Page 38 of Not Another Dark Romance

Fuck, if he decided to offer it again, I bet he’d be so good at sucking my dick. So eager and willing to please me. He was so upset last night, but deep down I think he might actually like being told what to do. He’d probably lose his mind if I gave him any sort of praise.

Mason lets out another breathy grunt, and I imagine the noises he’d make if my cock was shoved so deeply down his throat that he couldn’t breathe and⁠—

“Fuuuck,” I groan as my orgasm crashes into me. I pump myself through my release as my cum shoots out onto the basement floor between us.

“Holy shit, that was hot, oh fuck, I’m going to…” Mason trails off as he finishes all over himself.

I’m struggling to catch my breath as the gravity of what we just did hits me.

I just got off with another man.

A man who’s chained to the pole in my basement.

And I really fucking loved it. I want to do so much more with him.

I’m definitely going to hell.

17

As soon as I catch my breath, Zane is hitting pause on the audiobook and storming up the stairs without a word. I’m not concerned about him though. I’m sure everyone needs to process their queer-awakening in their own way.

Besides, I got everything I wanted—my art supplies, uncuffed hands, and a jerk-off session with my kidnapper. All wins in my book, and I hardly had to act out to get any of it.

The basement door slams shut, and I’m left alone with the lingering scent of our releases. I’ll clean myself up in a second, but right now, I lay back to stretch my arms above my head, reveling in the freedom of movement without restriction. God, does it feel good.

Next, I’ll get Zane to let me roam freely in the house. Or at least move to his bedroom. Hopefully he’ll let me keep the collar on. I’ve grown very fond of the metal around my neck. Like he’s put his claim on me, even if he’s clearly still coming to terms with his newfound attraction for me.

I wipe my cum up with a paper towel from the roll he left down here for me, and pad over to my art supplies, running my fingers over the familiar textures of the brushes. This really is the best morning I’ve had in a long, long time. Exactly the kind of excitement pre-kidnapped me was seeking. I still can’t believe my stalking attempt actually led me straight to what I was looking for. Well, almost. But after getting off together just now, I feel closer than ever to what I truly want.

I eye the largest canvas leaning against the wall, the blank space is practically begging for color. I tilt my head, studying it the way I always do before starting a new piece, imagining what might emerge.

Zane doesn’t know it yet, but he’s my muse—the artistic inspiration I was missing in my life. I always start each new piece with a rough plan, but once my brush touches the canvas, my artistic intuition takes over. I never know exactly what the final piece will look like. It’s all part of the fun for me. Rigidity has always been my downfall, which is why my signature style is abstract and full of emotion.

I select a brush and dip it in the black paint container. My movements are instinctive as I begin to sketch the outline of a figure on the canvas. I paint for hours, losing myself in the process of creating—the flow state where nothing exists but me, the canvas, and the emotion driving it all. It’s exactly what I needed.

By what I’d imagine is late at night, I’ve captured Zane’s essence in the painting through a mix of dark and light, portraying his internal conflict, suppressed desire, and the way he fights against his own nature. I step back to admire my work, a small smile playing on my lips.

The creak of the door catches my attention and interrupts my thoughts. I guess my work shift is over. It’s not complete, but this will inevitably be one of my favorites, and I’m curious if he’ll be able to see himself in it.

Zane makes his way down the stairs, dressed in his uniform. He isn’t smiling, but that’s not unusual for him. He always tries to give off “bad boy” vibes with his short hair and strong jaw, but I can see right through him.

He holds up a to-go bag. “I brought you dinner. It’s tonight’s special from the restaurant.”

My stomach grumbles at the scent of garlic and herbs, but I don’t move to take it from him yet. “Thanks.” He doesn’t say anything else, so I decide to keep pressing, wanting to get him to open up, maybe even to admit that he enjoyed our fun together this morning. “So… how was work?”

“Fine,” he replies automatically.

I wipe my hands off on a paint cloth and walk over to him, chain dragging behind me as usual. “Just fine?”

“It was busy, so I made good money in tips.”

“Mmm,” I hum in acknowledgment. “Well, I made great progress today, too. But I’m not sure I can sell this one.” I motion to the painting, and his eyes lock on it.

“Why not? Wasn’t that the point of me hauling all this over here?”

“It was,” I agree. “But this piece turned out to be special. It’s you, Zane, in all your conflicted glory. You’re my muse.”

His eyes widen for a moment before he scrunches up his face, probably trying to figure out how it’s him. He’s holding the food bag in one hand still, but he’s rubbing his fingers against his palm with the other as he eyes it curiously.