Page 74 of Painting Celia

She followed his gaze past her to the dark window. The low light reflected her murkily, the polarized film tinting her nearly-nude reflection a faint pearly purple. She had only moments to be amused before his hands traveled around her from behind to caress her bare skin.

•••

She closed her eyes and let her head fall back, but León watched their reflection.

It was another moment he had to remember—to paint. In his arms, Celia was warm flesh and scent and movement. He was free to explore her, the anticipation of it making his head swim. But in the window, he saw a shadowy mirror woman, faintly iridescent and indigo. She was shrouded, unobtainable, beckoning him with welcoming curves he could see his hands roaming, but untouchable.

He finally pressed his length against her from behind, pulling her body to him with one hand on a breast and one on her stomach, starting to slide lower. She inhaled as his fingers inched under the band of her panties and turned her head to his for a kiss. He was still sneaking a look at the reflection, his breath racing.

“León,” she murmured. He finally looked at her, the supple human within his reach. “If you are thinking about a painting, so help me god….”

“I’m not,” he said. “I mean, I can’t help it.”

She turned in his arms. “That light is going off.”

She left him, going down on one knee on the daybed and stretching to reach the lamp. He had just one second to see her, reaching forward with one arm, one leg stretched back to the floor. What a line, what a pose! Then the light was off, and he could only see her faintly in the reflected aqua light from the pool outside.

In a quick motion, he began unbuttoning his jeans. Celia turned back, standing, watching his fingers, lips parted.

He was done looking. It was time to feel those places his brush had gone first.

•••

Celia sat back on the bed, the remnants of astonishment transforming into fierce hunger. His eyes were on her body, devouring the places he was about to touch.

When he stepped closer, she helped with his clothes, taking the opportunity to caress that tawny skin on his hips. He trembled, his hands clenched a fraction, but she saw him force himself still while she revealed his stiff erection, then bare thighs. He kicked the jeans completely off and then joined her on the cot, a knee between hers. She leaned back onto her elbows as he pushed gently on her shoulder.

“I’ve thought so many times about touching you here,” he murmured, running his fingers up her side. The curve he found so fascinating. It tickled. Possessive satisfaction flowed in his voice. “Jesus, Celia.”

Roughly, he leaned into her, sliding an arm behind her and tilting his head down for another kiss. She couldn’t resist running her hands up his back, wanting him just a few inches closer.

His other hand roamed her side and hip, his mouth still on hers. He explored it with his tongue, pressing her back onto the pillow. It was exquisite torture, every fiber in her aflame, demanding more touches, more kisses. She knew from his uneven breathing and the slight tremor in his hands that he was done waiting too. She began drawing him atop her with demanding hands, urging silently that this slow torment give way to action.

He gave in. His weight pressed her down, his hips hard between her legs, his rigid cock hot against her belly.

“León,” she pleaded.

He rested his forehead against hers, lips parted, breathing heavy. His weight shifted as he reached down between her to position himself between her wet lips, then slowly pushed in. A fiery shock wave traveled up her entire body. He groaned as she tilted her hips to meet him closer. She clutched his shoulders, pulled his head to her neck, and finally ran her fingers through that mane of sleek black hair.

He slowly stroked out, then back in, pressing hard. Every part of their bodies fit together perfectly. It was mindless, just the joy of touch and pleasure. He was fighting to go slowly, lavishly, but losing the battle as she twisted underneath him, meeting his hips with hers in spontaneous synchronicity, striving against each other but together.

His rhythm was sure, measured, with long slow strokes. Every one raised the stakes, bringing her fractionally closer to ecstasy, her body tenser, whimpers wrung from her throat each time he thrust in. He was slowly fanning the flame in her with every slick movement.

His panting against her neck was rough, small moans starting to tickle against her skin. Sweat was slick between their bodies, the tension increasing until she felt she might snap. His length slid smoothly into her, effortlessly caressing every sensitive spot.

The sensations were peaking, far too overwhelming to resist, unbearable. León’s cries matched hers, pushing her further, but his hand finding hers and interlacing their fingers sent her over the edge. She shuddered at that crest, León pausing as she wrestled under him. His hand tightened on hers.

“Mi cielo,” he whispered, his throat tight.

The climax faded, leaving behind the sweetest lingering feeling throughout her body. She clutched León to her, fighting to catch her breath.

“More,” she whispered. He slowly resumed his motion, shuddering himself. He’d been close, and the pause had strained his control. He moved in her with abandon, making her gasp.

“You’re mine,” he was whispering, pleading, repeating. “Say it.” Her reply was to buck against him, driving him further. He surged into her, clinging fiercely as he rode out his own release. She stroked his dark hair as he panted and whimpered brokenly into her skin. Finally, he quieted, nuzzling and sighing.

“I won’t say it,” she murmured, “but I’m not mad anymore.”

He chuckled, his face still buried in her neck, his hair sticking to her damp cheek.

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