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I kiss her until my head spins, my cock aches, and she’s moaning against me. I need—
I break off from her. “I want to paint you.”
Her eyebrows go up. “Now?”
I can’t help the smile that springs to my mouth when I hear the tone of her voice, as if I’d suggested sacrificing a virgin on Easter.
“Aye. Now.” I point at her clothes. “Take this off.”
I expect her to object. I expect her to roll her eyes. I expect… not sure what I expect, but when she shrugs and tosses off her shirt, I begin to think I’m a total numpty.Couldn’t waited untilafter, mate?
Playing it cool despite the sweat now dripping down my back, I watch as she strips out of her pants as well. It’s like watching perfection offer herself to your eyes and the skills of your hands. My hands have the skills to do right by her, but my focus keeps shifting to where I’d like those hands to be. I’ve never been so hard in my life.
Clearing my throat, I say, “Uh, the couch’ll work.”
She gives the couch a dubious look. Can’t rightly blame her. I rush around to my footlocker, grab a clean white top sheet, then drape it over the couch.
With a that’s-more-like-it nod of her head, she positions herself on it. All that lushness. All that boldness. And not an ounce of inhibition.
“You are so perfect, luv,” I say, moving to get my palette. Feels like I’m fighting to walk with a pole stuck down the front of my pants. I’m sure she notices. She’s trained to notice things.
I begin to mix the colors on my palette, setting up before the easel and the blank paper.
“Now you,” she says.
I lean out from the easel, get another glimpse of her, and fight not to join her on the couch. “Now me?” I repeat, because I’m starting to lose the ability to think straight.
She runs her hand along the smooth dark skin of her outer thigh. “Yes. Now you take off your clothes.”
My eyes are glued to the movement of her hand, so that the words she’s spoken are held at bay for a moment. They finally sink in.
I grin at her. “That’ll be a first for me. It’s usually the model who’s nude.”
“Mmmm,” she says. “But I think this model requires a different form of payment.”
I groan, stand, then begin to unzip. The sharp pain of my cock straining against my jeans heightens my every movement. I strip down, and she makes a pleased sound.
“You are glorious. You know that, right?”
“Ach. Stop, luv. I can’t do this. Not with your eyes devouring me like that.”
She laughs. “Too late. You promised to paint me. I’m not allowing you over here to devourmeuntil it’s done.”
My eyes must surely pop from my skull, because she laughs hard enough to snort once.
“Not funny,” I grumble. What started out as a fun—let me get a few strokes of all that beauty on a canvas—has turned into a test of my patience and skill.
She moans on the couch, arches, then groans. “How’s this?”
Ach. She thinks I’m made of stone. “You mean to torture me, then?”
“Oh, I’m not the one who kissed me senseless then suggested I let myself be painted for two hours.”
Two hours? Nope. I mix my paints, put brush to page, add some lines, then turn the canvas around. “Done,” I say.
She bursts out laughing. “Sean!” She begins to laugh harder. “That’s the best stick figure I’ve ever seen.”
This last she laughs into my mouth, as I’ve crossed the room to her. I sweep my tongue into her mouth and revel in the skin-to-skin contact of all of her against all of me.
