Page 71 of On the Mountain

“It feels like no one has ever touched me before you.”

I growled in response, knowing what he was saying, that none of that had been real, none of that he’d ever really felt, because none of the other men had been me. “They haven’t. Not the real you.”

I positioned him the way I wanted him—on his back, arm up and over his head, which tilted down just slightly. One leg bent to the side, the other straight, blankets messy and slept in around him.

I didn’t need him to stay like this. How many times had I painted him from memory already? Every freckle, every muscle, every crease and plane of his body. But there was something incredibly erotic about seeing him like this, knowing he was lying there for me and me alone, that he would let me do with him as I pleased.

I ran my fingers through his hair, brushed my thumbs over his nipples, watched his skin pebble in response again, before I went to my easel and got to work.

Cyrus’s eyes held fast to me, like there was some kind of magnetic pull that wouldn’t let him look away. My need for him rumbled inside me, grew and begged for me to go to him, take him, claim him over and over and over again even though I knew he was mine. It was an animalistic urge, a necessity that would never go away.

When the snow melted, I didn’t know how I would let him out of my sight. While I knew he belonged here with me, I understood that he was different too, that he did things in the outside world that I didn’t, and I would have to learn how to be away from him.

“You growled. Why did you growl?” he asked, a smirk on his lips as though he had a glimpse into my head and liked what he saw.

I just shook my head, words trapped inside me again, the way they likely would always be sometimes…and I painted. For hours. Cyrus fell asleep, while I tried to perfect what was on canvas the way the man in our bed was perfect to me. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get it right, would never be able to get it right, but I would continue to try until I wasn’t physically able anymore.

He moved around in bed, curled into a little ball the way he often did, but the exact image of him I tried to create was still seared into my mind.

I wanted this to be perfect, as perfect as I could make it, wanted to show him how I felt, even though that was impossible. There weren’t actions or words strong enough for that.

So I just kept painting, putting all I had into every swipe of the brush. Everything except me and the canvas became blurred edges and fuzzy white noise around me, until a soft but sharp intake of breath pulled me out of the world I’d slipped into.

I looked over to Cyrus, who was now sitting up in bed, looking at me, the sort of awe in his eyes I never thought could be directed at me, never thought I would deserve directed at me.

“Crow, it’s…beautiful.”

His cheeks were pink from sleep, his hair mussed, every inch of his gorgeous body on display for me. I wanted to kiss each of my freckles, because yes, they felt like they were mine. Wanted to taste every inch of his body, wanted to inhale his scent, wanted to fuck him so hard, he would never ever doubt that he belonged to me and I to him.

The blurred edges shifted, no longer me and the painting, but me and Cyrus, my mind and body hyper-fixated on him. The world could end, and I wouldn’t care as long as the two of us were still standing.

My dick throbbed, the need inside me sizzling with weeks, or hell, a lifetime of pent-up desire. I needed inside him more than I needed my next breath. I would surrender everything to him, give him anything as we lost ourselves in each other.

The look in his eyes changed, heat flaring there. The flushed glow of his skin spread through his cheeks and down the rest of his body.

“Yes. Take me, Crow. Remind me I’m yours.” Cyrus turned onto his stomach, pressing his ass up in the air.

The rumble started deep in my chest, then fell from my lips in a soft grumble that increased in intensity. The paintbrush fell to the floor, the mess not mattering as I ripped off my clothes, dick hard and leaking, and stalked toward him on the bed. I felt blind with lust, like it wasn’t my heart or my lungs that kept me alive, but my need for him.

My lips pressed to his nape, Cyrus’s body bowing toward me. Every knot of his spine got the attention of my lips, every freckle on his shoulders was touched by my hands as I started my journey of exploration of every plane of his body, every single inch of his skin.

“Crow,” he said needily, amping up my need for him.

His lower back dipped when I got to his waist, and I licked the divot there, blood rushing through my ears, cock begging to mount him from behind and slam home right now. To mark the inside of his body with my cum the way I would never tire of doing.

Cyrus spread his legs, ass cheeks opening, his tight, pink hole begging for me.

“Please, Crow. I want your tongue.”

I snarled as I took in his position, the way he was giving himself to me, offering me what we both knew was already mine, pink balls full and hanging prettily between his legs.

I snarled again because words felt too hard right then, my head filled with nothing but Cyrus and my longing for him. I bit into his ass cheek, and he cried out my name, pleas for more flowing from his mouth like a waterfall. I did it again on the other side, then sucked him there, pulling the blood to the surface and leaving my dark-red mark behind. I ran my nose along his crease, the soft scent of soap from our shower this morning still there, blended with his natural musk. I swiped at him with my tongue, Cyrus’s body nearly convulsing.

“Yes, Crow. Yes. Please.”

Hands on each of his cheeks, I kept him open and took what I wanted—his hole with my tongue. I loved eating him out, loved the raw need of it, loved pushing my tongue past his rim and fucking him with it to help get him ready for my cock.

Cyrus pushed back against my face, more of the waterfall pleas and wants spilling from him. I sucked his balls, then went back to his hole, feasting on this perfect, tight ring he offered me so freely.

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