Page 84 of The Painter and His Poet

“So, while I may not know your favourite colour or the names of the friends you grew up with,” he says, cutting me off. “I do know you. I know the parts that matter the most, and please believe me when I say that you are worthy of affection, of support, of encouragement and kindness. You don’t have to settle for anything less than real connection, and you no longer have to feel the rejection of selfish men who don’t truly see you. You deserve to be desired, to feel cherished in every way, and I want to be the man to give that to you.Iwant to be the one to show you that.Me.”

“I don’t know what to say,” I reply softly, feeling overwhelmed, still not entirely believing his words despite everything he’s said.

“You don’t have to say anything, you just have to believe me,” he replies before pressing his hips against mine, palming my cheeks and kissing me breathless.

TWENTY-THREE

STERLING

Harlow can protest all she likes, she can throw excuses my way, she can try to avoid me, but we both know that we’re inevitable, and I’m done giving her space.

Our parents return home from their honeymoon in a couple of days, and we’re going to have to figure out how to handle them, but that’s a future us problem. Right now I’m getting lost in Harlow, and I’m not coming up for air until she’s more than satisfied. I promised her multiple orgasms the night of our parents’ wedding, and that’s exactly what she’s going to get.

Right the fuck now.

“Sterling, the staff…” Harlow gasps, pushing against my chest.

“I sent them home,” I reply, guiding her to her feet, and closing the fallboard on the piano so Harlow doesn’t continue to play the keys with her beautiful, peachy arse.

“So you planned on seducing me tonight?” she asks a little breathlessly.

“I guess that all depends on whether you let me?” I counter, dropping my mouth to her neck and pressing an open mouth kiss to her pulse that races beneath my tongue. I expect her to say no, to come up with another excuse, but she surprises me.

“I want you to,” she whispers, her fingers curling into my hair as she lets out a soft moan.

“You have to be certain, Harlow. Because there’s no turning back after this. Do you understand me? I need to know you’re in this with me. No matter what.”

“I am. I want to be.Please,” she whispers.

Fuck, the way that sounds has my cock jerking in my trousers, and I’m reminded of the night I crept into her room and made her come when she’d unknowingly whispered that exact same word.

I lift my head, leaning back slightly so that I can look at her and the subtle colours that thread and weave around her body. They’re less vibrant than the times before, yet they’re no less beautiful. This time it’s like looking at a Monet painting, the muted soft blues, dusky pinks, pale yellows and pinks are a masterpiece all of their own.

“I expected you to argue some more,” I reply, cupping her face with my hands, smiling a little.

“Me too… But then you said all those beautiful things, then kissed me and every single argument I had ready just floated away, ” she murmurs back. “Does that make me weak?”

“No, Harlow, that makes you mine.”

She nods, then slides her hands up my forearms until her fingers wrap around my wrist and she gently lowers my hand to her throat. “Then I guess I’m yours,” she says, her mouth parting as I squeeze her throat just a little.

Fuck. Me.

“You like that?” I ask, feeling her thready pulse pounding beneath my thumb as my cock punches against the zipper of my trousers.

“I like it,” she admits, as she guides my other hand to her breast. “I likeyouway more than I should.”

“Not nearly enough,” I argue. “But after I strip you naked, lay you on the top of this piano and eat you out until you scream my name, you’re gonna like me a whole lot more.”

She gasps, and I drop my hands to her jogging bottoms, curl my fingers around the waistband, removing both them and her knickers in one quick sweep of material. She steps out of them, her eyes heady with lust as I reach for the hem of her t-shirt and pull it up over her head, her hair swishing with the movement. She isn’t wearing a bra, and my cock leaks at the sight.

“I’ve been dreaming about your beautiful tits for days now. It’s been torturous,” I say, whilst tracing the mound of her breast.

“Just my tits?” she asks, a teasing glint in her eyes.

“No, not just your tits,” I admit, loving this flirty, playful version of her.

“What else?” she asks as I palm her breasts, my thumbs circling her hardened nipples.

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