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I’m dizzy and lightheaded but, when Blake slides his cock out of me, a tiny voice inside my mind tells me that it still isn’t over. There’s something I still need to do.
I sit up on the floor and force my eyelids open. I go to my knees and then look at Blake with my mouth slightly ajar. A grin lights up his face as he realizes what I want him to do, and he goes up to his feet in no time, towering over me.
I don’t even need to think about what I have to do – my body already knows it. Reaching for his cock with both hands, I start stroking him right away. My rhythm builds up fast, but then I break it by leaning in and wrapping my lips around the tip of his cock. He groans as I do it, and then he groans some more as I push my mouth down the length of his shaft at a breakneck speed.
Bobbing my head as fast as I can, this time I don’t stop when I feel his cock pulsing hard inside of my mouth – I just keep on doing what I’m doing. In a matter of seconds, he places both his hands on my head and comes.
Gushing a river of cum into my mouth, he fills it up to the brim with two quick spasms of his cock. I remain still for a few seconds, and when Blake’s finished I start rolling my lips back. His cock pops out of my mouth with a wet sound and, before I can even think about what I’m doing, I simply swallow.
“Fuck, you’re amazing,” Blake tells me, reaching for me and grabbing me by the hand. He pulls me up to my feet and then makes me lay down on the bed, joining me a second later.
“You’re the one who’s amazing,” I tell him, rolling to the side and resting one arm over his chest. We stay like that for a long time, the shadows growing around us and tumbling over our naked bodies. Surrounded by canvas, old brushes, and the smell of new paint, I close my eyes and surrender to the moment.
This is a memory I’m sure I won’t forget anytime soon.
Chapter 18
Katherine
The rays of the sun caress the back of my neck as I make a cup of coffee in Blake’s kitchen. At first, I only stare at the glistening beast of a coffee machine. I am nearly dizzy from the number of buttons on the silver appliance, but I persist, and it does not take too long before I hold a steaming mug of hot black liquid.
I take a sip and close my eyes, enjoying the hot liquid caress my tongue before I swallow. This is excellent coffee.
Coffee is one of my weaknesses. I probably drink too much of it. And I like the good stuff, exactly like the one I am holding in my hands right now. I am a coffee connoisseur.
Life, I believe, is too short to drink bad coffee. And there’s nothing better than good coffee after a little nap, is there? After what happened inside the studio, I simply nodded off. I must have slept for a couple of hours before I finally woke up. Blake was nowhere to be seen, so I just made my way toward the kitchen.
Dressed in nothing but one of Blake’s t-shirts, and with bare feet, I now meander through the apartment and back to the studio.
I make my way through the living room, remembering how it felt to be with Blake. A little color rises to my cheeks as I recall the wild animalistic passion I had felt when Blake and I were having sex.
Dale had never been so near Neanderthal in his approach to sex, at least not with me.
I push thoughts of the ex-boyfriend aside. He is well and truly history.
Curiosity arouses I continue my exploration of this oversized apartment. I seem to still be floating on clouds, the after-effect of sex lingering.
I keep reminding myself that this is just a fling, not a long-lasting attachment, to the point where I’ve nearly convinced myself.
I have to admit, up until I stood in his workspace, I hadn’t been entirely convinced of Blake being an serious painter. Sure, I had seen his work on exhibit the other night, but it was no proof he was an artist. Arealartist.
And now I stand in his workspace, and an explosion of color and feeling emanate from each and every piece of art scattered through the vast area stretched out before me.
It is not neat and tidy. I spot two, no, three working easel with canvasses on them. One of them appears to be blank, but the other two have been started, although it is unclear exactly what they are paintings of.
Some of the finished pieces are leaning against the wall, while others are hanging up. More of them are lying on the floor. He sure is prolific.
Slowly, I move from painting to painting.
It is as if a giant has taken me into his cave and laid his soul bare in front of me.
Open-mouthed, I stare at a large canvass filled with dark blues, grays and blacks. The storm raging within the artist is unmistakable. It must have been a dark day for Blake the day he painted this one.
I move on.
I’m intrigued. As a writer I understand all too well how your emotions can rule your creative side.
A canvass covered in every red and orange on the color spectrum has me reel back. I fear if I stand too close, the heat will burn my skin. I wonder if it is a raging fire he is portraying or something else.
