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“Get over here, you funny man. I need to turn those ridiculous noises you’re making into real ones.”
We made sloppy, happy love, the sweeping planes and hard edges of his spectacular body now as familiar as my own more ordinary ones. As he straddled my chest, I surprised him by grabbing the paintbrush out of his hand and sweeping the soft bristles around the tip of his dick until his pretend moans slipped into something else. And when that wasn’t enough, he kneeled up, palming his length and shuffling forwards. Wetness glistened on the swollen head.
“Close your eyes, Charles, and stick out your tongue.”
“I knew you’d used that line before.”
He hesitated. “Only if you want to.”
I’d never done this, and I wasn’t sure why. Prudishness maybe, although the man had had his fingers circling over and inside my hole, so God knows what had held me back. Florian tolerated my incompetent hands fumbling with his dick with the patience of a saint, it was high time I had a go with my mouth. With a featherlight touch, he rubbed his swollen head across my upper lip, back and forth, as if applying lipstick. On instinct, I flicked up my tongue to lick at the slick collecting there and was rewarded with a sharp intake of breath. He continued around to my lower lip, dragging it down, grazing the tip against my teeth. Opening my mouth wider, I lapped at him, letting my tongue sink into the slit, roaming around the ridge until I closed my lips around it, and gave an experimental suck.
“Mon dieu, I like the way my cock looks in your mouth.”
His voice was breathy, a tone lower than normal, the cadence resonating deep in my belly as if I were receiving a blow job myself. No job involved; blowing him was no more a chore than kissing him, or running my hands through his silky curls. As he fed more of his length inside, I shared in the pleasure—the quickening of his breaths, the sounds he made, and the taste of him filling my mouth.
Silver caressed my soul as my eyes shuttered closed. My lips were stretched tight, I breathed through my nose, noisily, and arched my hips up against nothing because having him in my mouth felt so fucking good. He’d been considerate, there had been no hands holding my head steady, no deep thrusting, but now his movements were choppy, his breathing more jagged. I wrapped my hand around the base as I sensed he was close.
“Oh merde, Charles. Merde. So good. You want me to come in your mouth?”
I nodded, opening my eyes, and looking up to watch his face as it happened. I wanted to capture the image and hold onto it forever, so on sad days and bad days, on dark dawn mornings when I wished the sun would never rise and the tides would never turn, I’d be able to picture Florian like this and feel his silver coursing through my veins. I’d know that in a quiet corner of a little island, a slice of silvery goodness carved out a happy, carefree existence. A curtain of wavy hair shadowed his flushed face, eyelids flickering, lips parted. A stiffening of his lean thighs under my palm, a shudder and then with a sudden warmth against my throat, his quiet sighing moan of release.
I must have snoozed, a rare dreamless sleep, because I woke to a tickling sensation below my right eye, as if a stray eyelash or a butterfly had landed there. “Sshh, don’t move,” murmured Florian, “I’ve nearly finished. And I’m trying not to drip paint on this expensive cream sofa.”
Obeying him, I lay still, as with his face inches from mine, he daubed first on my right cheek and then on my left, turning my head this way and that, stopping at intervals to admire his handiwork and to dip the brush into the palette laid on the floor. Staying still was no hardship because the view was glorious. Half-sprawled on top of me, chewing on his lip as he concentrated, he was still naked, and I ran a lazy palm down the sweep of his spine.
“You like to top, don’t you?” I said.
He nodded slowly, a little frown of concentration wrinkling the smooth skin of his forehead. We hadn’t broached the subject, yet, although it had played on my mind more and more.
“Yes.” Another dab with the paintbrush. “I’m vers, but mostly I prefer to top. Hey, don’t move your head!”
“Do you want to top me?”
A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth and his gaze flicked up to mine. “Yes, of course. But only if you want me to. There isn’t a rush, and we are having plenty of fun doing everything else. I don’t feel like it’s missing.”
He dabbed a blob of paint on the end of my nose. “Voila, finished. Let it dry before you get up.”
Very carefully, so as not to disturb his artwork, he pressed his lips against mine and I melted into him, my limbs liquid and loose. A few strands of dark hair had escaped his ponytail; the scrap of elastic holding them in place no match for his thick curls, and I tucked them behind his ear as he broke away, still staring down at me as though I was someone worth staring at. I grinned up, feeling lighter and younger and healthier than I had in years.
“I’m not especially busy tonight, Florian,” I ventured, “If there was anything you fancied doing, you know, in this big old empty house.”
Another expression crossed his face, one I also needed to get down on paper. “I can think of a thing or two.”
My lips curled into a smile. “I thought you might. I suppose the real question is whether that sulky woman who runs the corner shop in Loix sells lube?”
“You’ve painted a garden on my face.” I said, staring into the bathroom mirror a while later. I looked ridiculous and I bloody loved it. “I didn’t even know I owned a palette with sparkly glitter paint.”
“That’s because when you paint you choose the dull browns and shades of taupe and ecru and all the other fancy sophisticated colours. My bright colour scheme is much better.”
“It is, you’re right.”
I counted six bold flowers, in all the colours of the rainbow except for the colours God had intended.
“Florian’s flowers.” I declared. “Flowers for Florian.”
His beautiful name was perfect for him. Latin or Roman maybe. Florus, florianus. Blooming, flowering. Tiny green and silver hearts interspersed them. We’d already taken photos, on my phone and his, of our grinning faces pressed together. When he hadn’t been paying attention, I’d scooped up some paint and smeared it over him. And then rubbed it off and painted him properly, so we sported matching blooms. By the time I’d finished we resembled a pair of mischievous pre-schoolers let loose in an empty classroom.
“You’re not allowed to wash it off,” he warned. “Promise me you’ll keep it on all night. I’m going to suggest a walk along the beach, by the way, and finish with a drink at L’Escale. To show off my artwork.”
