“Alright, then where would you like me to stop?”
“You can stop below the knee. Like one of those Greek statues.”
Luisa inhales deeply, then resumes painting. “Whatever my muse commands.”
A tingle starts over my exposed left arm. Her movements are slow, torturous even, as she paints from my shoulder to the tip of my middle finger. She fills in my collar bone with light teasing strokes, the feel of the brush at my throat making me swallow.
It’s hard to keep still, but the seam of my jeans has become an anchor, holding me tethered to my seat. It presses deliciously hard against my core each time I arch my back to meet her strokes.
Luisa changes brush size, covering my stomach with broad upward strokes of invisible paint. I lean back, wanting her to travel higher, but it’s clear she’s leaving my breasts for last. I play with the strap of my bra, running my own finger over the lace edging. I’m willing her to look at me, to leave the easel, but she remains focused. The touch of my own hand on my skin along with hers is dizzying.
Carefully, she paints the bottom curve of my ribcage, making my breaths tug and pull. I don’t take my eyes off her as she changes brush size again, opting for a smaller, softer tip, and I feel her touch follow the contours of my breasts. Languid, at first, then small urgent strokes as she glides over each nipple. I take a sharp intake of breath, and that’s when she finally looks up, her eyes locking on mine.
We stare at one another, unblinking, as her caress intensifies. And even though she’s standing two meters away on the other side of the easel, she may as well be lying beneath me.
Every movement she makes is hypnotic. The twist of her delicate wrist, the way her eyes flicker to mine, and back to the canvas again and again, while each brushstroke makes every part of me hum. I arch my back and tip my head back as she continues to paint me, circling motions around my peaked breasts, then sweeping down to my waist, past my navel, and lower until…
She arches a brow, and I bite back a smile, tipping up my chin as if to dare her to continue.
And she does.
Slowly, excruciatingly slowly, I feel the tip of her brush move up my parted thighs before she starts to stroke me. I tilt forward, barely on my stool now, as the brush makes tiny, rhythmic movements, up and down along the seam of my jeans and over my aching core. I swallow, silently urging her to keep going. Not to stop.
“Done.”
Already?!
My vision comes into focus, and I take my time rising. I stretch with a groan, all too aware of her eyes on my bra strap that’s slipped down my shoulder. I hook it back over, adjusting the waistband of my jeans.
“It’s beautiful,” I whisper, peering over her shoulder at the multi-colored abstract rendering of me.
As I speak, my breath caresses the back of her neck, making tiny goosebumps appear on her skin. I smile. This portrait may have been my way of making it up to her, but Luisa has had more than enough power for today.
My turn.
I close the space between us, position myself flush against her, my chest brushing against her shoulder blades. She doesn’t say a word, but I can hear her breaths quicken.
“You like it?” she asks.
“Love it.”
I stroke my lips against the back of her neck, kissing the delicious dip beneath her hair, and working my way up until I’m lightly biting her earlobe. Her breath hitches, but she doesn’t move. My hands have drifted to her hips, tracing the jut of her hip bones, stroking their contours. She moans, making me press the full length of my body against hers.
I pick up her hand and place it on the wet painting of me.
“What happens if you touch the canvas,” I whisper, moving her palm across the paint and onto the image of my right breast. I don’t need to hear the answer to my question because I can feel it, the sensation of her paint-stained thumb running across the canvas and transferring to my own pert nipple.
I groan into her neck, running my teeth lightly along her shoulder.
“More.”
I place her other hand on the canvas too. Lower this time, closing my eyes as I feel her touch between my legs. I slide my own hand beneath her t-shirt and cup her breast, mimicking the movements she’s making on her painting. She strokes my portrait, and I stroke her stomach, the line of her hip bone, lingering at the lace of her underwear, before finally dipping fully into her pants. She tilts her head to the side, savoring my kisses on her neck, my fingers warm and damp between her legs as her own grow slick with paint.
She moves her hand over the painting faster now, blurring the oil paint with her fingers, each stroke sending me into spasms of pleasure. The harder she presses against the artwork, the faster my breaths and my touch on her.
“No paris,” she breathes, telling me not to stop in Catalan.
I can't take it anymore.
I spin Luisa around and grab the back of her head. Our lips collide, her paint-stained hands in my hair. She moans into my mouth, our tongues searching one another, my bruised lips desperate to taste every part of her.
As if I could ever stop.
I’m tugging at the waistband of her jeans when the sound of the door slamming against the wall makes us both look up with a start.
“Que cony fas?!” Luisa cries as Rafi barges into the studio.
We jump apart. His eyes widen, staring from Luisa to me and back again.
“Dios mio,” he cries. “Fuck. Shit. Sorry to interrupt your painting.” He takes in the colorful handprints covering our
