Page 107 of Messy Strokes (Wrecked Roommates)

With a sigh, he pushes to his feet.

“Uh, where are you goin’?” I demand, fisting his worn T-shirt to keep him in place.

He looks down at my hand, then holds my gaze hostage with his own. “Gotta earn my dessert first.” His fingers wrap around my wrist, tugging the fabric from my grasp and dragging me to the center of the room in front of his easel.

“You expect me to simply stand here?” I ask, my arms hanging at my sides.

A nearby folding chair scrapes against the concrete floor as he drags it closer, motioning to it like it’s a damn throne. “M’lady.”

“You seriously want me to sitnaked,” I emphasize, “in front of you while you paint?”

“You want to help me with my passion, don’t you?”

“I mean…if you insist.” I bite my lip and reach for his belt buckle, but he swats my hand away.

“Only if you’re good.”

Laughing, I rub the back of my hand. “Wait. So the D is my reward for sitting still while you paint?”

“Mm-hmm,” he hums, going back to his canvas.

“Tease.”

“I’m the master.” He winks. “Now, sit down and be a good girl so I can reward you for it once I’m finished.”

My gaze narrows, but I give in and sit, folding my arms across my bare chest as he picks up a long, black brush and dips it in some paint.

“Lift your chin,” he orders.

I purse my lips but do as I’m told.

“Good girl.”

He’s sexy when he’s concentrating. I’ll give him that much.

But the silence is killing me, and the fact he keeps looking at me like this––like I’m a damn snack on a buffet combined with the taste of foreplay from a few minutes ago––is more than I can handle.

“You know, it isn’t exactly fair how you’re allowed to strip me down, turn me on, tease me, and refuse to help a girl out with an orgasm or two,” I point out.

“Patience is a virtue.”

“Yeah. One I don’t have,” I mumble under my breath, shifting my bare ass against the metal chair. I give myself five minutes before it starts sticking to the damn thing.

He goes back to painting.

“Anything I’m supposed to be doing to keep myself entertained over here?”

“Do whatever you want,” he mutters, his focus on the canvas. “But don’t leave the chair.”

“And if I do?” I tease.

“Do you want to be spanked?”

I grin. “I mean…”

“Patience,” he reminds me, shifting his focus from whatever he’s doing on the canvas to looking up at me like a strict school teacher. He points his paintbrush at me. “Don’t leave the chair.”

“Fine,” I huff, crossing one leg over the other.

---