Page 115 of The Painter and His Poet

“Thank you, this means so much,” she replies, grasping the key in her palm and pressing it against her chest.

“When we get back, I’ll show you where it is, okay?”

“I’d like that,” she replies, her gaze flitting to the easel and the canvas resting on it. “So, what happens now?"

“I ordered these art supplies because I want to share who I truly am with you in the only way I know how. I’ve never allowed anyone to witness me create, Harlow. It’s an incredibly personal experience, and I am often so overcome with colour that I can paint for hours straight, days even, until I’m satisfied. I want to share that part of me with you, but in order to do that, I need your help.” I pause, meeting her eyes once more, and then she smiles and it's as if the entire room is bathed in sunlight. “Will you sing for me, Harlow?”

“At this point, I’ll do anything you ask,” she says, repeating the exact same words to me as she did the night we met.

THIRTY-TWO

STERLING

“What song would you like me to sing?” she asks, climbing to her feet.

My answer is immediate and certain. “True Colours.”

She gives my hand a gentle squeeze, her eyes lighting with affection. “It makes sense now why you love this song so much.”

“When you’ve spent your entire life suppressing who you truly are, hearing the words of this song feels like an acknowledgment, you know?” I explain, adjusting the height of the easel in front of me, so that I can remain seated whilst I paint.

“I understand exactly what you mean,” she replies, her gaze soft with understanding as she studies me for a moment. Then, without another word, she takes a few steps back and begins to hum the intro. The gentle sound fills the space between us as we lock gazes, and I realise that she’s giving me a moment to acclimate to the sound, to settle into the rhythm before the song fully envelops me, and I’m grateful for her thoughtfulness. As the hummed notes continue to float in the air, a tingling sensation spreads over my skin, the first glimmers of colour beginning to awaken within me.

They’re tentative at first, nothing more than a faint shimmer, barely discernible, but as she begins to sing the lyrics, they become richer in hue. Soft gold and pale ochre float outwards from her body in a haze of warmth that has me gasping. She’s singing with such tenderness, it’s as though she’s offering me a piece of herself–a part that’s meant to heal, to comfort, and in turn my synesthesia is conjuring colours to reflect that.

I swallow back the emotion rising up in my chest, instead reaching for my paintbrush, my fingers curling around the smooth wood. A sense of peace settles inside of me as I pick up a tube of paint, its colour the closest to what I see wrapping around Harlow now.

When the first dash of colour spreads across the canvas, I feel another emotion stirring deep within me,pain. The lyrics are a reminder of all the years I spent hiding, pretending to be someone I’m not, just to keep others from seeing the truth of who I really am. The vulnerability of it is overwhelming, but here with Harlow, it feels safe. She makes me feel safe, and as her voice envelops me, I allow myself to feel everything I’ve kept buried for so long.

There’s anger, fear, rage, pain, disappointment, exhaustion, betrayal, and finallyhope.

I’m hopeful because of her, because of Harlow.

Tears pour unbidden down my face, and Harlow pauses, her voice cracking.

“Sterling, should I stop?”

“No, please, keep going,” I rasp, needing to see this through, craving her voice and the comfort she brings me despite the tears. “Don’t hold back, Harlow.”

Harlow nods, the beauty of her voice washing over me as I swipe at my tears and continue to paint. My hand moves almost automatically, and I barely register the motion. For once, there’s no frantic energy in my strokes. This time, painting isn’t a purgeof emotion or colour, it’s something else entirely, it’s a profound sense of peace.

I’m so engrossed in what I’m doing that I don’t immediately register Harlow undoing her shirt whilst still continuing to sing. It’s only when her hands fall away, and the material parts showing her smooth skin and simple cotton bra, that I realise what she’s doing.

Something flickers in her gaze as though she’s seeking permission. I nod, and with slow deliberate movements, Harlow strips, adding a sensual dynamic to the moment that has my heart pounding, and my cock stirring with need. Now every note is bathed in carnal promises, the colours changing to deep plums, rosy pinks and velvety reds as her voice drops an octave, adding a potency to the lyrics that I’ve never heard before.

“Fuck, Harlow,” I murmur, my heart hammering in my chest as I watch her strip until she’s naked before me, the last note of the song lingering in the air between us.

“You are baring the deepest parts of yourself with me,” she replies, her chest rising and falling as I study her. “I want to honour you in the same way.”

“God, I’m so in love with you,” I murmur, every inch of me aching to pull her close and lose myself in her. But then, with her lips forming a perfect circle, Harlow begins to singThe Night We Metby Lord Huron, and I’m swept away once more, caught in a whirlwind of colour, with Harlow at its heart.

For the next couple of hours I continue to paint, and during all that time Harlow sings for me. Song after song, her haunting voice fills the room, only pausing occasionally so she can take sips of water to keep her throat from drying out.

By the time my brain registers the pain in my arm muscles from keeping them aloft for so long, Harlow is laying down on the bed, her arms stretched above her, her chin tipped up as she singsWicked Gameby Chris Isaak.

The sultry cadence reminds me that I’m still hard, painfully so, and I rest my paintbrush on the table then shift the canvas to one side. Dragging in a deep breath, my gaze coasts over Harlow’s pebbled nipples, the rivets of her ribcage, and the soft curve of her belly that rises and falls with every melodic breath.

Reaching for the zipper of my jeans, I slowly undo them, my hand sliding beneath the waistband of my boxers as I pull my cock free. Groaning, I give my dick a squeeze, before pumping the shaft, my gaze never leaving Harlow’s perfect form. Her expression is one of pure joy that slowly softens into a heady kind of desire as she tilts her head to face me.

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