He’s actually human. Something you wouldn’t be able to tell from the soulless perfection of his self-portraits.
I’ve got no idea how much time has passed, since the sky is cloudy, and it’s not as if I know what time we had breakfast, but my body is feeling the strain. I’ve been fighting any complaints for a while. He’s so engulfed in his work I don’t want to ruin it for him. I’ve been using my discomfort as expression fodder for my face, but eventually, I get a cramp in my leg so intense, I wiggle my foot with a whine.
“Fuck. Fuck. Cramp!”
He looks up, exasperated, but when I sob, shaking from the pain, he puts down his tools and hurries my way, on his knees before I can ask for real help. “Shhh, it’s okay, I’m here, pet,” he whispers, resting my foot on his chest and kneading my calf. There’s some strange magic in his touch, because soon enough, the shooting pain gives way to a pleasant warmth. “I’ve got you.”
I take deep breaths, watching him in amazement, heart beating too fast. I should be terrified of this man, not getting mushy. But when I meet his blue eyes, it’s as though I’m drowning, my real life drifting away in a blur until all that matters is the new one I have here, in this house, with him.
It’s insanity.
Sevastyan rubs his hand all the way up the back of my thigh. “Okay, let’s get you down. It’s not like I can finish anything today anyway. I’m barely getting accustomed to the shapes of you and your color palette.”
Am I really so touch-starved that I’m giddy when a man who hurt and abducted me pets me? Or is it because I feel like I know him thanks to the parasocial relationship I’ve had with Sevastyan for years?
Either way, my dick’s interested again. Not something I can hide.
“I’m sorry. I hope you got something good so far,” I mumble to distract him as he unbinds me.
With all the rope pooled on the floor, he slides one arm under my knees, the other behind my back and cradles me against his warm chest. Is it his heart that’s beating so fast and loud, or mine?
“See for yourself,” he tells me, carrying me all the way to the unfinished painting. It’s different from the self-portraits I’ve seen. Wilder, as if he were gorging himself on me with each stroke of the brush, almost as if the ghost of Egon Schiele stepped into Sevastyan and lent him some of that raw sexual energy. Because there is so much desire in the unfinished picture, and now that I’m privy to the way he sees me, I understand why.
My long, thin body, which I find so awkward, is depicted as an amalgam of interesting edges and curves. As the figure slumps in the binds, crying with both pain and pleasure, it resembles the first letter of Sevastyan’s name, as if he can’t keep himself away even from this depiction of me.
And this is only his first attempt at portraying me. Just messy sketches with paint.
I glance to one of his smaller self-portraits nearby. The difference is so stark, yet the brushstrokesare definitely his. I’m privy to something new and different from the genius painter. Not even his agent has seen this.
And he looks at me expectantly. Sevastyan wantsmyopinion.
“I can see it. I’m not the pretty twink, or some powerful half-god, but I’m real, and very fuckable.” I can’t believe I’ve said that, but it’s true. “I like how pink you made my fingers. Like I’m excited head to toe.”
A deep sigh echoes in my ear, and all of a sudden I’m flat on the floor in front of the canvas, my calves resting on Sevastyan’s shoulders as he positions himself over me to—
My face flushes even more than before, eyes widening when I realize he’s staring between my legs and grabbing the linseed oil.
“Wait! I… no?” And I’m tearing up again. Which is bad, because he’s told me so many times now how much of a turn on that is. Fuck. For all I know he might proceed, because it’s not like I can stop him, but he just recoils, sitting back on his heels, and looks at me like a spooked deer.
“No?”
Chapter 7
Sevastyan
Iinfusedeverystrokeof paint on the canvas with the desire to bury myself in Victor’s hot, trembling body. Each time the oils soaked into thread, I imagined him absorbing my cum on the floor, or even still tied to the column. A drive inside me urges me to ignore his protest, just like I ignored his complaints about everything else, but his voice doesn’t sound uncertain this time. There’s none of that delicious I want-it-but-shouldn’t rasp in it, only a sharp edge that cuts the urgency of my arousal.
He’s serious.
And scared.
“Shame,” I tell him, rubbing his thighs in slow, lazy circles. “You look so breedable.”
The flush on his face makes me want to break through all his defences.
“I’m sorry, I just… I’m a little scared of that.”
I give his ass a longing look but slowly pull away. That doesn’t mean we won’t be doing other things. Maybe I just need to rub that tension out of him during a hot bath. I can also peel away his layers in there and find out what this anxiety is about.
