Page 16 of The Painter and His Poet

Pressing a kiss against her stomach, I duck lower, reaching for the hem of her jeans, urging her to lift her foot so I can remove her boots. She rests her hand on my shoulder, quiet as I unzip them. Pulling each foot free, I cast the boots aside, then slip my fingers under the hem of her jeans once more as I graze her ankles. She lets out a small whimper as I remove each sock in turn, the palms of my hands pressing against the bridge of her feet momentarily.

“You also have a gentle touch,” she whispers.

“I almost feel as though you might disappear,” I reply, sucking in a ragged breath as I slowly lift my gaze to meet hers. She’s a fucking mirage of colour, a vision of inspiration, a feast for my very soul.

Cocking her head to the side, she regards me. “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

I nod, reaching for the waistband of her jeans, unzipping them before my fingers curl over the material. Inch by tantalising inch, I slowly reveal her shapely legs, they’re muscular yet feminine and soft.

“Look at you, so fucking beautiful,” I mutter.

“There you go again, flattering me,” she whispers, leaning forward, her hands resting on my shoulders once more as she lifts one foot, then the other.

“Can I?” I ask, discarding her jeans and looking up at her as her hands fall away from my shoulders.

She nods, her eyelids at half-mast as my fingers glide up the front of her thighs, resting on her hips and the tiny stretch marks that are scattered across them. My attention hones in on those pretty silver lines, how they seem to shimmer. So fucking beautiful.

“I– I’ve been heavier,” she mutters, her voice laced with something close to shame as her eyes flit away, but it’s the way her voice trembles that tells me these marks are more than skin deep for her, that there is a story here, a trauma.

“We all have scars, Friday. Mine just happen to be on the inside,” I reply, and she snaps her gaze back to mine, understanding passing between us even if we don’t voice our trauma out loud.

I’m trembling as much as she is, in utter adoration of this woman as I slowly remove her knickers, revealing a strip of neatly trimmed hair, the colour a darker shade of blonde.

“Fuck,” I groan as she steps out of her knickers, baring herself fully to me.

“I’m not sure what to do with my hands,” she blurts out, running her palms over her hips as I stare up at her, utterly transfixed. “I’m not very good at this.”

Her candidness is comforting, it gives me the courage to take the lead.

“Let your hair down,” I instruct, gazing up at her, my face inches from her pussy. Her musky yet sweet scent, making me want to tip my head back and roar like some feral fucking beast.

“Sure,” she whispers, and moments later her hair is free, framing her face in a halo of honey-blonde, the tips hanging a couple of inches below her chin and churning up a topaz blue that only I can see within the strands.

“How’s that?”

“Perfect.You’re perfect.”

“Pretty sure I’m not,” she replies, throwing my earlier statement back at me with a smile.

“Then perhaps we can be imperfect together?” I offer.

“That I can do,” she murmurs in response.

I know if my friend Dalton could see me now he’d be telling me to stop messing about and fuck this beautiful woman intooblivion. But I want to savour the moment. I want to taste her pussy. I want to stroke her glorious skin, and feel how she reacts to my touch. I want to make her come first before I allow myself the gift of sinking inside of her.

“Lie back on the bed, prop your head up on a pillow and spread your legs for me, Friday,” I command, my voice rough.

She chews on her lip, her hair fanning out across the pillow as she lies back on the bed, parting her legs a little. Not nearly enough.

“Wider. Put your feet on the mattress. Let me see you.”

“I feel so exposed,” she whispers, her chest heaving as her cheeks flush. Yet, despite her coyness, she does exactly as I ask, giving me her trust.

“Berry red, my favourite colour,” I say, my gaze focusing on her glistening slit, a shudder running through me at how fucking spectacular she looks baring herself to me like this.

“Oh my,” she whispers, her fingers curling around my deep blue sheets as I kick off my boots and remove my socks before I reach for the zipper of my jeans, sliding them off alongside my boxer shorts. My dick springs free, the tip glistening with pre-cum as I fist my cock, palming the firm length as her gaze drops to my dick.

“Thought so,” she mutters, biting on her lip as she flicks her gaze back up.

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