Page 67 of The Painter and His Poet

Hands on my body.

A voice… My voice?

“Please…”

My hips grind harder, my breath comes quicker, my clit throbs as my fingers thrust in and out, in and out.

“Sterling,” I groan.

And there right at the edge of my consciousness I hear a voice reply as though he’s right here in this room with me now,“I’m here, I see you.”

“Sterling?”I question on a groan.

“I want you to come for me, my little poet.”

My little poet?

Those three words send me over the edge, and I come.

I come so hard that I slam my eyes shut, my clit spasming, my body trembling, my voice calling out his name. Minutes later, when my breath has evened out, and my body has recovered from my orgasm, I sit up in bed wondering how my fantasy could feel so damn real.

After showering and getting dressed in a pair of worn denim jeans, warm socks and a soft, green sweater, I grab my phone and head downstairs to make breakfast. My mind is a jumble of thoughts as I try to unravel why Sterling’s voice had seemed so real in that moment, and why his words had seemed so much more like a memory rather than a fantasy. He’s never referred to me as his little poet, why would he? He doesn’t know that I write lyrics, he only knows that I sing. And whypoet? Maybe deep down that’s how I see all songwriters, as poets, and it’s my subconscious conjuring up his voice in a moment of heightened pleasure. Maybe I’m just overthinking this, maybe I’m just overtired.

Maybe…

Stepping into the kitchen, I head for the coffee machine that sits on the counter, and grab a mug from the cupboard, then pour myself a generous amount, adding some chilled creamer from the fridge. Taking a sip, I take a seat at the kitchen island where I can look out onto the view and try to make sense of everything, needing a moment to just think before I make myself some breakfast.

To be fair, it’s been a few days since I last spoke with Sterling, so it’s little wonder he’s on my mind. That combined with thesleeping pills I took, the stressful call from my mother, it’s no great surprise my imagination is making up things that aren’t real. Still, it’s thrown me. I’m supposed to be trying to put all thoughts of Sterling out of my head, and not indulging in fantasy that I shouldn’t be entertaining.

Strumming my fingers against the counter, I heave out a sigh when my phone vibrates in my pocket. Reaching for it, I pull it out and raise the screen to my face so that it opens. A notification for Instagram immediately pops up and my heart sinks.

“Curiosity killed the cat,” I mutter, my finger hovering over the notification as I debate whether to read it or not, because I know who this message is from. My stalker.

Curiosity wins, and I click on the notification.

You read these messages I send, yet you don’t respond. Why is that? Don’t you realise what you’re doing to me? Fuck, I want you… I want you so bad that you’re all I can think about.

Do you not believe me when I say how hard you make me? Do you need proof of how much I want to fuck you, is that it? Because, believe me when I say, I’m hard right now…

My hands shake as I read the message, dread making goosebumps scatter across my skin. I can see that he’s typing out another message, and I sit staring dumbly at my phone waiting to see what he sends next, but a movement beyond the window catches my eye and I look up.

It’s Sterling, phone in hand as he walks around the swimming pool, oblivious to me watching his every move. My heart skips a beat as I watch him typing something into his phone, a frown creasing his forehead as he stops walking.

My first thought is how attractive he looks, how his tousled brown hair is whipped up by the breeze, how sharp the cut of his jaw is as he stares at his phone. Then, as though in slow motion, a smile draws his lips wide just as his thumb presses the screen right at the same time that my phone vibrates.

Flicking my eyes back down, I’m confronted with a close up photo of a man’s erect dick. It’s long, thick, and veiny, precum jewelling the crown.

“Oh my God!” I exclaim, both appalled and suddenly very, very afraid.

Told you…

My hands begin to shake as I lift my gaze back up to Sterling. The smile he was wearing fades to something that looks close to agony as he pockets his phone and strides towards the house.

I freeze.

No way.

It’s just a coincidence.

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