Page 76 of Pretty When He Bleeds

He breathes out something half a curse, half a sob, and stumbles back toward the bed. The sheets are already a mess of canvas drop cloths and old comforters I keep for nights like this—nights where art and sin blur together so tight I can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.

Roman strips his briefs off completely and climbs onto the bed, his eyes locked on me the whole time. He spreads out like he was made to be looked at. Skin flushed, paint-streaked, his cock resting heavy against his thigh. He grabs the lube from the nightstand without breaking eye contact.

I settle into the armchair across from the bed, elbows on my knees, watching like I’m witnessing the second coming. He slicks his fingers, slow and unsteady, his eyes still on me. “This what you want?” he murmurs.

I nod, my voice gone hoarse. “Yeah, baby. Just like that.”

He bends his knees, spreads his legs, and presses one finger to his entrance.

And fuck, I nearly come just from watching him.

He bites his bottom lip, brows drawn together in concentration, a light flush spreading up his neck. The finger pushes in slow, careful. He moans low in his throat, his head falling back, exposing his neck—and the paint I left there.

I grip the arm of the chair, knuckles white. “Another one,” I breathe. “Let me see you stretch.”

Roman obeys.

Two fingers now. Slow and shaky. He moves with restraint, but the longer I watch, the more it crumbles. His hips twitch. His thighs shake and his lips part with a gasp every time he curls his fingers deeper.

“You’re beautiful,” I murmur, and I don’t even mean to say it.

His breath stutters. “You like watching me like this?”

“I love it,” I growl. “You’re my favorite fucking sight. All of you. Inside and out.”

His hand moves faster. He’s fucking himself open on his own fingers now, trying to be good for me, trying to show me what he knows I need. And God, I do. I need this. Need him.

When his head tilts and he makes a sound that’s too close to breaking, I rise from the chair and strip my sweats, fast and impatient. I don’t wipe the paint off my hands. I want it between us. I want to mark him in every goddamn way.

I crawl onto the bed, hovering over him, my hands bracing on either side of his face. “Switch with me,” I whisper against his lips. “Get on top. I want to watch you take me.”

He chokes on a breath when I lay down, and takes the lube, coating my cock quickly. Then he scrambles into my lap like he’s starved, straddling me, his thighs tight against my hips.

I guide him with one paint-slicked hand on his hip. “Take it slow,” I whisper. “Let me feel it. Let me see it.”

He lines himself up and sinks down an inch—and fucking hell, I grip his thigh like I’m about to come already. Roman moans; loud and guttural. It punches out of him like it hurts, but he doesn’t stop.

My head falls back, a strangled groan ripping out of me as I feel the heat of him slowly swallowing my cock; the tight slide, and everything I’ve been craving since the second he walked through that door.

“Jesus fuckingChrist, Roman—”

He whimpers, hips trembling as he bottoms out—thighs bracketing mine, his paint-slicked hands pressing into my chest for balance.

He’s gorgeous like this.

So gorgeous it hurts.

Streaked with my fingerprints, with color, with the remnants of everything I am. His mouth open, his chest rising and falling like he’s barely holding himself together.

And when he starts to move—fuck.

It’s slow at first. Painfully slow. A drag and roll of his hips that makes my nails dig into his thighs, leaves more color smeared along his skin.

“That’s it,” I breathe, watching him ride me, watching him come undone on top of me. “Just like that, baby. You look so fucking good.”

His eyes flutter shut, but I don’t let him hide.

“Eyes on me,” I say, gripping his jaw again, not caring about the paint. “Look at me while you fuck yourself on my cock.”

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