Page 100 of The Painter and His Poet

I love Harlow Richards.

I may have only known her for a short period of time, but that means nothing to me. I don’t live by the same rules as everyone else. I’ve spent my whole damn life suppressing my feelings, trying to hide who I am, and being forced to conform to society’s norms. But I refuse to suppress this feeling a second fucking longer.

That realisation has me rearing upwards and taking her with me, our bodies still joined as she follows the movement until I’m sitting on my haunches and she’s spread over my thighs, her knees pressed into the mattress, her back to my chest and her slit stretched open wide, my cock buried deep. Fuck, I wish we were positioned in front of a mirror so that I could see how that looks. For now my imagination will have to do.

“Sterling, please," she cries, the sound of my name on her lips is a fucking beautiful melody all of its own.

“You want it like this?” I grind out, my arms wrapped around her chest to keep her steady as I thrust up into her over and over, and she meets every thrust by slamming her hips against me.

“Yes,” she hisses, her hands flying upwards as she tangles her fingers into my hair and tugs.

“Deeper, harder, Sterling. Don’t hold back,” she whimpers, and my balls draw up so tight against my body that for a moment black spots dance in front of my eyes.

“Then get on your hands and knees, Harlow,” I demand, unwrapping my arms from around her chest, and pushing forward. She braces her hands on the mattress, my dick still inside of her as I raise one leg, my foot pressed into the mattress by her knee. Then, I reach forward and gather her hair in my grasp, thrusting into her, my fingers bruising her hip as I lose control.

I rut into her with deep, powerful strokes, and she takes every single one of them, pushing back against my hips just as roughly.

“I'm going to come!” she screams.

“Then come for me, Harlow," I plead, my movements more and more uncontrolled as my eyes start to roll back in my head. “Let me feel you shatter around me. I want you to break apart. Fuck, I need you to come for me. I can’t take any more, please just come!”

“Oh, oh, oh, ohhhhhh,” she cries, her body tensing, her breath hitching, her walls spasming violently around my cock as a wave of pure ecstasy seems to engulf her body causing a jolt of intense pleasure to shoot through me.

I can't hold back any longer; the sensation is too much.

“I'm going to come too,” I gasp out before pressing my cock one last time inside of her, and coming with a body-shuddering roar that mingles with her own cry of release.

Minutes later Harlow’s body is draped across mine, her leg thrown across my thighs, her fingers tracing patterns across my chest. We’re both covered in a sheen of sweat, satiated, relaxed, content.

“Can I ask you something, Sterling?” she asks after a while.

“Of course,” I reply as she eases the top half of her body upright and looks down at me.

“Have you ever come into my room at night before?”

For a beat I don’t answer. I consider lying to her, but in the end I just nod my head. “I have, yes.”

She bites on her lip, an unreadable expression crossing her features.

“I shouldn’t have… I… Fuck, Harlow, I’m sorry.”

Reaching up I cup her face, as she lets out a slow, laboured breath. “Did you touch me, Sterling? Did you touch me in my sleep?”

“Fuck,” I murmur.

“Did you?” she insists.

“Yes, Harlow. I did. I couldn’t stop myself. It was wrong. I know it was wrong. Fuck,I’m sorry.”

She shakes her head, but she doesn’t pull away like I expect her to do. Instead, she licks her lips and lowers her mouth to mine, kissing me gently.

“It was the night when I was on the call to my mother, wasn’t it?” she asks, pulling back.

“Yes,” I admit.

“I woke up the next morning feeling aroused. I was so wet, Sterling. I thought I’d dreamt it, dreamt you. But I didn’t, did I?”

“No, you didn’t…” My voice trails off as she stares at me. There’s no anger in her gaze, just a kind of knowing. It settles the guilt inside of me. “Do you hate me for it?”

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