Erotic Romance
Date Published: November 25, 2014
Killian Stone paints harpies.
Killian Stone is not into vanilla sex.
Killian Stone suffers from mood swings.
Killian Stone has done something very bad.
The day the painter approaches her on the bridge and asks her to pose for him is the beginning of a lust Melissa won’t be able to bridle. When Killian Stone offers her a month of submission, she’s already too captivated to turn him down. His unhinged sexuality lets her explore her own dark fantasies, but his anger outbursts are scary and devastating. As the time goes by, Melissa realizes there’s something more than just irritability and anger. He has done something which doesn’t let him rest.
Excerpt
I started with a short
drizzle. When the first drop of molten wax made contact with the skin in the
center of his chest, he winced with his whole body. He wasn’t expecting it; his
arms jolted, but then he smirked and relaxed, waiting for the next drop. I
didn’t make him wait. Another splash of wax spurted over his abs and slid down
to his left side, cooling and solidifying on its way.
This time he grunted. And
again I had that strange feeling of arousal every time the hot wax landed on
his skin. Each part of his body reacted differently to the heat. He flinched
when the wax nipped his chest, shuddered when it puddled over his tummy; he
writhed beneath me when I dripped a drop of wax on his nipple, his breath
turning into a quick gasp. I detected every movement of his muscles, watched
his ribs shuffle smoothly underneath his skin, his V lines tease me with a
light motion. Those moments of us together—him surrendering to me, and me
toying with his body—were moments of intimacy and of deep closeness, of
trusting each other, and loving each other. As the wax streamed across his
skin, as hot as the blood that was snaking through his veins, his body language
was telling me things no one else could decipher.
“How does it feel?” I
asked, holding the candle above his chest.
“Scalding.”
I stroked his sweating
face, grazed it lightly with my nails. If it was scalding then I needed to
quench his fire. I grabbed an ice cube from the bucket on the tray and tipped
his brow. He flinched at first, thinking I had dripped hot wax on his face. I couldn’t
help giggling. Dripping hot wax on the face is a big “No.” I’d never do that,
but it was funny to see how he’d already lost the ability to tell the wax from
the ice.
“Let’s play a game,” I
said. “We’ll call it ‘A Song of Ice and Fire.’ You’ll have to guess what I’m
dipping on you. If you guess wrong, the wax will become hotter.” I bent the
glass holder and sprinkled the wax over his tensed biceps. He wasn’t expecting
to feel the heat on his arm and laughed nervously.
“Fire,” he whispered.
Another drop of wax landed
inside his thigh.
“Fire,” he said again.
A bead of water came off
the ice cube and splashed around his nipple, dissipating into his warm body.
“Fire.”
I giggled again. It seemed
unbelievable how the contrasting sensations of icy and heat had become the same
for him.
“Bad boy,” I said, then
pressed my two fingers over his belly button and poured a stream of wax on his
abs, watching it course down to the spot between his tummy and groin.
“Dammit,” he hissed through
pain.
The icy drops rained across
his face—on his sweltering brow, and the parted lips, and the stubbly chin—and
the scarce rivulets made their way to his throbbing throat.
“Ice,” he sighed out.
I bowed to his neck and
licked the tiny puddle of water in the hollow beneath his Adam’s apple. “Good
boy. Now try again.”
I took an ice cube and
trailed it slowly over his collarbone, then across his chest and down to his
hard cock.
“Ice,” he muttered, and as
I dipped hot wax over his solar plexus, he again said, “Ice.”
The molten punishment
cascaded down his skin. I loved how deeply he moaned, wondering if he’d still
not stop me if I poured the hot wax on his genitals. I looked at his face
covered with the blindfold. The lips were parted, and low, almost inaudible
pants were escaping his mouth. I needed to know if those lips would give out a
loud cry if I did that. I covered his cock with my hand and tested a drop of
wax on the back of my palm. Although I was holding the candle almost fifteen
inches above his body, the wax was still hot.
I saw him tense. Obviously
he was not comfortable being cuffed down, and sometimes jerked his hands with
so much strength I thought he’d break the bedposts. It has to be hard to give
up power when you’re used to being in total control. His cuffed hands clenched
into fists and the veins on his neck swelled. He held his breath but even then
said nothing. I sat on his knees, the candle in my hand, watching him and
waiting for him to stop me. I knew he had guessed my intention, but he was
silent. Then I looked at his erection. Big and swollen, begging for my touch.
No, that much pain I couldn’t cause him. I took a condom from the tray and
sheathed him gently. When I saddled him and took his flesh inside me, a
relieved moan of pleasure escaped his mouth. My poor lover, he’d really thought
I’d scald his genitals. I took him deeper and began rising up and down, still
holding the candle in my hand and dropping the molten wax across his chest and
abs, painting his torso with narrow squiggles that slid to his sides and drew
abstract patterns over his body.
I may be a meek mistress,
but at least I made him come moaning out my name. Then I glanced at what I had
done. The wax had cooled all over his body, a composition of blue patterns and
unintelligible scrawls stretching from the top of his pecs and spreading over
his taut torso. I scraped a bit of wax with my nail, and it flaked off like a
thin layer of skin.
From the tray on the bed I
picked up a butter knife and began to peel off the pieces of wax bit by bit. I
knew it might be nibbling, but that wax had to be scraped away, and I felt like
shaping him of clay, raking cautiously scales of wax with the knife or my
fingernails. With every scrape he tensed then relaxed as the frozen wax broke
and came off him, revealing his pink skin underneath. The hardest was when I
reached his treasure trail. I didn’t know how to do that without epilating him.
I tried to be gentle, but it didn’t help. He grunted when I plucked out some
hairs, then cussed when I pulled another inch of wax off him. I had been
shielding that spot with my palm, but the wax had still managed to spread
there.
Sorry, my love, I should
have been more attentive.
I took the blindfold off
his face. It was soaked in sweat. He was lying with his eyes closed, detached
and silent. When I laid my palm over his chest, the heat of his body passed to
my skin. I put the tray on the floor, then unlocked the cuffs and took a glass
of water to his lips. He drank the water greedily as I raised his head and
leaned it against my shoulder.
“Hug me,” he murmured when
a chill passed through his body. I covered him with a duvet, got under it and
pressed my naked body to his. God, how hot he was! But despite the heat of his
skin it seemed that he felt chilled. It happens after a wax play, and I
continued to lay over him, caress his face and kiss gently his closed eyelids,
his nose and lips, and whispered soothing words until his respiration
stabilized and the tremors ceased. He raised his lids slowly and made eye
contact with me. That soft, exhausted glance did something strange with my
heart. It quailed suddenly with a twinge of pain, making me scowl. Killian
smiled to me reassuringly, then patted the side of my face with his knuckles.
How does he always know what’s going on in my head?
I was in need of care too,
so I bowed down to his face, and for a very long time we were just kissing,
kissing, and kissing. I love the way he kisses, starting with short, gentle
pecks, growing passionate, going down my neck and returning to my lips, slowing
down again, then grabbing my jawline and taking my breath away.
“Did you date anyone these
past months?” he asked me as I lay in his arms, my face buried against his warm
chest.
“No,” I said. “And you?”
“Hookers.”
“Disgusting.”
“Why?”
“Never mind,” I murmured.
When his fingers dug into
my hair, I yawned and plastered myself tighter to his body, which was still
abnormally hot. I was feeling sleepy but didn’t want to fall asleep and miss a
single touch. I had missed that blissful state so much.
Ella Adamian
Ella Adamian lives in a small country named Armenia and writes in English. She also hides her identity, so that the local law enforcement bodies won’t fine or detain her for her explicit erotic novel “His Name is Killian.” Currently she’s working on the sequel of her first book.
