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“James,” I breathe, because I’m so close, but he keeps pulling away, teasing me, drawing it out. And I need it. Hemakesme need it. So bad that my legs are shaking. I grind against his mouth, but he holds my hips in place, steadying me, not letting me feel that friction my body is so desperate for.
“James,” I say again. A plea this time. Like always, I’m pleading with him, begging. Begging him for more, begging him not to stop, begging him to give me what I want. What Ineed.
Slipping his fingers inside, he curls them up and presses against that special spot. I arch my hips in response, running my fingers through that messy hair of his as he fucks me with his fingers slow and hard. And I can barely catch a breath because it’s so. Goddamn. Good.
“I could do this all fucking day Katie,” he says with a chuckle. He pulls away, biting at the inside of my thigh before lowering himself back down, edging me closer and closer until I’m right there, until I’m shaking again, until I can’t go another second without that release that only he can give me. “All day I could eat this fucking pussy. You ready to come for me?”
“Yes,” I say, as I pull his head back down.
He licks me from back to front before closing his mouth over my clit and he doesn’t stop until I’m moaning and saying his name and my whole body is trembling as a surge of pleasure explodes inside me. My release is a rolling tide of need and desire, a shuddering wave of pleasure, a goddamn storm hitting me again and again as I ride out my orgasm on his face.
Hurricane James.
I collapse on the table, my breath ragged, my pulse pounding in my chest. “Jesus James,” I gasp.
He smiles up at me, the remnants of my orgasm glistening all over that new beard of his. “I’m not even close to being done with you. How many months has it been since I’ve called, Katie?”
“I… my birthday, I guess. Three?”
“One for each month then. Two more to go,” he says with a dark smile, and it takes me a second to realize what he’s saying but he’s already dropping his head back down between my legs and once again I’m falling into bliss.
It’s 1 pm and James is back to apologizing.
3
It’s4amandhe’s painting.
He’s paintingme.Not a canvas, not the walls or the floor, but me. My skin. His white sheets curl around my body, entangling me. My bare legs hang over the edge of the bed and I feel a tickle on my calves, wet paint and a slide of a brush, the soft touch of his fingers as they move over my skin.
He’s beautiful when he paints. More than beautiful. He’s everything when he paints.
And I watch him.
I watch the furrow of his brow, his focus, the rare look of calm that’s fallen across his usual stormy features. It’s almost cathartic, seeing him like this. James ishappywhen he paints. Serene. As though he’s found that perfect moment, that balance. Like twilight, those few minutes before dawn when the world is still calm, before all the chaos starts and everything gets too loud.
“Seems much too bright for you,” I whisper, not wanting to break the silence. His apartment is dark, an earthy smell sitting heavily in the air from the joint that hangs from his mouth. “Where’s all the black? All the torture? All that dark linework everyone seems to revere you for? Not going soft on me are you?”
A half smile curves up his face and his eyes meet mine as he puffs out a cloud of smoke. And then another. And then one more before he extinguishes his blunt into the ashtray next to him. “When I see you, I only see colour. You’re all shades of light, Katie.”
I bite my lip and he shifts, his eyes dropping to my mouth. “You’re gonna to ruin your sheets,” I tell him.
“They’ll look much better when we’re done,” he says, sliding the panels of white cotton up past my thighs and exposing my backside. “But I seem to be running out of canvas.”
He moves over me, gliding his paintbrush over the back of my thighs, across the hills of my ass cheeks and over my back. Goosebumps rush over my skin, and James laughs when I shift and wiggle and twist under his touch. That beautiful laugh. A symphony I wish I could hear every minute of every day.
The hands running over my body make it hard to breathe, and he dips his brush back into his paint. Orange and yellow and pinks and purples. It’s on my skin, covering me, marking me in colour.
“What are you painting?” I ask.
“Sunshine,” he says with another smile, and I smile back.
Every touch sends a pulse between my legs, every graze of a finger sends a flare of heat to the pit of my belly. I grip the sheets and he tells me to stop squirming, but my body is desperate for more—for more James, for more than just these teasing touches and the tender ministrations of that damn paintbrush.
“James,” I groan into the pillow.
“Almost done Katie.” Another quiet laugh, but this one has something else behind it. That same need and desperation I feel flooding through my veins that’s making it so hard not to move even though he keeps telling me not to.
His hands find my hips and he flips me over. I feel the paint from my skin soaking into the fabric of his sheets, but he pays no mind to the mess as his dark, hungry eyes trace my naked front. They settle on my breasts, and there’s that smile again. He pulls up his paintbrush once more and slides the thick liquid over my chest and across my stomach. Green this time.
