Page 76 of The Cabin

“Okay, okay, just checking. Wouldn’t wanna ruin your hard work,” I mumble, hopping up on the table and scooching back. As soon as my back hits the surface I’m pulled slowly by my ankles until my ass is at the edge and my legs are open, dangling off the end.

“I built this table with this exact moment in mind. I planned all the wild things I was going to do to you on this thing and knew it was going to have to be sturdy. Real fucking sturdy.” He peels his shirt off over his head (Yes! I might finally be able to touch him!) and lets it fall to the floor at his feet. I try reaching for him but, again, he shakes his head (damnit).

“I need my canvas to be very, very still. Can you do that for me?” I move my head up and down, never letting my eyes leave his. I have a front row seat to see the hottest man alive. I don’t want to miss a single thing. I will pout about how unfair he’s being later.

“Good girl. How about ‘good girl’ instead of ‘lollipop’, hmm? How does that sound?” He lowers his chest towards me, reaching over to grab the nearest paint. I hear the squeeze of the bottle, the clink of picking up a brush, and then I’m panting, focused on the cold, wet liquid Grayson is using to tickle up my side.

He’s focused, completely engrossed in his work. I imagine this is what real artists look like as they create each day.

The brush travels over the swell of my breasts and in between them. It circles my belly button and grazes my hips. It is so soft, so gentle that I am slowly losing my mind. It’s just enough to have me tensing, lifting my body. It’s so overstimulating it almost hurts. It’s getting me soaked between my legs.

“I need you to be still, lollipop.”

I whimper my frustration, my plea, my desire.

Grayson abandons the brush and pulls my palette toward him, setting it on my stomach. His fingers dip into the colors, and leave streaks across my skin. On the inside of my thigh, right behind my ear, underneath me on my lower back. Each touch isn’t enough. It’s a cruel tease meant to send me spiraling into another universe, I’m sure. I have to grip the edge of the table to keep from crying out.

He, on the other hand, is giddy, delighted even, watching me squirm. He’s hard as a rock, his dick straining against his pants. All from torturing me.

I’m flipped over to lay on my stomach, smearing wet paint all over his beautiful, custom wood table. From what I can tell, he pours enough paint to cover his entire hand before grabbing my ass. The sound of satisfaction he makes has my pussy clenching, clit throbbing. He does it again, this time smacking down on the other cheek.

“So beautiful,” he whispers as his fingers continue to travel. He gets so close to every single place I want him, and then moves on way too soon.

The massaging is resumed, this time trailing all across my back, up my legs, paying special attention to my ass. It feels so good and so infuriating at the same time. I want his hands all over me, but I also want his hands in very specific places.

I get a random bout of déjà vu, and before I let it fade away, I take a second to think. I just read a sexy paint scene in a book a few days ago. It was almost nothing like this, because, hello, the things Grayson does to me are hotter than anything I’ve ever read, or seen, or obviously experienced. But this cannot be a coincidence. First the hot spring, then the truck bed, and now this?

I run out of time to contemplate. “Stand up.” Bolt of electricity straight to my clit.

My feet touch the floor and I’m about to lift my chest when Grayson reaches out and positions me with my hands on the edge, my legs apart, and my ass in the air.

I look over my shoulder and see him scan over my body, like he’s trying to memorize every dip, every splash of paint.

“You are the perfect fucking canvas. An absolute masterpiece. I’d put you in a museum, but then other people would get to see you. I’m the only one who gets to witness this.” There’s a pause. “Do not move.”

I hear his footsteps recede and the rush of the water from the kitchen sink reaches my ears. In no time, he’s back behind me with freshly washed hands, wrecking me with his words. “I am the only one that gets to drink you in. To see your ass in the air, my handprints on it, begging me to take it. To feed off it.”

He kneels down between my legs and spreads my ass cheeks open. Hot, wet, and slippery, his tongue licks between them, teasing, tasting, driving me mad.

“Grayson, what are you doing?” I gasp, nervous, tense, turned on.

“I’m eating this juicy fucking ass and then I’m gonna have your pussy for dessert.”

Grayson never does anything halfway, that’s for goddamn sure. His mouth is everywhere, his tongue lapping wherever he can reach. I feel his fingers joining the party and teasing my hole. On a reflex, I go still, rigid.

I’m punished by a slap on my ass. “Relax for me, Sol.”

How the hell am I supposed to do that when –

Oh, that helps. That really, really helps. I’m turned right into liquid above him when he starts leisurely playing with my clit. Sliding his finger through my heat, teasing my core.

He resumes his licking and sucking as soon as he feels the tension leave my body. I feel like a live wire, the pleasure in my pussy enhancing the new kind of pleasure in my ass.

“Finger yourself. Rub your clit like a good girl.” His fingers take one last dip inside before moving back to where his mouth is forcing wild moans out of my mouth. He rubs my cum around my asshole and spreads my cheeks wide again.

My clit is pulsing and I cry out when I touch it, feeling sensitive and wrung out and drunk on lust.

I hear it before I feel it. Grayson grabs both cheeks roughly and spits between them. Fucking hell.

---