There Are No Saints (Sinners Duet #1)(42)

I’m engulfed in jealousy. Inflamed with it. It’s a bonfire all around me, and I’m a heretic tied to the stake, burning and burning and burning.

That mouth belongs around my cock. Those slate-gray eyes should be looking up at me.

Despite my fury, despite my raging jealousy, my own cock is stiffening inside my trousers. It jabs painfully against my zipper, demanding to be released.

I can’t stop watching.

Mara stands and the guy swoops her up, lowering her down on his wet, shining cock. She wraps her arms around his neck, riding up and down on him, making her little tits bounce.

She fucks like a demon, biting his lower lip, clawing his back with her nails.

The guy looks like he’s died and gone to heaven. He’s doing his best to keep up with her, sweating, arms shaking, fucking her as hard as she demands. He fucks her against the wall, against the windows, the glass steaming up behind them, their bodies leaving a vacant silhouette when they pull away again.

They knock over one of the open canisters of paint, spilling violet across my hardwood floors. I hear the guy swear and apologize, but Mara just laughs. She places her palms flat on the paint, then smears them across his chest. Now he’s laughing too, dipping his hands in two more canisters, printing coral and chocolate handprints on her breasts.

They kiss again, bumping the canvas off its easel so it falls flat on the floor.

The guy lays down in the spilled paint and Mara mounts him. He smears more paint up and down her naked body while she rides him.

The sight of Mara’s body streaked in citron, scarlet, and sienna is more than I can stand. I rip down my zipper, taking my throbbing cock in my hand. I start pumping up and down, so rough that I’m almost ripping skin off the shaft. I’ve never been so angry. Or so aroused.

They’re rolling around in the paint until they hardly have an inch of bare skin left. They roll over the canvas, they fuck on top of it. He spoons her on it, fucking her from behind.

Mara climbs on top again and now she’s riding him harder and harder, charging down the raceway to the finish line. Her breasts are bouncing, her hair flying, her face flushed and sweating.

Right then, right as she’s about to cum, she looks directly at the camera. She stares at me like she’s looking in my eyes. Her expression is wild and defiant.

In that moment I realize this whole thing has been a performance.

She knew I would watch.

She’s been fucking him for me, at me.

To get revenge on me.

And I realize . . . she’s everything I dreamed of and more. More vengeful. More strategic. More effective.

More fucked up.

I watch her body bouncing, gyrating. I see the wicked smirk on her face as she starts to cum.

It makes me explode. Cum rockets out of my cock, spurting so far that I hit the edge of a landscape, spraying the painting and the frame.

I don’t give a fuck.

I don’t even clean it up.

I simply yank up my zipper, vowing to myself that the next time I unleash a load like that, it’s going on Mara’s face.





The next morning I arrive at the studio two hours earlier than usual.

I barely slept.

Every time I dozed off, I dreamed of Mara’s paint-streaked body, writhing and bouncing, so beautiful in motion that it became a living work of art.

I kept jolting awake, sweating, my cock a red-hot iron bar.

I couldn’t even jerk off, thanks to my hasty vow last night.

Too bad for me . . . once I make a promise to myself, I never break it.

I stride into the studio, startling Janice. She wasn’t expecting me so early.

“Good morning!” she chirps, hastily tidying her desk, swiping an entire armful of scattered pens and papers into a drawer.

“Get me coffee,” I bark. “Iced.”

“Right away,” she says, standing up so quickly that her glasses slide down her nose and her pantyhose tear up the back. She pushes the glasses up with her index finger, blushing and hoping I didn’t notice the stockings. Then, pausing a moment, she ventures, “. . . Are you alright?”

I must really look like shit if she has the balls to ask me that. I’m flushed and sweating. Feverish.

But I’m getting control of myself. Slowly, by sheer force of will. Formulating new plans for how I’m going to bend Mara in half and crush her under my heel.

“I’ll be great when I have my fucking coffee,” I snarl.

“Right! Sorry,” she squeaks, hurrying off.

I take the stairs up to the top floor, the entire space given over to my office.

As soon as I step through the door, my nostrils flare, picking up a distinctly sweet and peppery scent.

Mara.

I whirl around, expecting to see her sitting at my desk.

Instead, a freshly hung painting awaits my view. Abstract, with large streaks of violet, scarlet, and sienna . . .

She fucked on that painting, and then she hung it on my wall.

I’m struck anew by the absolute insanity of this girl.

I admire her audacity. While planning how I’ll punish her for it.

Stepping closer to the frame, I examine the painting. The shape of the strokes.

I see a distinct nipple print where Mara rolled across the canvas, stamped into the crimson paint. Below that, a heart-shaped mark that almost certainly came from her naked buttocks.