I’m on top, but he’s still in control, holding my hips where he wants them, pumping up into me. As he does, he licks his way along my neck, bites the sensitive skin right where it meets my shoulder. “I had a feeling you’d be this dirty, Pamona. So hungry for my cock…”
I groan softly in response and tighten my grip on him, arching my back to ride him faster. He thrusts up into me harder, keeping up a steady, building rhythm.
“Remember the first time you watched me come?” he murmurs. “I could tell you wanted me, even then.”
I bite my lip. I won’t admit it. But it doesn’t matter.
He already knows.
His smile widens, and he catches my mouth in a quick, possessive kiss. “Was it worth the wait?” he asks, his breath hot on my face.
“Yes,” I gasp, because what else can I say when he’s still driving up into me.
“Good.” He laughs softly. He searches my gaze again for a moment. “Because I really love watching you come.”
That’s when he reaches between us and presses his thumb to my clit. Rubs along it in quick, sharp circles as he continues to fuck me. I scream his name when I my orgasm crashes over me, and he just keeps fucking me, deeper and harder with each thrust, until he grips my hips painfully hard in both hands and groans with his own release, a deep, animal sound, low in his throat.
When he finishes, I lean in to kiss him softly, the scent of sex heavy in the air between us. “I like watching you, too,” I admit in a whisper, and he laughs softly, but there’s something in his eyes when they catch mine. There’s a gap in the wall he’s raised between us.
We pad from the study into the shower together, and we take turns lathering one another with soap. I’m rubbing his back, and I can see that he’s starting to grow hard again, when I remember why I came looking for him in the first place. He turns around to take his turn soaping my back, and I turn away from him, facing the showerhead, watching the water stream down the wall. It’s only because I can’t see his face that I summon up the courage to ask.
“Why did you frame my sketch?” I ask.
His hands still against my back for a moment. They’re still touching me, resting against the blades of my shoulders, but he doesn’t move for a long time.
“One of the maids dropped it when I bumped into her this morning,” I add. “She seemed like she didn’t want me to see it; I felt bad.”
“Don’t,” he says. But that’s all the answer I get.
I look over my shoulder at last, and find a distant, lost expression in his eyes. He looks… sad. Extremely so.
I turn fully around and reach up to touch his chest gently. Lean in to kiss his neck softly. “What happened to you?” I ask softly, face buried in the crook of his neck. He shakes his head, but I realize even as I ask it that it’s the wrong question. “What happened to your mother?”
He closes his eyes. Leans back against the shower wall. But he doesn’t leave. When he opens his eyes again, they’re red with the effort of holding in his emotions. “She was the one who taught me how to draw,” he says. “She loved art; she loved all beautiful things… She was too good for this world.” He shakes his head, lips clamped into a thin line. The hurt in his eyes slowly blossoms into anger. Rage like I’ve never seen before. “Someone hurt her when I was young. Attacked her. Raped her violently and repeatedly. He ruined her, and she couldn’t stand knowing it. She killed herself a few months after.”
He.
Suddenly, it all makes sense. Farrow’s determination to destroy my father in the most public way possible. The video he wants me to record. The reason he chose this as his form of revenge.
My stomach hardens into a solid knot, and my vision swims before my eyes.
I knew my father was into some shady dealings. I knew he wasn’t always a nice person. But business problems were one thing. This?
I come back to myself and realize I’m shaking my head. Whispering no, over and over again. Farrow has his hands around my arms, holding me in place, but I just keep shaking. “No,” I say, louder. “He couldn’t…” But the words die on my lips. Because deep down, I know he could.