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The paint reaches my ass, and he pulls off my shirt, mixing more blacks and greys and dark into my skin until the entire back of me is covered.
“Lay down on the canvas,” he says with a devilish grin, “I’m going to fuck you.”
And I do. Even though I shouldn’t. Even though we should be in bed, and I shouldn’t have had so much wine and he shouldn’t be distracting me. He dips his hands in paint before settling on top of me and then he does exactly what he said he was going to do. He fucks me. The paint on my skin seeps into the canvas as he moves me back and forth, and he plunges inside me and fucks me rough like I like him to.
Black and blue and purple. Greys. Some whites. All dark and all him and all the me I keep locked up until he pulls it out so I can lay it down on a canvas.
He helps me let in the dark, the dark I’ve always been so afraid of. Excepthisdark of course. I’ve been drawn to it since we were kids and I’ve loved him through every storm, every cold, icy, biting blizzard. He sees light with me, colour, a warm, summer day to his frigid, endless winter.
We’re paint covered and the canvas is stained in the shapes and the movement and jolts and the thrusts of him fucking me. And it’s everything. When I come, I cling to him and he jerks into me hard as he releases his load, coating my inside like the paint coats my outside.
“Perfect,” he whispers. “You can call itThoroughly Fucked.”
And I laugh. “So crass.”
Pulling out, he pushes off of me and grabs my arm, carefully lifting me off the canvas and turning me to face it. I feel his cum running down my leg as I take in our art.
“There. Done. Now we can sleep all day.”
I snort. “Icannotdisplay this.”
“Why the hell not? It’s beautiful. Raw and real. All the shit you say you like.”
He’s not wrong. Our shapes, all the marks, all the dark and smeared paint and his fingerprints. It’s us. It’s raw and real. It’s perfect.
“Because… well… it’s inappropriate, isn’t it?”
“Babe, that piece over there is a literal vagina.”
“I… suppose.”
And I’d fully intended to throw the damn thing out, but after I’d slept away most of the day, I’d woken up to find James mounting it to a wooden frame. Oddly, it fit perfectly with my other two pieces, and despite my nerves when I’d walked into the gallery, that damn painting was the one everyone wanted to talk about and suddenly it felt exactly right.
Exactly right like us. Katie and James. James and Kate.
After a night of art and him sneaking winks at me each time someone would ask about that piece, he took me to bed and fucked me until I was saying the man’s goddamn name over and over again.
“Marry me,” he whispers.
“Okay,” I say sleepily, and he laughs.
“Love you Katie,” he says.
It still stops my heart every time he says it. Every time he smiles, every time he laughs. “Love you James,” I say back.
It’s 3 am and there’s still paint in my hair.
