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Eyes flashing, she storms over, grabs my wrist and moves it to the chair’s arm and jostles me back into my original pose. Heat radiates from her body as she moves me back into position.
“Like this,” she says, her voice tight with frustration. “And sit up straight.”
As she pivots to return to the canvas, I grab her by the waist. “Where are you going?”
“To finish the sketch,” she says.
“Are you intimidated by the sight of my cock?” I ask.
She glares down, her green eyes darkening, her cheeks an even deeper shade of red. “What are you talking about?”
“You’re jumpy.” I lower my right hand to my erection and grip it at the base.
Emberly’s gaze follows my movements, and her lips part as I squeeze tightly enough to release another bead of pre cum. Her eyes track the fluid traveling down my shaft with rapt fascination.
“Are you trying to distract me from continuing the portrait?” she asks.
I frown. “I thought you said you were an expert at painting naked men.”
She purses her lips. “There’s more to life drawing than huge erections.”
“So, you think I’m huge?”
I lavish my shaft with long, languid strokes.
She shoots me a venomous glare. “Stop playing with that thing and focus on looking professional.”
“My cock has been aching since I made you come yesterday,” I say, my voice deepening. “It can’t stop thinking about how your tight little pussy clenched around my fingers like you were trying to milk them dry.”
“Are you thinking it or is your penis?” she asks, her gaze dropping to my cock.
“Same thing.” My strokes quicken.
“Roman—”
“Say that again,” I groan. “My cock loves the sound of my name on your lips. Correction. It loves being encircled by your lips.”
“No.” She gulps. “And if you don’t stop stroking yourself, I’ll turn this portrait into a giant cock.”
I raise a brow. “Get on your knees, and I’ll show you its best side.”
“You’re so full of shit.”
My fist makes a slow, sensual slide up my shaft. “I’m full of something, but it isn’t shit.”
As she retreats, her blush blooms across her chest and into the lacy cups of her bra. I continue caressing my cock with slow, controlled strokes.
When she returns to the canvas, her movements are less graceful, more stilted. I continue jerking off, imagining her so aroused that she can’t draw. The charcoal snaps between her fingers and falls to the floor with a dull thud, but she doesn’t reach down to pick it up. Instead, she’s too busy staring at my erection.
I slide forward and part my legs, so she can get a better view of my balls. Her breath shallows, moving in and out of her parted lips.
“Roman, you need to stop,” she says, her thighs squeezing.
My chest fills with a deep groan. “Keep talking like that and I’ll come all over your canvas.”
“You’re an asshole.”
“Says the woman who’s undressing me with her eyes.” My hips jerk in time with the movements of my fist. “I feel objectified.”
