The throbbing between my legs is screaming at me for attention, but this isn’t about me. I want to make him feel the way he makes me feel.
“Keep going like that and I’m going to come.”
I suck and stroke simultaneously until he’s pounding his free fist into the wall, warning me that he’s close.
I want it. I want everything he has to give me. I want to feel this powerful all the time.
With one last flick of my tongue around the tip and a nice, firm tug, he comes with a roar, filling my cheeks with his release and I happily swallow every… single… drop.
It’s in this moment that I realize I could spend forever right here with him.
Tristan
Water is still dripping from both of our bodies when I step into my studio with her naked form in my arms.
“Hit the light for me?” I twist around to angle her enough to flip the switch and she does, sending a warm light over the entire space.
“Your entire body relaxes when you walk into this room,” she says, placing a hand on my cheek.
Her lips are swollen and red from her very surprising gift in the shower and her hair is sticking to the still damp parts of her face. She looks fucking delectable.
“I think that also has something to do with the angel in my arms.” I stop directly in front of the pile of pillows I had posed her on the night I painted her.
“That’s just your post-orgasm high talking,” she jokes.
I carefully place her on her feet. “Don’t dry off, hmm? Just lie down and get comfortable any way you’d like. I’ll be right back.”
“What are you doing? I’ll get the pillows all wet.”
I can see a variety of chill bumps glaze over her skin as she stands under the warm glow. “First I’m going to turn the heat up in the room. I don’t want you to catch a chill. As for the rest, you’re just going to have to trust me.”
I catch the slightest smile from her out of the corner of my eye as she surveys the pillows’ positions from the other night. Nora lowers to her knees while pulling several of the colorful headrests together into a kaleidoscope of cotton.
After righting the temperature, I gather a few solid paints and a few different paint brushes.
“Are you comfortable?” I ask when I return, placing the supplies on the floor beside her.
“Extremely.” She slides her hands behind her head and pulls her hair up and out from behind her, letting it fan over the pillows.
“You’re not covering yourself. I have to be honest, I thought you might be a bit shy right now.”
“In any other circumstance, you might be right, but I’m riding this wave of confidence that being near you provides.”
Still naked myself, I kneel on the floor by her feet and take a paintbrush in my hands, sliding the bristles over the top of her left foot, wetting them with the droplets of water still present.
“How does that feel, Petal?”
“Soft, it feels like tiny fingers. It also raises questions.”
“Questions?” I repeat as my focus remains on the stroke of the brush over her skin.
“Yes. The one that keeps repeating is: what are we doing?”
“Well, love, it’s time for another masterpiece. You are the canvas.”
“Oh,” she says on a breath when I let the bristles tickle between her toes for a moment before dipping it into the solid, purple paint.
“This will be my first attempt at watercolor. Be kind to me,” I joke, then glide a stroke from her ankle and up to her naked hip, fighting my urge to groan in appreciation when her body wiggles a bit and her lips part in a happy sigh.
“How could I ever be anything but kind when you make me feel this way?”
The pigment begins to bleed and smear as the water droplets fall and move across her skin.
“You have goosebumps,” I comment, then add even more paint, this time in a line from her navel to the space between her breasts.
“I did notice that you didn’t use watercolor. Is there a reason?”
“It seemed less permanent to me. It feels fleeting. It seems to burn bright then fade. I’m not sure how I feel about it in relation to my own work.”
“That’s very intellectual of you.”
“Is that a dig, Petal?”
“For how I know you to be, I think I was expecting something out of a Shakespearian text or at the very least a classic romance novel.”
“You’re very chatty for someone that I am attempting to seduce with my art.” I smirk and swirl the brush around her nipple that grows and hardens at my touch.
“I just,” she closes her eyes and curls her fingers into the pillows, “mmm, want to know you.”
I crawl over her, careful not to touch her with anything but the paintbrush, and whisper in her ear. “My cock was in your mouth less than twenty minutes ago, love. I think we know each other a little more now.”
“Maybe I want to know you more like that too.” She opens one eye a bit to see if she gains a reaction.
“Never say that to a man. We might never leave the house again.”
“Since you’re a fan of words, tell me how this makes you feel. Don’t leave anything out.”
I ponder a response for a moment as I apply more paint to her chest and up her neck. Soon, I abandon the paint-covered brush and select a new, clean one.
“It makes me feel in control and wildly out of control at the same time.” I run the new brush up the inside of her thigh. “I want to touch you everywhere. I want to break you and be rough with you, but I want to cherish you like a beautiful piece of glass that deserves to be handled with delicate gloves.” I gather water droplets from her body in the bristles and tease dangerously close to the apex of her thighs, but I miss it very, very purposefully. “I’m calm and wild. Sated, but starving.”
The harshness of her swallow is a feast for my eyes as well as my ears. “Starving. Good word. Very good word.”
I did notice an interesting reaction from part of my confession. Nora visibly shivered at the words break and rough. It further confirms for me the possibility of something dark I’ve felt around her is real.
“I’m going to touch you even more. If you ever want me to stop, just tell me, all right?” I ask and she nods. “I need your words, Petal. Vocalize.”
She licks her lips and speaks. “I understand. I’ll tell you to stop if I need to.”
“I want to treat you like you deserve. Worship you like you deserve.” With the dampened bristles, I delicately and very, very softly, tease and caress the swollen bundle of nerves between her legs.
She’s on her back, comfortably propped up with her legs dropped open, watching me intently. Her toes bury themselves under the corner of a pillow just at my hip. Each subtle shift of her body, the paint begins to run in another direction. The lines bleed over the silk of her skin. The colors mesh into new ones that only show a different side of my version of live art.
I give added pressure to the bristles the longer I linger between her softly parted lips.
“Petal, I wish you could see you as I do right now.” I paint the brush against her clit. Back and forth, up and down, and in a circle until her hips are matching the motions. She’s chasing the sensation.