I yanked him up and crushed his mouth to mine, tasting myself on his lips. “Come here.” My heel hooked behind his calf, pulling him over me. He pressed into me slow, eyes locked on mine as if it were a vow.
The stretch, the slide, the way I fit around him made my whole body sigh. He started steady, measured, then deepened when I rolled my hips in answer. That lazy morning rhythm felt endless, addictive.
“Tell me what you want,” he rasped, forehead against mine, sweat beading at his temple.
“Don’t stop,” I gasped, nails grazing down his back.
He didn’t. His hand slipped between us, clever fingers stroking, and my vision went starry at the edges. I clenched around him and he groaned, a broken sound that undid me.
“Jas—”
“I know,” I whispered. “With me.”
And we broke together, his body taut above mine, mine shaking beneath him, both of us laughing breathlessly as we stilled.
He tucked me under his chin and stroked my hair while our hearts settled. I traced lazy shapes on his shoulder and tried to remember why I’d thought painting was urgent.
“Two minutes, huh?” I said, voice sated and raspy.
He laughed into my hair. “Artist time is different.”
“Mm. Keep talking,” I teased. “I like the sound of you justifying yourself.”
He kissed my temple. “I like the sound you make when you forget your own name.”
“Shut up and drink your coffee, Rodman,” I said, stern, but I was smiling so hard it hurt.
He rolled to the side, propped on an elbow, and handed me my mug. My hand was steady again. That felt like a small miracle.
“Running total?” he asked, eyes dancing.
“Two for the morning,” I said primly, taking a sip. “You’re behind schedule.”
His grin went wicked. “Challenge accepted.”
I swatted his chest and slid out of bed, legs a little wobbly in a way I was absolutely not going to admit. “If you want that hundred, you’re going to have to let me finish my paintings first.”
He lay back, arms folded behind his head, watching me like I was a sunrise. “Deal. I’ll keep you supplied with coffee and orgasms. You make the art.”
“Romantic,” I deadpanned, grabbing a hair tie. But the warmth in my chest was real. Safe. Seen. “Now go shower, menace. I’ve got brushstrokes to chase.”
He caught my wrist as I passed and pressed a kiss into my palm. “And I’ve got an orgasm number three to plan.”
I rolled my eyes and escaped to my easels, grinning like I hadn’t in days. The canvas looked easier suddenly. Maybe it was the caffeine. Maybe it was him. Probably both.
“Alright, alright,” he called, amusement still thick in his voice. “By the way, how long does it take you to do a painting start to finish?”
“It depends on the size,” I answered absently.
“Size matters.” He smirked, giving me a squeeze as he walked past.
“Definitely,” I snickered. “For a medium-sized canvas like the ones I’m finishing, a couple of days if I’m in the zone.”
“And the smaller one like I bought?”
“I can crank out two of those on a good day.” My lips twisted to one side and I studied his expression. “Why do you ask?”
“Just curious about your work, babe. Aren’t you ever curious how many fish I catch in a day?”
