Page 34 of House of Sin
And then he pulled me down flat, laying me gently onto my back, my legs falling open for him, as he stared at me, spread wide, like I was art.
He dropped between my thighs, breath ghosting over my wet, aching pussy. And then—God—his tongue. The first stroke of it made me gasp, my back arching off the floor. He licked me like he’d beenstarving for it. Like he needed to memorize the taste of me.
His mouth sealed over my clit, tongue flicking and circling, the pressure just right. My thighs clamped around his head, but he didn’t stop. He growled into me, hands gripping my hips, holding me in place like a man determined to drag pleasure out of me by force if he had to.
I came hard, again, with a cry that could have cracked the ceiling. My hips jerked, my hands flew to his hair and my world shattered.
But he didn’t stop. He kept going—driving me higher. A second orgasm barreled through me, then a third. I was shaking, sobbing, coming undone under his tongue.
“Please,” I begged. “I don’t think I can take any more”.
He looked up at me with amusement, “Yes, you can.”
He pulled me up, crushing his mouth to mine in a deep, devouring kiss that let me taste myself on his lips. He positioned me on all fours, my ass presentedlike an offering while Elona watched from the bed, her fingers trailing lazily over her own body.
He thrust into my pussy first, each slam of his cock stretching me, filling me. One hand on my hip, the other sliding into my hair, gripping tight as he pulled my head back. Elona's gaze fueled the heat, her hand dipping between her legs to touch herself in sync with his movements, lips parted as she moaned with us.
"Not yet," he teased, pulling out to circle my clit with his thumb, making me whine in frustration. Then, slowly, he pressed the head of his cock against my ass, inching in with deliberate care. The stretch burned, then bloomed into ecstasy as he filled me completely.My orgasm hit like lightning, body convulsing around him, milking every drop, and tearing a scream from my lungs as my vision went white.
He came seconds later, roaring my name into the crook of my neck, collapsing over me, both of us gasping for air. Elona crawled over to us and we stayed like that—sweaty, tangled, and absolutely spent.
20
THE KIND OF GIRL THEY DON’T PAINT
ELONA
Istood before the grand double doors of the gallery, my heartbeat steady, though I felt a nervous flutter deep inside my chest. I smoothed the worn fabric of my coat, once a rich burgundy that had deepened to a muted wine with the passing years,and adjusted the strap of my leather portfolio before lowering it to my side. Each step toward this place, this moment, was an act of courage which I had rehearsed in my mind countless times.
The district that the gallery was in was a place of wealth; of polished marble and gilded frames. Elegant buildings with tall windows loomed over me, sunlight flashing off the glass and casting colorful reflections. It was something that had always seemed to be just beyond my reach. But it wasn’t just the art I craved; it was the validation. It was the recognition, something that had always been unavailable to me, especially in a world that still saw me as “other.”
Through the gallery’s window, I could hear the muted sound of voices as their hands swept and circled before each painting, the faint clink of glasses, and catch the subtle click of polished shoes against cool, gleaming marble floors. Art lovers, critics, and collectors mingled in the light, their eyes roaming from one expensive painting to the next. But for me, it wasn’t the abstract pieces or the clean lines of modern art that called out to me; it was the charcoal drawingsthat I carried, my own small rebellion against the sterile perfection that filled these walls.
The women in my drawings, strong, raw, and defiant, embodied everything I had fought to hold on to in my life. They were more than just images; they were stories, my stories. The untold histories of women like me, women who had been erased, neglected, or forgotten by the world. In each stroke of my charcoal, I had found a voice, a way to communicate the power and beauty of those who had survived against all odds.
Taking a deep breath, I pushed the doors open. The warm air from the gallery kissed my skin as I stepped inside, and for a moment, I felt like a stranger, an intruder in a world that did not welcome me. I scanned the space with careful eyes, noting the silent, lifeless art adorning the walls that pretended to offer something more than just an aesthetic.
My gaze swept through the crowd until it landed on the man I was looking for, Mr. Bennett, the gallery owner. He stood near the center of the room, solidly built, his frame carrying an easy weight that made him feel rooted in place rather than simply occupying it. His hair was perfectly arranged, every stranddisciplined into submission, and his glasses sat low on his nose, while his eyes did most of the talking—cool and assessing. They moved over the room until they found me, and something shifted. The calculation softened just enough to pass for warmth, replaced by the polished courtesy of a man long accustomed to artists who never quite belonged in his world, yet kept trying to earn their place in it.
“Miss Elona,” he said, stepping forward. “Good to see you, come right in.”
I offered a tight-lipped smile. I could already feel the tension in my body; the small pulse of anxiety that had started the moment I stepped into this space. Every inch of this gallery reeked of privilege, of rarity, and of the silent judgments that waited to pounce.
“I’ve brought my work, Mr. Bennett,” I said, my voice steady despite the nerves that prickled my skin. “I’d like to show you some of my drawings that I think would be a good fit for your gallery.”
Mr. Bennett’s gaze dropped to the portfolio in my hands, but there was hesitation in his eyes and a slight shift in his posture, almost imperceptible, but enough for me to notice it. He glanced over his shoulder at oneof the attendants, a tall, thin woman in a sleek black dress, and then nodded toward a quiet corner.
“Of course. Let’s have a look at them in private, shall we?” His voice remained smooth, yet there was an undercurrent to his words that made my stomach tighten. I nodded, following him through the crowd while every glance from the art lovers felt like a challenge, a reminder that I was not meant to be here, not meant to be seen.
We arrived at a small, secluded corner of the gallery, where Mr. Bennett gestured toward a low table. “Please, have a seat,” he offered, his tone almost condescending. “Let’s take a look at your work.”
I carefully placed my portfolio on the table, my fingers trembling slightly as I began to unlatch it. I had rehearsed this part, the introduction, the explanation of what each drawing meant to me, the personal stories behind each line, but now, as he loomed across from me, the words seemed to vanish.
Before I could open the portfolio, Mr. Bennett cleared his throat and adjusted his glasses, his posture defensive. His fingers folded together in a steeple and then he spoke in that soft, too-measured voice thatalways made my skin crawl.
“You know, Miss Elona,” he began, “we appreciate your interest in having your work featured in our gallery. However. . .” He let the word hang, the finality in it suffocating. His gaze drifted toward the crowd, ensuring no one was listening. “Your work is, I'm sure . . . very well done, of course,” he continued, “but—”
My fingers tightened around the edge of the portfolio, my pulse quickening. “But?” I prompted, my voice cool, though I could feel the rage beginning to bubble up in my chest. This was familiar. I knew exactly where this was going, the same words, the same thinly veiled dismissal.
