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He… he was just good…
“Keep fucking going, Fi,” he whispered into my ear.
I brought the paintbrush back up the canvas.
His fingers kept playing. Teasing. Working…
I peeled the paintbrush off the canvas and took a deep breath.
I dropped the bristles into red next.
This time I focused on the canvas.
I tried to ignore the tingling and surging pleasure between my legs.
I touched the paintbrush to the canvas.
Riff moved his finger down.
My eyes widened.
“Fuck,” I whispered.
“Now,” Riff said.
I started to move the paintbrush to the right.
Riff plunged his finger into my slit.
I looked down and cried out with pleasure.
My hips drove forward, wanting more.
He curled his finger and I felt my feet press against the thin rail halfway down the stool.
I almost started to stand up.
Riff’s left hand pulled me against him.
At that moment I had no idea what the paintbrush was doing. Or if I was even controlling it.
I was lost to Riff. Lost to the rush of pleasure.
His finger teasing my depth.
Curling at the exact right spot…
Instead of the G-spot, it should be the Riff-spot.
I slapped the paintbrush to the canvas over and over.
I slammed the paintbrush to the paint.
I put my head back and groaned.
“This is so good, Riff,” I groaned.
“Of course it is, Fi,” he said.
