Page 99 of The Painter and His Poet

“Fuck, you are,” I breathe, my cock swelling with more blood as I finger her gently from behind.

When her hips start to rock, and a sweet moan releases from her lips, I can’t stop myself from easing her legs apart until the gap is wide enough for me to kneel between them.

A small voice in the back of my head is telling me to stop, to at the very least wake her up, but that night when I’d eaten her out on the piano, she’d told me she wanted me to ravish her, and in response I’d warned her that I was going to creep into her room, slide inside of her and fuck her awake, and that’s exactly what I’m going to do.

As gently as possible I lower my hips, holding the top half of my body up on outstretched arms as the underside of my cock rests against her crack. I leave it there momentarily as I drag in a breath, my arms shaking from the effort of not giving in and slamming my dick inside of her.

“Harlow, I’m going to fuck you now,” I warn, and this time my voice isn’t quiet.

Something shifts in the air, and I hear Harlow’s breath catch just as I adjust my hips, the crown of my cock slipping through her folds and grazing her entrance.

“Sterling?” she questions, her voice breathy, needy,alert.

I tense, breathing hard. Fucking trembling. “I’m here, Harlow,” I manage to utter.

“You came.”

“I’m about too,” I blurt out, my fucking mouth running away from me. Then I realise exactly what that means. “Fuck. I’m not wearing a condom!”

What the fuck was I thinking? Jesus Christ, I’m an arsehole. I move to pull away, guilt, shame, lust, desire, agony and desperation all swirling inside my chest.

“Don’t stop,” she begs, reaching back, her fingers grazing my hip as she tugs me towards her.

“What?” I gasp, the tip of my cock penetrating her hole just a little. It’s all I can do not to come there and then.

“I’m on the pill. I’m clean. Don’t stop,” she begs, her nails digging into my skin slightly before her hands fall away.

“I am too,” I reply.

“Good, now fuck me, Sterling. Ineedyou.”

I don’t need to be told twice. With one powerful thrust, I slam into her, sheathing myself right up to the hilt. “Harlow!” I cry, her thready gasp and tight, slick pussy making my eyes roll back into my head.

“Oh my God, Sterling!” she groans into the pillow, her legs parting further as she gives me better access.

“I’m sorry,” I say, not for fucking her awake, but for not complimenting her on her singing, for not telling her about my synesthesia, for being so obsessed about her that I’ve painted my cum into her image on canvas, for keeping the darkest parts of me secret from her.

“I’m not,” she replies, misunderstanding me. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

“I meant–”

“Please, Sterling. Just squeeze my throat with your beautiful hand, and fuck me.”

“Jesus, Harlow,” I exclaim, my voice strained as I lay my body over hers, slip my arm beneath her chest, wrap my fingers around her throat, and fuck her.

With every shunt of my hips, Harlow’s internal walls clench tightly as though trying to pull me deeper inside her body. Even though I’m the one with almost my entire weight on her back, I feel as though I’m being completely engulfed by her.

She might feel ravished by the carnality of this act, from the frantic fucking as our skin meets and I pound into her with uncontrolled movements. She might be gasping for air and simultaneously moaning as I gently squeeze and release her throat. Her body might feel slick as my cock slams inside of her tight, wet heat, and our skin glistens with sweat.

But I’m just as consumed by her.

I’m so fucking gone for this woman.

I’m as sure of that as I am of my affection for her.

Fuck that, this isn’t just affection or attraction. This is more. This is obsession. This is adoration. This is possession, veneration.

This is love.

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