Page 65 of The Painter and His Poet

In the confines of my jeans, my dick throbs. I’m so fucking turned on, so fucking desperate to take this further, to see what it would take to wake her up, but there’s not even a flicker of awareness. And so, with a compulsion I cannot deny, I splay my fingers across her stomach relishing in the feel of her warm, soft skin against my palm.

Resting it there, I wait.

“What will it take to rouse you?” I mutter after a full minute.

I can feel her stomach move as she breathes, and every impulse inside of me wants to take this further to see how far I can push it. So, I slide my hand lower, cupping her bare pussy, the heat of her core sending my pulse skyrocketing. My balls tighten, my dick jerks as she moans again, her body seemingly aware of my presence.

“Look at you, my little poet, so fucking beautiful,” I whisper, leaning over and brushing my lips gently against her cheek, and even though she’s deeply asleep, her legs part, widening for me

as my middle finger slips between her pussy lips.

I hold my finger there, feeling her clit pulse as something primal unravels within my chest, a kind of ownership. This iswhere I belong, right here cupping Harlow’s pussy whilst her body calls to mine.

Another soft moan releases from her mouth and I draw back, my gaze following the soft curve of her neck and lower to her breasts. Her nipples tighten beneath her nightdress, tempting me, and on instinct I take one into my mouth, tasting her through the cotton as I gently swipe my finger through her folds, gathering liquid before rolling the pad of my finger over her clit.

“Fuck, I want you so badly,” I whisper against her chest, feeling her slicken even more beneath my fingers as I take her other nipple into my mouth, sucking hard.

Yet she remains asleep, so deeply under that even when I slide my finger into her soaked core she doesn’t wake up. Despite that, her hips rock as I gently pump my finger inside of her, her body reacting unconsciously to my touch.

“Are you dreaming of me?” I ask, half-hoping she’ll wake up and welcome me into her arms. “Do you dream of me like I dream of you?”

“Sterling,” she mumbles, and my heart jackhammers inside my chest as I raise my gaze upwards, expecting her to be wide awake, staring at me in the dark. She isn’t, and I drag in a shaky breath,

knowing that our connection is so powerful that despite being fast asleep she’s still somehow aware of me.

“You’re dripping for me, Harlow. Fuck, you make me so hard,” I groan, my cock aches, so hard it’s verging on painful. But this isn’t about me, not really. This is about Harlow.

Everything I do, all that I am, is for her.

Only her.

Determined to make her come, I press the heel of my hand against her clit, giving her the pressure her body needs to climax whilst I finger-fuck her gently. Her moans get louder, only adding to the sensuality of the moment, heightening everything.Heightening the way I feel about her, how turned on I am, how hungry I am to see her come apart, how desperate I am for her to wake up, take me in her arms and claimmeashers. Just like she has in her poems.

I’ve never wanted to belong to another person as much as I want to belong to Harlow. It’s inconceivable to me that we might never get the chance to be each other’s person, and I’m fully aware that I’m risking everything doing this, that I’ve crossed a line that I’ve no right to cross. But even if I wanted to stop now, I couldn’t. I’m too far gone, too desperate for her to reach the pinnacle,needingto give her my undivided attention when it’s so sorely lacking from the other people in her life. Because whilst this act is intensely sexual, it is also coming from a place of affection, of care, no matter how fucked-up it might seem. So I rub her clit with the heel of my palm. I finger-fuck her, revelling in the way she leaks for me, her pussy so wet, so warm, so fucking mine.

“I’m here, I see you. I want you to come for me, my little poet.”

Yes I came into her bedroom for selfish reasons, but bringing her to orgasm is my gift to her. To the woman who has sunk so deep inside of my psyche that nothing and no one will unravel the binds that tie us together. If I had my way, I would show her every second of every day how much she means to me, how deeply affected I am by her presence.

I want her to feel seen.

I want her to feel desired.

I want to be her person.

I want to behers.

It’s with those thoughts that I work her body, sliding another finger inside of her, stroking that bundle of nerves deep inside her pussy. My gaze never leaves her face as her mouth parts and her muscles clench me tight. Her body is both liquid and coiledtight as she stiffens with pleasure, a rush of liquid covering my fingers. And with one last full body tremble, my little poet comes, back arched, head tipped back, a soft cry releasing from her lips.

EIGHTEEN

HARLOW

My eyes slowly drift open as winter sunlight pours through the window, warming my skin. For a moment I just lie in the pool of light, feeling a deep sense of relaxation. My body feels liquid, relaxed in a way I haven’t felt in some time. Which surprises me given my mother’s phone call in the middle of the night. I went to sleep feeling agitated, expecting to wake up in much the same way, or at the very least tired given my sleep was so rudely interrupted, yet I feel neither of those things.

“Must be the sleeping pill I took,” I murmur, shifting slightly as I adjust my duvet cover which is draped across my stomach, the edge caught between my legs. The action causes the soft Egyptian cotton to drag over my bare pussy, and the friction makes me jolt, not because it’s uncomfortable in any way, but because I feel so sensitive down there.

It’s strangely…arousing.

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