’m with.
The sketchbook has fallen from my lap, the pencil clattering across the garden stones beside it.
But Farrow is relentless. He leans in and kisses the side of my neck, his hands still tracing my breasts. “Tell me you want more, Pamona. It’s okay to give in.”
I grit my teeth, clamp my lips tight. But his hands feel so good, tugging gently on my nipples now, little spikes of pleasure jolting along my body, and his tongue is trailing along my neck, tracing the lines of my muscles, his teeth nipping at my skin, and I can’t help it.
He’s right. “I want more,” I whisper.
I can feel him smile against my neck. “Do you want me to repeat what happened the other night? Do you want me to make you come again?”
I swallow hard. This is a test, I know it is. But I’m too electrified now, my pussy clenching tight, dampness spreading between my thighs. “Yes,” I murmur, half ashamed and half excited by the answer. By giving in.
He doesn’t waste any time. The moment the word leaves my mouth, he’s in front of me, pushing my knees apart. He kneels between them and shoves my flimsy skirt up around my hips. I cast a nervous glance over his shoulder, around the garden, but none of the servants are anywhere in sight. And I doubt he would stop even if they were—he’s already pulling my panties down, tossing them aside as he presses his nose between my legs, the stubble on his cheeks scraping my sensitive inner thighs, making me gasp and tense.
Before he even touches me, he trails a finger along my slit, feeling the moisture there. “It won’t be long before you’re begging for my cock, Pamona.”