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Adds more to the canvas. More and more and more. This is what I wanted when I saw her in that gallery. I wanted to see her emotions embodied. I didn’t know it would hurt this much. That it would drag out my own and make them vivid. Inescapable.
The future disappears. I can’t process it anymore. Can’t hold on when she’s this close and crying. There’s almost no anger in the sound, only relief.
She’s painting now.
I let go of her hands and touch her the way she wanted. The way she meant. I cover her belly with my hands. Tease her nipples. Keep her close. Daphne tortures me back, shifting her weight so she’s constantly brushing against my cock. It shouldn’t be possible to be this hard when I’m this exhausted, but my little painter has rewired my nerves. They all belong to her now.
The waves rise on the canvas, folding back on each other, rippling blue and white and gold. I put my hands everywhere I can reach.
Everywhere except one place.
I’m waiting. Patience is shredding my reserves, but when they’re gone, I’ll just keep going. Until I’m dead. Until she’s gone.
“Wasn’t it enough?” Daphne says through gritted teeth, rocking her hips back into me. “Isn’t this enough?” She keeps painting. “Emerson, please.”
She keeps her brush on the canvas and spreads her thighs. Keeps painting while she tips her head back against my chest and begs. No words. Only jagged, cutting waves.
There.
I wrap one hand around the front of her neck. Daphne’s shiver starts at the top of her head and goes down to her toes. When I have her balanced, when I’m sure she won’t fall, I slide my other hand over her breasts. Over her belly. Past her hips.
The shapes on the canvas smooth. A small part of my mind is fascinated by how she responds to me. She must be aware of it. Or maybe she’s so lost in color and sound and touch that the image is incidental.
I glide my fingers between her legs.
She’s hot there. Wet. So wet, in fact, that her inner thighs are slick. The instant I make contact, she tries to get my fingers inside. The curve on the canvas becomes a rolling wave, like the ocean entering a bay. Like safe harbor.
“What a good little painter,” I murmur into her ear, teasing her opening while I watch that wave catch a submerged rock and arc into the sky. “Paint for me some more, and I’ll give you everything you want.”
For now.
