Page 52 of The Painter and His Poet

My cock throbs against the zipper of my trousers, reminding me that my base desires have not been satisfied, and my hand falls to my crotch, giving it a tight squeeze.

“Harlow,” I mutter, her name strained on my lips as my cock jerks from the contact.

I’m well aware that if I don’t relieve some of the tension right now then I might do something stupid and drive back to the hotel to seek Harlow out. Which would be a bad fucking idea given how volatile I feel, and how uncertain she is about us. Instead, I widen my legs, unzip my trousers and pull my cock out through the opening of my boxers, grasping the base.

“Yes,” I hiss, my hips thrusting up shamelessly as my eager cock slides through my fist.

I stare up at Harlow’s expression, my cock growing in my hand as I tug on its length, the veins in the back of my hand and forearm thick beneath my paint-splattered skin as I jerk myself off.

“Fuck,” I groan, white-hot pleasure gathering in my balls as they lift high and tight against my body. But without any lubrication the friction soon verges on painful, so I drop my chin to my chest whilst gathering spit into my mouth, then part my lips and watch as my saliva drops onto the engorged head of my cock imagining it’s Harlow’s cum making me slick.

Pressing the pad of my thumb over my slit, I drag the wetness down my shaft as I lift my gaze, focussing on Harlow’s face before me, her captured pleasure matching mine.

“Damn it, Harlow,” I groan, cork-screwing my fist up and down my length. “I want to fuck your beautiful mouth… I want to bury my cock deep inside your throat whilst you finger-fuck yourself... I want to watch you swallow my cum…”

My hips jerk as I thrust upwards into my fist, the wooden frame of the chair I’m sitting on digging into the stretch of muscle beneath my shoulder blades. “I want you to sit on my goddamn face until I can’t fucking breathe!”

I’m fully aware how fucking crazy I sound jerking off over a painting and talking dirty to an empty fucking room, but that doesn’t stop me, and before I know what the fuck I’m doing,I’m pushing down my boxers and trousers past my hips, kicking them off.

Completely naked, I fist my cock remembering the way Harlow had kissed me with abandon, with passion, with greed, clawing at me as she pulled me close. I recall how she’d rubbed her pretty cunt against my face in Dalton’s office.

“Fuck, yes,” I groan, my cock jerking in my hand, precum oozing from the slit as I press my eyes shut and remember how it felt to hold her in my arms back in my apartment all those months ago, how her cheeks had flushed pink when I complimented the taste of her pussy, how she’d cried out my name when she came. Every moment is etched into my memory as my eyes snap back open and I stagger to my feet, taking a few shaky steps towards the painting.

“You’ll look so fucking pretty with my cum decorating your face,” I grind out, slapping my hand against the brick wall beside the painting, my hips pistoning into my fist. “Yes, fuck. Yes.”

Pinpricks of pleasure scatter over my skin and gather at the base of my spine as I drop my forehead against the canvas, not caring that the paint is still wet. I know I’m going to come hard, the oncoming violence of it matching the paint strokes surrounding Harlow’s bliss-filled expression. God, how fucking pretty she’d looked in the throws of an orgasm, how beautiful when she’d begged me to fuck her that night we met.

“Please, Sterling, take me…”

The memory of her voice is all it takes to push me over the edge, and I feel my release racing up my cock, euphoria painting the canvas in thick ropes of white as I come hard and fast.

“Fuuuuuuckkkk!” I groan, my chest heaving as I blink back the fog of my orgasm, and with each inhale of breath, I stare at my cum mixing with the differing shades of red, my agony and my ecstasy staining part of the canvas pink. I should probablyremove every trace of it. Instead I release my cock, press my fingers against the canvas and paint my cum into her lips.

FOURTEEN

HARLOW

The wedding was over a week ago, and I’ve spent the whole time avoiding Sterling, which isn’t as hard as it may seem given Adaga Hall is an enormous mansion with too many rooms to count.

When I imagined what Adaga Hall would look like, I had anticipated a grand brick building with ivy growing around the windows, wooden panelling, tapestry hanging from the walls, and a kind of ambience that speaks of fine brandy and cigars.

Instead Robert’s home, whilst beautifully styled, is a modern building with huge glass windows, and nothing like what the name suggests. It has crisp modern furniture, white walls and marble floors throughout. There’s also an indoor gym, outdoor pool, hot tub and sauna. On the first floor is a movie theatre situated next to a huge library which is the only space that seems to have a little character. The ground floor houses a parlour with a baby grand piano that I hope to be able to play at some point, as well as a huge kitchen, Robert’s study, three separate living rooms, a massive dining room, and a den. Outside there are hundreds of acres of grounds housing a paddock and stable that is yet to be filled with the horse Robert promised my mother, a huge garage filled with expensive cars and even a helicopter pad. It reeks of wealth, and is stunning, but sadly lacks character.

The staff that work for Robert are seen but not heard, moving around like ghosts, barely making eye contact with me, let alone conversation, and honestly, I feel like a trespasser even though Robert tried his best to make me feel welcome, providing me with a substantial suite in the north wing of the house that is far too grand for my needs. This evening is the first time I’ve left my suite for an extended period of time, choosing instead to avoid any kind of interaction with Sterling. After Ben interrupted our conversation on the dance floor the night of the wedding, I haven’t seen him. He wasn’t around to say goodbye to our parents when they left for their honeymoon the day after the wedding, and despite what he’d said to me after Dalton found us alone together in his office, he hasn’t even tried to seek me out.

It’s probably for the best anyway.

Not probably, itisfor the best.

My fingers curl around a mug of coffee as I stand in the kitchen, staring out the french doors that open out onto the huge heated swimming pool. It’s early evening, and the sun has already dipped behind the horizon, but as the pool is lit up with underwater lighting, I can still see the steam lifting off the surface of the water, enticing me to enter, which is exactly what I’m going to do as soon as I’ve finished my drink.

For the past week I’ve spent a lot of time pacing back and forth in my room going over everything that’s happened, and it’s left me feeling anxious and wound-up, so I figured I’d make use of the pool to try and alleviate the mounting stress.

To make matters infinitely worse, I’mstillgetting creepy messages, and every day they’re more and more sexual. The last one I received this morning had me chucking my phone across the room. I can’t even think about it without feeling violated.

I bet your pussy is as silky as your voice. Are you dripping for me? Will you scream when I force my dick inside of you? Will you enjoy it?

It was the use of the word ‘force’ that had my hackles rising even more. Whoever this arsehole is, he’s doing a good job at getting into my head. I know I should tell someone, but there’s a part of me that thinks I’m overreacting. It’s not as if he knows who I really am. This is just some guy getting a kick out of sending me dirty, threatening messages, right?

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