Page 98 of The Painter and His Poet

“Don’t feel too sorry for him, that flirtatious bastard uses the orphan angle to get women into bed,” Sterling replies, pressing his foot on the gas as we speed towards the centre of town.

“Sterling, I’m sure that isn’t true! He seemed lovely when I met him.”

“Just ask Ben, he’ll tell you the same. Anyway, let’s get off the subject,” he says, shooting me a look that tells me he’s still a little put out that I spent time with Blake a few days ago. “What songs are you planning on singing tonight?”

For the rest of the short drive I reel off my playlist. All of them covers, and every single one having some kind of meaning for me.

“You’re singing True Colours by Cindy Lauper?” he repeats, side-eyeing me briefly.

“Yes, why? You don’t like that song?”

“On the contrary,” he replies softly. “I happen to love that song.”

TWENTY-SEVEN

STERLING

It’s the early hours of the morning by the time I reach Harlow’s bedroom. Her lights are off, and I can hear her soft breathing as I slip inside her bedroom. I had every intention of going to bed with her the moment we got back from the bar, but my synesthesia had other ideas. Instead, I made up an excuse that I wasn’t feeling well, and that I’d see her in the morning. Which was partly the truth, at least.

She hadn’t been able to hide her disappointment, and yet again I’d felt like a prick for lying to her. I know that I should just tell her about my condition once and for all but right now, despite everything I know to be true about Harlow, I’m still uncertain as to whether she’d accept my synesthesia and how it affects me when so many other people haven’t. It’s unfair of me to make that assumption, but I’m just not ready to reveal that side of me, especially since my studio is filled to the brim with paintings of her in varying degrees of undress.

My obsession aside, I wasn’t in a fit state to have any kind of conversation with Harlow, let alone confessing my sins about painting my cum onto her image. Frankly, I was so consumed by the colours her voice had conjured, that I’d barely managed to get us home safely. Now that I’ve purged myself of them, byspending the last few hours painting another image of Harlow, I’m more able to think straight. And, selfishly, the only thought I had was finding comfort in her arms. Her presence brings me peace, and I know I have no right to search for that when I’m keeping such a huge part of me hidden, but here I am.

Crossing the room as quietly as possible, I strip naked, placing my clothes on the armchair in the corner of her room before sliding into bed behind her. She’s so deep asleep that even when I curl my body around hers, she doesn’t stir.

“Harlow?” I whisper, wanting to apologise, wanting to tell her everything.

Her body is warm and relaxed as she shifts in her sleep, and I press my lips against the curve of her neck, dragging in her scent through my nose. Despite feeling the exhaustion I usually do after an episode, my cock hardens against her arse.

“You sang so beautifully tonight,” I mutter, my palm settling against her stomach, feeling the soft rise and fall as she breathes. “I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you that.”

More guilt climbs up my spine. I’d been concentrating so hard on not crashing the car on the way back from the bar that I hadn’t even told her how fucking incredible she was. After everything we’d discussed earlier in the evening, I can’t imagine how hurtful that must’ve been.

“When you sang True Colours, it felt like every word was meant for me, Harlow,” I confess, my fingers tracing patterns over her stomach. It’s too dark to see what she’s wearing, but her legs and arms are bare, and her top has risen enough for me to know that it’s a shorts sleep set rather than a nightie.

My balls tighten, and I can’t help but gently grind my cock against her arse. She shifts again, her breath releasing in a soft sigh, and I press my lips against her ear. “Wake up, my little poet.”

For a beat I keep still, waiting for the moment when she realises that I’m in bed with her, but just like before she remains deeply asleep.

“I don’t know if I can stop,” I say, my palms sliding up the centre of her chest until my fingers cup her throat. The soft beat of her pulse, and the gentle rise and fall of her chest only adding to the indescribable need to bury myself inside of her. “You consume me, Harlow.”

Releasing her throat, I slide my hand back downwards, my fingers dust over her stomach just above the waistband of her sleep shorts. I should stop. I should wake her instead. I should confess my secrets, but my body has other ideas.

Right at the moment I’m about to slip my hand beneath her sleep shorts, she shifts beside me, rolling onto her stomach, the side of her face pressed into the pillow beneath her head.

“Harlow, are you awake?” I question, pushing off the duvet as I rise up onto my knees beside her. A shard of moonlight penetrates the gap in her curtains, and I notice that her hair has fallen over her face.

Straddling her, I hover above her arse, my knees pressed into the mattress either side of her hips as I lean forward and gently push her hair off her face. She lets out another soft sigh, her lips slightly parted, her eyelashes feathering against her cheeks. Unable to stop myself, I lean over and kiss her temple, willing her to wake up.

“Harlow, I need you,” I say, my voice hoarse, thick with desire.

But when I pull back she merely mutters something indistinguishable and I’m left with a decision. I could settle back beside her, go to sleep, and wait until morning to sink inside of her, or I could give in to my darkest desires and take her now.

The darkness wins out.

I carefully move down the bed, pushing off the duvet covering and making room to remove her sleep shorts without disturbing her. My heart pounds in my chest as I gingerly wrap my fingers around the waistband and slowly slide the fabric off her hips and thighs. As the material reaches her knees, I shift my position to kneel beside her, easing the shorts off her legs and feet. She stirs slightly in her sleep, and I wait until her breathing becomes steady again. My entire body trembles with nerves as I finish the task, but when she shows no signs of waking, I know she is still sound asleep

“Are you wet for me, my little poet?” I ask, slowly trailing my fingers up her inner thighs. Her legs are parted slightly, allowing me to slip my fingers between her thighs to find out.

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