Ruth’s POV
The easel gave out with a sharp crack as Emmett slammed into me from behind, the sound louder than breath, louder than thought. The canvas crashed beneath us, a rush of linen, wood, and wet paint folding into the space between thrusts. My palms slipped forward as I stumbled with it, but his hands never let go of my hips, digging in, grounding me, dragging me back into the violence of his body.
I hit the floor hard, knees on cold wood, chest smeared across paint-slick linen. His breath stuttered behind me, ragged against my spine as he sank deeper, slower, meaner. The ache tore through me, sharp enough to make my eyes blur. But I didn’t pull away. I wanted it. God, I needed it.
The room spun, air thick with turpentine, sweat, and the iron tang of lust. Somewhere near my shoulder, a tin of ochre had spilled open, the pigment sliding across the hardwood like blood. His hand caught in it, fingers dragging streaks of yellow and red across my thigh as he lifted my leg higher, opening me wider, forcing my hips into a sharper arch.
The friction burned. I gasped, the sting of the stretch too much and not enough. My cheek pressed against the canvas, and I felt it, my brushstrokes beneath my skin, smeared and drowned in sweat. I’d painted this, I’d invited this, I couldn’t lie to myself now.
“You’re ruining it,” I whispered, voice choking and breaking on a moan.
Emmett leaned over me, his chest sliding against my back, streaked with smudged ultramarine and oil-black shadow. His cock buried deep, the fullness brutal in its rhythm, made me feel cracked open and filled in the same breath.
“We’re finishing it,” he said, and kissed my shoulder, wet, claiming, hot. Blue paint transferred from his lips to my skin like a brand, a signature carved in color and heat.
His hips rolled again, and I cried out, fingers clawing at the slick fabric beneath me. My body wasn’t mine anymore, it was his. His rhythm set the pace, his thrusts wrecked me in ways my brain hadn’t caught up with.
Every inch of me throbbed. The back of my neck, raw from his breath. My thighs, trembling from strain. My pussy, soaked and sore, clenching desperately around him with each punishing thrust. And still, I pressed back against him, begging without words.
He moved like he was fucking the truth out of me, like every thrust was a question I didn’t want to answer and every moan was the confession he already knew. His hand twisted in my hair and yanked my head back until my spine arched into a perfect curve. I gasped, lips parted, pain sharp across my scalp and pleasure flooding beneath it like a second skin. The cry that left my mouth wasn’t fear, it was need.
He kissed me then, not gently or sweetly. His mouth devoured mine, deep and unforgiving, his teeth grazing my bottom lip as if he wanted to taste blood and breath at the same time. I kissed him back with everything I couldn’t say.
Paint smeared across my breasts, sticky and cold against skin that burned. My nipples brushed the canvas, sensitive and slick with red. His hand gripped my throat, firm, not choking, but enough to remind me where the power lived. Enough to make my inner muscles tighten hard around him, a shudder pulsing through me so sharp it was almost painful.
“You shouldn’t be doing this,” I rasped against his mouth.
His teeth dragged over my shoulder as he thrust deeper, the sound of skin on skin louder than reason. “But you don’t want me to stop.”
And he was right, God, he was right. I clung to him like I’d drown if he pulled out. My nails carved red lines down his back. My hips lifted to meet his, every movement desperate and instinctive.
“I hate you,” I whispered, biting his shoulder until I tasted salt and skin.
He groaned low, his voice nothing but gravel. “You love what I make you feel.” I didn’t answer.
Because my answer came in the way my body seized under his, in the sound that ripped from my throat as my orgasm tore through me. It was harsh, relentless, my thighs locked, my cunt clenched, my voice broke. And still, he didn’t stop.
He fucked me through it, one hand tight on my hip, the other at my throat, his rhythm rougher, losing control. And when he came, he collapsed into me, buried deep, pulsing hard. His moan was raw and broken, muffled against the back of my neck. We didn’t move. Paint dripped around us. Our sweat soaked the canvas. The floor was smeared with ochre and red.
The painting was ruined, completed, made. And I couldn’t tell whether I had survived him, or become something else entirely.