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“This is never going to come out,” he says as he eyes the paint staining the gold strands of my hair.
I don’t ever want it to, is what I want to say.I want you to paint me everyday, is what I need to say. Instead, I stay quiet and watch. Watch him watch me. Watch his eyes drink me in. I trace each of his movements, every touch—the sweep of his skin against mine, how close his lips get to the peaks of my breasts as he leans over me to clean off his brush or to pick a new colour.
“Why aren’t you painting?” he asks me.
“Why aren’t you?”
He arches an eyebrow. “I think painting is exactly what I’m doing,” he says, and then he runs the bristles of his brush down my arm as if to illustrate his point.
“You know what I mean. Whyweren’tyou?”
“Maybe I needed a muse,” he teases, and I roll my eyes. “Tell me,” he presses, “what’s got your mind stuck?”
I pause, thinking about all the things I could say. How painting hurts sometimes, how it kills me a little, because when I close my eyes to find my inspiration, it’s only him I see. And he hurts, he kills me a little.
“I don’t know. I guess… it stopped being fun.”
He grins before closing his mouth around my nipple, and a shiver runs up my spine. My moan is involuntary, as is the movement of my hips and the arch of my back. When he flicks his tongue back and forth, I reach for him before wrapping my paint soaked legs around his waist.
“You’re not having fun?”
“I’m not the one painting.”
“We can fix that,” he says. He grabs my fingers and dips them into the palette of colours sitting on the bed. Purple. And then a little black. Always black with James, always dark. He guides my fingers across the expanse of his hard chest, over the ripples of his stomach and down the cut of his pelvic muscles pointing to the growing length I see stretching the cotton of his briefs.
Greedily, I glide my hands over every part of him, over every spare inch of exposed skin I can get at, and then once again I soak my fingers in more paint. Blue this time, and black of course, and then a little yellow because his laugh is happy tonight, his smile bright. I paint over his biceps and down the corded muscles of his forearms, and he kisses my chest and neck and stomach. There’s paint on his cheeks and on his chin and in his hair. He kisses me and I tug off those briefs.
His lips are soft and our hands wet from all the paint, and I feel it staining our skin as he settles on top of me. His naked chest moves over mine and we’re locked in this impassioned embrace of paint and lust and need and everything in between.
Sometimes I forget what it’s like with him, how the world can feel like this uninspiring mess of beiges and greys, but then he storms in and suddenly the world is screaming in colour. Angry, passionate reds and sunny yellows with the orange and the pinks and all those bright shades of purple.
Slowly, he slides inside me, digging his fingers into my painted skin and gripping my hips tight. He’s soft and tender and teasing, slow and rhythmic. It’s colours and paint and kisses, skin on skin, lips on lips, teeth grazing along my throat, his breath heating my shoulder.
“God Katie,” he breathes. “You heal my fucking soul.”
And he fills the void in mine. The one he’s so good at fixing, the one he leaves every time he walks away.
Pulling me close, he fucks me harder, as if reading my mind, as if he’s not sure which time will be the last time, and so he buries himself deep, taking as much as he can while I take all of him. Every inch, every thrust, every hard, punishing slam until my body is shaking and he’s pulling me over that cliff of bliss, of euphoria, of reds and oranges and every fiery fucking colour on the spectrum.
“Fuck, James.” I moan into his chest when I come, my nails slicing down his back as he takes me further, as he draws it out, as he exhausts me and then I’m coming again. His body jerks forward, and I feel his release as a pool of warmth floods between my legs.
We cling to each other, breathing in tandem, our hearts battering in our chests. There’s this silence between us, it’s thick with things unsaid, heavy with the promise that this is only until Sunday, only until I catch my flight. But neither of us dares to speak of such things. Instead, he rolls off me and pulls me into his chest.
“My best work, I think,” he says with a laugh as he studies his canvas—my naked skin and his, the white sheets with the mess of colours, fingerprints in blues and purples, the shape of my body in yellows and oranges and pinks. Sunshine, he’d said. And he’s all dark. Except for that bit of yellow I’d snuck on him.
“I agree,” I say teasingly. “This will hang in a gallery one day.”
He snorts. “I’m not sure I could hang you in a gallery without getting arrested, but I’d certainly pull a crowd.”
“I meant the sheets, asshole.”
He flips me on my back before tracing his lips down my chest. “I’ll call itThoroughly Fucked.”
“So crass,” I say, swatting at him, but he’s already moving his mouth between my legs.
“But so true. Love what this pussy tastes like, Katie. I don’t think I can let you sleep tonight.”
“The night’s over,” I say with a laugh when I note the rising sun pouring in through the window. But he ignores me, and I’m suddenly squirming under his tongue that’s already moving over me so perfectly, that’s sliding up and down, that’s circling that little bundle of nerves. I dig my head back into the pillows and grip his paint flecked hair.
