Well, this took way longer – and is way longer – than I ever expected. I hope it was worth it. The title is from the song "Kiss From A Rose" by Seal. As always, you are the best readers ever!
Keep letting me know what you think. Your comments always make my day.
psyche b
8. Growing Addiction That I Can't Deny
It had taken her all evening and part of the morning but she finally managed to come up with two sketches that she liked. One was a very traditional, sleeveless style with a long chiffon scarf that draped gracefully along the rounded neckline and flowed down her back. With an asymmetrical peplum and a layered skirt, the other was a bit more unusual. Sara had pinned them to the board and stood back envisioning how each would look on her and how each would move around her legs. For a moment she even tried to imagine which he would like better. Sara abandoned that almost immediately. Getting inside his head, even about something as simple as a dress, was a futile effort. She'd always trusted herself before, there was no reason to stop now.
She scanned each sketch and attached them to the email to send to Leah, but Sara couldn't make herself hit send. Leah would ask questions. Well, she would ask the question Leah had been asking Sara before every date she'd ever had – the 'are you going to sleep with him?' question. The idea had always been ridiculous and the answer had always been an unequivocal no delivered with firm certainty.
Technically it still was no, but the idea of sleeping with Crowley didn't seem so ridiculous. She couldn't explain the shift to herself and she certainly didn't want to try to explain it to Leah. She deleted the message.
Sara looked from one dress to the other again. She changed the skirt on the peplum dress, styling it more like a pencil skirt. The one with the scarf might be more reminiscent of the traditional little black dress, but it held none of Sara's own personality. She tossed the sketch aside. "Well, he did say I have my own style. Here's hoping it's appreciated."
She sorted through her shoes next, finally selecting a pair of dangerous looking black Kate Spade heels. They would go perfectly with the matte black satin fabric she'd been saving for a special occasion. Sara put the shoes back and started looking through the pattern pieces she already had drafted.
#
Crowley dug his fingers into the dark curls and forced his hard cock deeper into the gagging girl's throat. The dark blue Versace dress was pushed up around her waist. A line of sweat was beginning to darken the fabric in the middle of her back. He didn't need to see her face to know that her mascara was streaked down over her cheeks.
It had been four days since he'd seen Sara last when he reached the conclusion that his fascination with her was some kind of insanity. The idea played on his mind, distracting him almost as much as the remembered sensation of her lips brushing over his or the way her eyes sparkled with fascination and curiosity. She was only a human and any other human could fill the empty space where she should have been. Spending time with any one of them would probably engender those same pulls of emotion that Sara did.
So he'd found one. Confident, petite and fair-skinned, she wasn't the image of Sara but she was close enough for his purposes. Even better, she was under contract. A vague promise of reward and a bit of pampering and she-what was her name? Jenna? Jane? It didn't matter. Jenna or Jane or whoever she was had been more than tempted.
He'd sent her the clothes, saw to it that her hair was styled and her make up perfect, and she was remarkably impressed. He had sat across from her at dinner and watched her struggle to form a logical question and struggle even harder to put together five intelligent words to answer one. Not out of fear, he gave her that. She was simply as devoid of curiosity and wit as the rest of them.
He'd kissed her and she arched into him with the desperation of a whore and none of the grace. Getting her on her knees and his cock down her throat had taken no more than a veiled suggestion.
He twisted his hand in her hair and shoved his cock deeper when she whimpered sharply. She wasn't even particularly good at this, but at least it would serve to alleviate a bit of tension. She grasped a handful of his trousers in desperation. He eased the pressure on her head just long enough for her to get a breath. He pressed her down again, feeling himself getting closer to release.
Through it all, the residue of humanity that clung to him had remained perfectly silent. He moved his hips and her head with more purpose, wanting to finish with the whole encounter. No reason not to cum. Not when he was so close already.
The king closed his eyes and drew on the memory of that fluttering almost-kiss and the way Sara's hands had wrapped around his lapels. Longing coursed through him. It was all he needed to push him over the edge. Vaguely he felt the girl struggle harder, but he ignored it. He waited until he was finished before pushing her away and rearranging his clothes. She was still coughing and trying to pull her skirt down while he straightened his tie.
"Wh-what about-" She coughed hard. "Y-you said you'd reward me."
Crowley looked down at Jenna-or-Jane. She was a cheap, used whore in a ruined frock and he did feel something. He felt disgust.
"The King of Hell just came in your mouth." He buttoned his jacket. "What more do you want?" Before she could respond, he disappeared.
#
Sara decided that if she never sewed another bead on a dress it would be too soon. Still, looking at the reflection of the finished product in the dressing table mirror, she was fairly certain that spending days locked away in her room had been worth the sacrifice. She looked at her refection again. The big question was, what to do with her hair. After all the work she put in, the dress needed something a bit special. Nothing over the top, but something a little better than every day.
She shrugged out of her worn terrycloth robe and sat in front of the glass in only her black lacy underwear and stockings, hoping for some sort of inspiration. Sara piled her hair up on top of her head and turned her head to the left and the right. She didn't have any more ideas, but she did catch sight of the clock. She had less than two hours to do her hair, do her make-up, get dressed and get up to the roof. For anyone else she wouldn't have cared about being a little late. For him…well, she supposed it wasn't good manners to keep the king of anything waiting.
Her heart started to pound and a blush colored her cheeks. Less than two hours. What if he hated the dress? What if he hated her hair? What if he just didn't show at all? Sara's fingers were shaking as she selected two small sections of hair at her right temple and began to twist them together.
She put her hands in her lap again and took a deep breath and told herself to stop being ridiculous. She had been fine before that night at the crossroads and she would be fine if she never saw him again.
Now all she had to do was repeat that a few million times and she might start to believe it. She changed her mind about her hair and brushed her hair back from her face, separating a few tendrils to frame her face.
#
Crowley relaxed in the plush leather chair in his office and looked at the three demons standing in front of him. Two of them were trying to cover their relief. Their part in this little meeting was done and they were both still intact. The third, a weasel-faced little man called Barton who was apparently trying to bring back disco single-handed, was twitching and doing his best to fade into the wallpaper. Not an easy thing to do in a chartreuse polyester shirt and a dirty great gold medallion. The king had purposely saved the best for last.
Crowley studied his freshly manicured nails and savored another sip of scotch. The others stared at Barton and began to shuffle a little further away from the unfashionable demon. His eyes were darting around the room, his right hand was beginning to beat out a staccato rhythm against the side of his thigh. Crowley knew it wouldn't be long now.
His hand moved faster for moment, then it stopped. "I don't know where they are." The words came out too fast in his nasal voice.
Crowley waited a moment, his eyes down. He looked up as if surprised that Barton had spoken. "Pardon?"
"I said…I said I'm not sure where they are at this particular moment. But-I mean…that's not permanent."
"Oh!" Crowley's eyes brightened. "You're telling me that you lost them."
"Ah…no-"
Anger flared in Crowley's eyes. "You lost them!" His voice filled the large room. All three demons flinched. The king got up and stalked toward the slightly trembling Barton. "What exactly do your duties consist of?"
"T-to watch the Winchesters."
"And?" Crowley prompted.
Barton was beginning to sweat. "And…"
"And…and…spit it out man!" Some of the carefully cultivated refinement slipped from his voice.
"And to report back to you as requested."
"And?" Crowley prompted again.
"I don't-" His hands were shaking again.
"And to control their movements as I," He produced an ornate blade from inside his jacket and sliced Barton's right cheek and the demon stumbled back, choking back a cry. "See." He sliced Barton's left cheek. "Fit!" He sliced across the demon's stomach. The bright lines crackled and faded slowly. Crowley knew from experience that the pain of a sliced soul would take weeks to ease. Barton staggered back, doing his best not to scream. The other two had already given them a wide berth.
He took two gasping breaths. "Yes, Majesty." Barton's voice trembled. One hand hovered over his injured face, the other in front of his midsection.
Crowley held out his hand toward the others and snapped his fingers. Both shuffled through their pockets but only one came up with a clean handkerchief. He held it out with a barely concealed triumphant smile. The king accepted it and clucked his tongue disapprovingly at the other. He cleaned the blade carefully. "So, since you're too bloody incompetent to know where they are currently, where were they when you last saw them?"
"Texas." He was still taking deep breaths and trying to still his trembling.
Crowley stared at him. "Texas. Well that narrows it down. And when was that?" He kept his voice purposely controlled.
Barton swallowed hard. "Four days ago."
"Four days?" Control left him for a moment.
"I'm sorry, your Majesty. They were in a motel-"
"They're two humans, purportedly. The big one is known in every health food market from one side of the country to the other. The one who fancies himself likes cheap booze and cheap tarts. How difficult can they be to track?"
"But it was late and I thought-"
"I don't want you thinking, I want you watching and keeping them out of my way!" The king advanced and the demon backed off another step. "What were they doing in Texas?"
"Hunting a nest of vampires."
That made sense. Moose and Squirrel had spent the last several month returning to their roots or male bonding or…whatever. He took care not to look too accepting of the answer. "And then you got lazy and let them slip away right under your nose. Didn't you?"
A spark of angry protest flashed in his eyes, then wisdom prevailed. "Yes, Majesty."
"You're going to keep them away from the northeast." Crowley said.
"But if I don't know where they are-"
The blade flashed and sliced a deeper line across his midsection, the second line crossing the first. The king put the tip of the knife against Barton's sternum. "Because I am a generous and benevolent king, I will give you until ten o'clock tonight." He pressed the tip of the blade deep enough to hit bone. "Disappoint me, and I will spend years slicing your soul to ribbons before I kill you." Crowley stepped back and smiled. He wiped the blade clean again and tucked the bloody handkerchief back into its owner's top pocket.
"Anything else?" He looked at the three of them. "No? Get out."
The three of them disappeared. Crowley stood in front of the cheval mirror. The spot of blood on his gray silk tie stood out a mile. He mumbled a curse and selected another, this one was paisley in shades of red on a black background. It was rather striking, but he'd never found the right occasion to wear it. Tonight was the night. He put it on and took himself to Sara's rooftop.
She was standing at the railing with her back to him. Her feet together, her arms stretched out, hands resting on the railing. Her head was up, shoulders relaxed, eyes looking out over the mountains and the towns settled in the valleys. She could have been surveying her realm.
Or his.
Tendrils of hair that had artfully escaped her French twist teased the curve of her neck and the breeze that teased them carried the scent of La Vie Est Belle. He inhaled deeply and let his eyes caress the smooth skin of her shoulders and then down over the dress. Crowley had expected something safe and traditional. This dress was neither of those things.
A vining pattern of beads that was reminiscent of a William Morris design grew from the longest corner of the asymmetrical peplum and decorated the bodice, providing just a bit of sparkle and contrast with the simple skirt. The peplum itself broke a couple of inches above her natural waist, smoothing the line of her body. It was a refined blend of Donna Karan, vintage Dior, Vera Wang and other elements he couldn't quite name. It was uniquely Sara.
Crowley watched a ripple move up her back and down her arms to her hands, but she didn't turn her head. The longest edge of the peplum, the one that was just behind the middle of her left thigh, quivered a bit as well and then she was still again.
#
Sara's heart was pounding. He was there. She was sure he was there, just watching her. She fought to keep the tension out of her shoulders. In all the time she'd spent worrying about the dress and her hair and what jewelry to wear that she hadn't spared a thought for what to say to him. Sara's mind raced. True this feeling could have just been her imagination. If he was there he hadn't made a sound. Not that he would. She hadn't made a sound when she was sitting in Sister Roberta's office.
Would he think that she was trying to manipulate him with her silence? She was sure he knew the tactic and she was certain he was better at it than she was. She couldn't think of anything witty that didn't sound ridiculous. She could think of a million things that just sounded stupid. That would make him regret this evening before it even got started. Come on Sara, she thought, say something before he leaves.
"The shoes," He said, breaking the silence. "Are probably Kate Spade, though I wouldn't swear to it." She heard him walking toward her. "The bag is vintage, probably from the 1920's. It was either well preserved or well repaired." He stopped behind her, so close she could feel the warmth of his body. Sara forced herself to keep breathing. "But the dress," one finger traced the beaded pattern. "The dress is something special."
Sara blushed and took a step to the side, needing to put some space between the two of them. She faced him, a little smile on her lips. "Is that a good thing or a bad thing?"
"It's a curious thing." He moved his finger in a circle, indicating that she should turn around.
Sara straightened her back and didn't move, her eyes on his. Despite her outward calm, Sara's thoughts were racing. Did he like it? Did he think it was strange? Did he like it generally, but not on her? Was it even appropriate for wherever they were going? Those and a thousand other questions and insecurities tumbled over each other. She tried to tell herself that she had answers for all of them and she did, but standing close enough to touch him, she didn't find a single one of them believable.
His eyes sparkled, a little smile on his lips. "Please?"
She took a couple of steps away from the railing and turned slowly, hoping he couldn't see the little tremor in her knees. The sensation of his eyes moving over her body made Sara's breath catch. She made one slow circuit. "And?" Sara asked when she couldn't stand the silence any longer.
"And I'm even more curious."
Curious? That was all he had to say? Curious could mean anything. She took a deep breath and tried to sound confident. "I knew you had style, but I didn't take you for an expert on women's fashion."
"Fashion is vanity and vanity is one of my biggest sellers." He moved closer. "This is not one of your charity shop finds."
She nodded once. "True."
He began to circle her slowly. Sara began to feel like she was being scrutinized by a shark. "Now pet, that isn't much of an answer."
"You didn't ask much of a question. You made an assumption and I confirmed it." He was behind her, his fingers trailing lightly along the peplum seam. Sara clutched her bag and tried not to bite her lower lip while sparks of bright sensation traveled up and down her spine.
"So, not a known designer. Not a charity shop. An original creation by someone local?" He was still at her back, still moving slowly, his fingertips still tracing that seam.
Sara wanted to ask him to stop and she wanted him to keep going. "Yes."
"Some little out of the way boutique perhaps?" He was in front of her again, his eyes narrow and appraising.
"No." A little smile curled the corners of her lips
He looked at her again. "Just a talented local who might be interested in a deal?"
"No." Sara said.
His eyebrows rose. "You sound very sure of that."
"She's already turned you down, and she hasn't changed her mind."
For a moment he just looked at her, then surprise and recognition animated his features. "You?"
She looked up at him. "What? Just because I live in a convent in the middle of nowhere I'm limited to tartan skirts and white blouses?"
"An eye for what you like is one thing. The ability to create it is something else." A slow smile spread across his lips. His eyes brightened. "I'm not often surprised."
Sara knew exactly where the impulse came from. Despite the endless hours sewing and the time spent interviewing nuns, there was one thought that was buzzing around in her head. Now, standing in front of him, that single thought – that single need - subsumed everything else. Before she could think better of it, she stepped forward, stood on her toes and kissed his lower lip. She stood there for what seemed like hours, her on her toes his arms down at his sides, her open hands hovering less than an inch from his chest, electricity chasing over her skin and uncertainty growing in her heart. Just when she was about to pull away he dipped his head, wrapped his arms around her waist and took control of the kiss.
His tongue teased over her lips and Sara parted hers, leaning on him and caressing his tongue hesitantly and then with more confidence. The longer his mouth was on hers, the more the world contracted. She felt the heat and pressure of his hands around her waist and on her back. The solid wall of his body that gave her stability when her knees trembled. The hint of scotch in his mouth and the way his teeth caught her lip from time to time that took away everything else in thin, delectable slices. Her hands stroked over his back, taking in the slope of muscles underneath fine wool.
The kiss was fire and light. It was the promise of passion and the ache of need and Sara had no idea how long she was held in its thrall. Finally the first flush of intensity faded and they separated, the king drinking kisses from her mouth, Sara beginning to feel the world coming back again.
"Any more surprises this evening, Pet?" His lips met hers again.
"You couldn't have been that surprised." She smiled and nipped lightly at his lower lip. "This is the next time after all and if I didn't do it now, I would have thought about it all night."
He chuckled and captured her lips for a moment again. "I have tickets for a gallery opening, or," He kissed her lightly. "We could go back to the suite in Burlington, have a bit of dinner, a bit of…."
Sara felt a blush rise to her cheeks, but her voice was steady and so were her eyes. "That isn't going to happen tonight." She stepped back. He kept his hand on her waist.
He gave a heavy sigh and drew her closer. Sara let him. "Tell me you aren't waiting for some boy who doesn't even know what all the bits do."
She laughed. "If that's what I wanted, I could have had it by now." Sara stepped back again, this time he let her go. "Gallery opening?"
"Young artist having his first major showing at a large gallery. I thought it might be interesting." He offered his arm.
Sara took it, he eyes still on his.
"Ready?"
He didn't wait for an answer the feeling of falling came again. This time she knew what to expect. They appeared again across a wide city street from a brightly lit wide storefront. Dashwood Gallery was written in tall slender letters in an art deco style on one of the windows. Sara swayed on her feet and then gripped his arm a little tighter for a moment.
He looked down at her, his eyebrows slightly lifted. "Alright, pet?"
She took a deep breath and smiled. "Fine." Sara let go of his arm and he led her across the street with his hand in the small of her back.
"What do the nuns teach you about art?" He asked when they were safely on the other side of the street.
"Not much. I know what I like, but that's about all."
He smiled. "That's all anyone really needs."
The question was perfectly ordinary under the circumstances, but something about it tickled against Sara's mind. Her uncertainty was still too amorphous to put into words. When he opened the door, she stepped through into a large white room where knots of people dressed mostly in black formed and split to mingle anew. There were flashes of red and bright yellow here and there and the sparkle of sequins caught the light. It reminded Sara of the Ascot scene from My Fair Lady, just without the hats.
Paintings comprised of wild slashes of color were comfortably spaced on the purposely bland walls. The cynical bray of a New York City accent was all Sara could discern from the swirling conversations that went on around then as they moved inside. Crowley plucked two glasses of white wine from a passing server's tray. He handed one to Sara.
They wandered toward the first painting on the right side of the room. It was a large enough canvas that it would easily dominate most rooms. The thick black and red streaks and whirls of color could have looked bold and conveyed strength, but there was something that didn't quite work about the whole thing. Sara took a step back and took a sip of her wine. She studied the painting for a moment, then realized that Crowley was looking at her and not the canvas. A little smile on his lips.
"What?" She asked.
"Just wondering what you think."
Sara opted for diplomacy. "I think I need to see a bit more before I form an opinion." She walked past him to another canvas, equally large with an equally bold potential in orange and navy blue, and that potential was equally unfulfilled.
"Crowley!" A round white-haired man with an extravagantly waxed and curled mustache came across the room and grasped the demon's hand, shaking it vigorously. "It's been too long."
"How could I stay away? I've heard so much about this artist."
"Julian has taken the city by surprise. Frankly, I don't know how he's been overlooked all these years." He glanced at Sara for the first time, his gaze more sharply appraising than one would expect from such a jovial figure.
"Jacob Dashwood, my companion for the evening, Sara." Crowley said.
He held out a meaty hand and Sara took it. "This is a rare pleasure."
"A pleasure to meet you as well." Sara tried to pull her hand away, but he held on tighter.
"And what do you think our little exhibit?"
His tone dripped indulgence. She gave an equally indulgent smile. "It's like nothing I've ever seen before." She glanced around. "And I'm not sure I'll ever see anything like it again." Sara gave her hand a sharper tug. This time he let her go.
He looked at Crowley. "There you are, even your lovely companion thinks Julian is going to be a sensation." He turned back to Sara and leaned forward as if speaking to a child. "You don't mind of I steal him away for a few minutes do you?" Before she could answer, he saved her the trouble. "Of course you don't. You wouldn't want to listen to us chuntering on about business." He took Crowley's nearly empty glass and put it on a tray as a waitress went by. "I have some Scotch in the back."
Sara sighed and turned back to the painting. She'd give him half an hour, then she'd start doing something about getting back to school on her own.
#
Crowley spent fifteen minutes with Jacob Dashwood The Arrogant. Of course he bought something. Julian was poised to be big. No reason not to take advantage. He'd leave the two canvases crated in a warehouse until it was time to sell.
He returned to the main gallery and searched for Sara. He found her standing in front of a green and white monstrosity. A tall young man with a sculpted jawline and athletic grace was trying to make small talk. Sara gave him an appraising glance, found him wanting and politely extricated herself. Crowley couldn't suppress a little smile.
A slim woman in a black and white dress said from just behind him. "So that's her."
He took a sip of wine. "Who?"
"The king spending time with a Catholic school girl? The rumor mill has been working overtime on this one." Her phone beeped and her thumbs flew over the screen. "She's different than I thought she would be."
Crowley glanced over at her. The demon Celeste was not only one of his most successful specialists, she was a keen observer. "In what way?"
"I thought she'd stumble on her heels or stand in the corner looking like a frightened fawn."
"And?"
"And the way she owns the room is really quite something. It's subtle and I don't think she realizes she's doing it, but it's there. If that's what they're teaching in convents these days more of us ought to start taking advantage." The phone beeped again. She responded with swift assurance.
A little smile flickered over the king's lips. "So, tell me about Julian."
"Profoundly untalented, personally repugnant, a rampant ego, and a horrible bore. He's also the darling of three of the four major critics in the city. He could piss against a wall and they would fall over each other to say how brilliant the pattern of the splashes was."
His eyebrows lifted. "Only three of the four?"
"If the fourth said the sun would rise tomorrow the other three would disagree. The more vehemently he denounces Julian, the more the other three sing his praises." Celeste gave a satisfied little smile. "I know my job."
He gave a little nod and gestured to the room. "And here?"
"All the feedback has been positive and just about every piece has already been sold."
"How many were sold to us?"
"However many you bought plus the one Davis bought. No one else has been in."
Crowley scanned the room and found the short, gray haired demon standing in between two tall women. Their skirts were just a bit too short and their jewelry just a bit too flashy. "I see he's still supporting his local prostitutes.
"He smells like B.O. and garlic. Who else would spend time with him?"
"Make certain Julian continues to be the darling of the art world." The king moved away, repeating the incantation under his breath with his eyes on Sara's back. After spending this much time in the presence of demon magic she shouldn't need it, but Sara was quite capable of surprising him.
#
Sara had dodged two passes, had a very pleasant chat with one of her favorite fashion bloggers, booked a train ticket and grown steadily more annoyed with Crowley's absence. The last part wasn't particularly rational. For all of his charm, he was a demon. There was no reason to think that he cared at all about her and her feelings. She had finally wandered around to the very back of the room and found an unoccupied bench shaped like a large S, allowing people sitting in the seats to almost face each other. Hopefully the set of her shoulders and the fact that she chose to face one of those awful paintings instead of the room communicated her desire to be left alone.
"Had a pleasant evening?" Crowley asked. He sat in the other seat.
Sara turned her head slightly. Curiosity was sparkling in his eyes. She turned slightly and held his gaze.
"Well, the wine is foul and the paintings are worse."
Surprise flickered through his eyes but didn't touch the rest of his face. "I've bought two."
"Investment?"
"You think I couldn't possibly like them?"
Sara thought for a moment. "The colors should be a bold statement, but they're imbalanced on the canvas and that ruins the effect. Instead of strength it just looks haphazard. You would see it from a mile off. He doesn't even pick his own colors. He uses the colors of colleges and universities. If you bought two, I would venture a guess that your investment will be maturing in about nine years and eleven months."
A little smile touched his lips. "That's a rather cynical view, pet."
"But I'm not wrong." Her voice was confident.
"No, you're not wrong." Silence stretched and the hum of conversation surrounded them. "One more question. Aside from me, how many demons are here tonight?"
Sara was taken aback. "I couldn't have any way of knowing-"
"How many?" She could hear the edge of demand in his voice.
"Two." The answer was out before she had a chance to think about it.
A hungry smile lifted the corners of his lips. "Dinner?"
She considered for a moment. "Planning to disappear after the appetizer?"
The king feigned shock. "Pet, you wound me." He stood and offered his hand.
Sara checked her watch and put her hand in his. "I should make my train." She stood.
Anger and amusement flickered through his eyes. "We'll talk about that over a decent drink." He took Sara's glass from her hand and returned it to a server on the way out.