It positively set fire to us.
Fireworks of need.
Explosions of lust.
“We’re family, Gil.” My eyes hooded. “Family isn’t temporary. It’s forever.”
“Stop.” His fingers slicked over the column of my throat, pushing me into the metal shelves behind me. “Please fucking stop.” A cloud of rage and rapture twisted his voice—two opposing colours mixed with a sharp palette knife.
My spine bruised as he pinned me to the many bottles and apparatus behind me.
The things Gil hid weren’t ordinary, simple secrets. They cast a shadow over everything. An ominous skulking demon that he pretended wasn’t real. They devoured him from the inside out. They left him the ghost of the boy he’d once been.
But standing there, with his fingers latched on me in possession, his paint on me in ownership, and our chests panting to the same erratic beat, there was simplicity instead of complication.
“Stop?” I arched into him, no longer caring about secrets and safety. No longer brave enough to fight for answers.
This was important.
This was needed.
Him.
Me.
Us.
“Are you sure?” I whispered.
His entire body shuddered. For a moment, I hoped he’d spill everything. It was all there, swimming in his gaze. Dreadful, grim things he’d endured without telling me. Hard, painful things he’d buried, deep, deep inside. But then he broke eye contact and embraced the ice he’d mastered. “I can’t do this again.”
I leaned into his hold, pressing my neck into his control. I wanted to nuzzle him—to rub against his cheek like a cat. “It’s just us, Gil. No one else.”
His groan sent goosebumps scattering over me. “There’s always someone else. Something else.”
“There doesn’t have to be.”
He caged me tighter against the shelves. “I’ve already put you in enough danger.” His power and heat rippled in waves. His hips pressed mine into submission. The hard hotness in his jeans said I wasn’t the only one unravelling, even though he fought it. “I can’t touch you again.”
His words and body were enemies. His body vibrated with sexual hunger; his voice condemned with denials.
He fought me.
He fought us.
I grew wet as well as furious. “You already touched me.” I looked pointedly at my blue-smeared breast, his fingers preventing my chin from tipping too far. “Your hand is on me, listening to my pulse, knowing how much I want you.”
His forehead furrowed. His fingers loosened around my neck.
Piece by piece, breath by breath, he did his best to control himself.
I couldn’t let that happen.
Couldn’t let him shut me out again.
Reaching blindly behind me, I snatched another paint bottle. Ripping off the cap, not looking at what colour I held, I bit my lip against massive ramifications and tipped the entire thing on his head.
Seconds screeched to a halt.
Gil turned to stone.
Happy, vibrant yellow licked through his messy hair, slithering to his temples and cascading down his cheeks. The contrast of sunshine pigment crowning his depressive dark splintered what was left of my heart.
He didn’t move as yellow trickled down his forehead, danced in his left eyebrow, and dripped off his eyelashes.
A sunshine droplet landed on my blouse, smearing over the blue. I rubbed it with my fingertip, blending the two together until a vibrant green formed.
Green.
Like Gil’s eyes.
Green.
Like the school field we used to walk over.
Green.
For the trees we’d hang out beneath.
He sucked in a breath as I looked up. My body no longer invited him to take what he wanted, it liquefied just like the paint, moulding to him, warming against him, changing its molecules the longer he stared.
I was pure hunger.
Undiluted desire.
He didn’t speak, his teeth puncturing his bottom lip.
My heart hammered as he reached behind me. Selecting a bottle, he twisted off the cap and, without a word, tipped a generous dollop onto my chest.
Cold.
Pink.
A rich fuchsia that glowed with femininity and fun.
Throwing the bottle to the ground, his hands tore at my blouse until my buttons popped and the fabric gaped open.
“Fuck.” His lips landed on my neck, his hands cupping my breasts and kneading pink into my skin and bra.
My skin broke out in chills as the icy, pretty colour stained me, conjuring old memories of a similar shade.
“Flamingos,” I murmured as his teeth scraped my jaw.
He jerked back. “What?”
Pink meandered down my belly, teasing with my skirt’s waistline.
“Your first mural that you showed me.” I panted, needing him to touch me, to fix me. “The graffiti flamingos.”
“Goddammit, you remember.” His eyes snapped shut. Another curse fell from his mouth as his entire features teetered between acrimony and despair. “It was the easiest colour to steal.”
I didn’t want to sink into history. I didn’t want anything to sneak in and ruin this.
Gil’s self-control had frayed.
Mine was in ribbons.
Two tattered pieces of string that just needed to be knotted together to be whole.
“Kiss me, Gil.”
There would be time to reminisce.
Later.
“Kiss me...please.”
His eyes locked on mine.
Sadness wept there for things we’d lost and couldn’t fix. Starvation glittered for all the aches and hungers we endured. But most of all love glowed, despite Gil doing his best to suffocate it.
Tears raced up my spine. Tears for him and me and everything in between. “Kiss—”
“Goddamn you.” His lips slammed over mine. His fingers cupped my cheeks as his tongue entered my mouth, swift and violent. He kissed me as if we hadn’t kissed in decades. He kissed me as if it was the last kiss he’d ever give.
The metal shelving behind me wobbled as Gil glued himself to me. His thigh went between my legs, thrusting up, hoisting my skirt up my stockings.
When it didn’t move high enough, he reached down and tore the fabric, ripping through pinstripe and satin.
My one outfit. I had nothing else here—nothing else to wear.
But I didn’t care.
I didn’t care about anything.
I moaned, encouraging him to take everything with a deep, lingering kiss. His hips rocked forward, his cock heavy and hot against my knickers, teasing my clit.
A bottle tumbled over my shoulder, wedging between us. Without breaking our kiss, I reached for it, uncapped it, and used whatever colour lived inside to drench my hands.
Icy, silky paint on my palms.
Sexy, slippery paint on Gil’s face as I ran my fingers over his cheeks and down his throat, tracing the Master of Trickery with the tools of his trade.
His eyes snapped open. He pulled back, grabbing my wrists and yanking my touch away.
But it was too late.
Black.
Deep, rich ebony glistened over his features. Yellow smeared within it, setting a dangerous combination. A wasp with a sting. A sting I probably wouldn’t survive.
His lips were wet, his eyes wild. “I told you I don’t like wastage.”
I shivered. “Guess you should finish the masterpiece we’ve started then.”
Creative sparks ignited in his gaze. He assessed my ruffled, ruined outfit. “You’re right.” Snatching my wrist, he dragged me toward the same podium where he’d painted me. The matte black bricks dampened all other colour and texture, setting alive the flares of vibrancy on our skin.
Whipping me around, he made me leap onto the stage.
He climbed behind me, tearing my blouse off from behind. Dragging it down my arms, he kept it b
unched around my wrists, forcing my back to arch and breasts to jut out.
His nose ran along the contour of my shoulder, smelling me, breathing me.
The difference in this moment to the one where he’d painted me couldn’t be compared. Previously, he’d been snowflakes settling on blue ice. Now he was smoke billowing from red fire.
Kicking my ankle, he spread my legs. “You’re driving me insane.” Wrenching my torn skirt up, he formed a belt with the broken material. With a groan, he dived his hand between my legs and cupped me hard. “Why can’t I stop myself around you?”
My head flopped back as he kissed and nipped his way along my exposed shoulder all while his fingers moved my knickers aside and plunged two inside me.
I cried out.
He cursed.
My wetness was as slippery and intoxicating as the paint gluing us together.
My hips thrust into his hand, seeking more, while he thrust against my ass, rubbing his erection against me. We stumbled and slammed together, violent and unapologetic.
Just like our first time, there were no requests or assurances. Nothing sweet or tame.
Just dark and desperate, crippling beneath years of denial.
Tearing his fingers from my body, he spun me around, yanked my blouse off my wrists and unhooked my bra. Leaving me half-naked, he dropped to his knees, taking my skirt and bra with him to the floor.
In a single heartbeat, I stood in just my stockings, garter belt, and knickers, breathing hard, glassy-eyed, smudged and sullied with his paint.
His arms banded around my thighs, dragging me closer. His mouth captured my pussy, his tongue licking me through my knickers.
My knees buckled, my black pigmented hands landing on his wet yellow hair.
He bit me.
I almost collapsed.
He was gone as quickly as he’d grabbed me.
“Don’t move.” He growled.
Tripping off the podium, he rubbed at his blackened cheeks as he yanked open the drawer where his expensive camera lived. Removing the lens cap and fiddling with a setting, he pointed the thing directly at me.
Instinctually, I covered my breasts.
Gil smouldered below. “Drop your arms.”
“You can’t— I’m half-naked.”
“You were mostly naked last time I took photos.”
“I was painted then.”
“You’re painted now.” He snapped a few pictures, angling left and right. “Remove your arms, O.” His eyes latched on mine. “Strip...for me.”
I blushed. “I’m not letting you take photos of me mid sex.”
“I haven’t been inside you yet. Sex hasn’t occurred.”
My stomach bottomed out, making me impossibly wetter. “You’ve had your fingers inside me. Your tongue was just—”
“Tasting you. I know.” His stare licked me up and down. “You’re in my mouth, up my nose, in my fucking blood. I need to see you. I want you as broken as you’ve made me.”
My knees quaked. I hesitated.
“I won’t sell them.” His voice danced with darkness. “No one will ever see.”
“Why do you want them then?” I couldn’t catch my breath, light-headed and achy.
“Because I have no photos of you from the past—no way of immortalizing just how fucking stunning you are.”
“Oh.” My entire body clenched.
“My memories never did you justice.” He grimaced, his throat working as if he didn’t want to admit such things but unable to stop himself. “Night after night, I’d think about you. I’d jerk off to hazy images. I’d come with your name in my heart. I never stopped missing you...never stopped wanting you. And I fucking want this. I want something to remember you by.” The image of Gil masturbating over me. The thought of him in his bed with his cock his hand and his face grimacing mid-release—
“I’m right here; you don’t have to remember me.” My arms tumbled from my breasts, tears once again glossing my vision. “You can look at me whenever you wish.”
He just gave me the saddest smile with an infinitesimal shake of his head.
Then his camera rose. The shutter clicked, capturing me forever.
My skin was hypersensitive, my heart a smoking mess, but some reason, I had the unbearable urge to cry. This felt like goodbye. A permanent farewell to all my dreamings of us.
Why would he need photos when I had no intention of leaving...unless, he planned to push me away and never look back.
His eyes glistened with grief but his voice still teased with need. Taking photos with one hand, his other dropped to his jeans. Rubbing himself, he groaned, “I’m so fucking hard for you.”
I lived on the threshold of a release just from his voice. “And I’m wet for you.”
He shuddered, his gaze trailing over my body. His teeth sank into his bottom lips as his face once again glowed with creation. Creation that had no rhyme or reason when it struck. Creation that couldn’t be ignored.
Swaying, he put the camera down.
His hands went to his T-shirt hem, yanking it over his head. His belly pulsed with breath, the ridges of muscle making my mouth dry and pussy wet.
I fought the snarling, sensual spindle of thick desire. “Gil...”
His hands unbuckled his belt, unzipped his jeans, and removed both his trousers and underwear in one swipe, just like last time. With a kick of his boots and tug of clothing, he stood beautifully naked and utterly sinful before me.
I drank him in, goosebumps prickling at his powerful perfection. I stepped toward him as a trickle of lust dampened my underwear.
“No.” He bared his teeth, stopping me from going to him. “I want to see you. Every inch.” His paint-smeared hand went to his cock, heavy and hard between his legs.
He didn’t care yellow still trickled down his chest or that black, pink, and blue streaked his fingers, marring his erection the longer he pumped.
He didn’t see anything but me.
He didn’t want anything else but me.
And that was the headiest, most potent aphrodisiac.
With shaky hands, I unclipped my garter belt and let it fall. My skin glowed pink from paint and hot with needy blush.
He smirked with tight lips and turbulent eyes, fisting himself. His forearm pulsed with corded muscle as he granted pleasure I wanted to give. “Keep going.”
I flushed. Sweat prickled beneath the colours and I wobbled as I slowly rolled a stocking down my leg, never taking my eyes off his.
He groaned long and low as I reached my foot and stepped daintily from the sheer garment. “Fuck, I could come just watching you.”
A full body quake hinted how close I was to an orgasm myself. I could come from nothing else but his eyes and breath. Eyes that drank me, ate me, devoured me. And breaths that spoke the truth. That he couldn’t survive without having me. Even though he’d survived for years without me by his side.
Removing my other stocking, I stood as elegantly as I could and hooked my fingers in my underwear. If I did this, he’d see how desperate I was. How wet. How needy.
But I wasn’t the only one. His cock jutted out, thick and engorged. His thumb pressed into the slit at the top, his jaw locked and body rippling with yearning.
With a quick inhale, I slipped my knickers down, almost embarrassed by the glisten of desire on the fabric. But a guttural, curse-filled groan came from Gil, and I was no longer embarrassed.
I was pleased.
Thankful that he knew just how much I wanted him. Wanted him for most of my life.
Without tearing his eyes from my nakedness, he marched to the trestle table holding more paint. Grabbing a few bottles, he marched toward me, his cock bouncing between his legs with each ground-eating stride.
Standing at the base of the podium, he passed me the colours, his eyes lingering on my body. Hesitatingly, I took them from him as he backed up with visible hardship.
“What do you want me to do?” My voice mixed air with need.
&
nbsp; “Paint.” He swallowed hard. “You’re the one who wanted to waste my supplies.” He bowed mockingly. “So play.”
Placing the bottles by my feet, I selected a royal purple with glitter flecks. “Is it safe...for, um, personal places?”
He chuckled with a strained groan. “Yes.” His skin flushed as I uncapped the lid and held out my arm. Wincing against the coolness, I locked eyes with Gil as purple cascaded over my forearm and fell in glittering droplets to the floor.
Stepping in the mess, I smeared my toes, covering my feet with purple just like my arm rained in it.
A long ago melody of elegance and ballet nudged awake muscles that’d been torn and stitched in the accident.
This was a dance.
A dance of colours and need.
And I didn’t fight the flow of sensuality as I tipped the bottle again, standing on tiptoes, moving to the silent beat of my heart. My arms soared upward, losing myself in the magic of movement. Purple drizzled from above.
“Fucking hell.” Gil froze. The camera remained forgotten by his feet as he stood transfixed, hypnotised by the paint and my nakedness.
By the private dance I gave him.
Twinges reminded me I wasn’t the perfect ballerina anymore. Healed scars restricted certain skills. But my audience didn’t care. His hand found his cock again, squeezing brutally hard.
My core clenched with every heartbeat, imploring him to stop wasting time and join me.
I no longer wanted to dance alone.
I wanted a partner.
Everlasting.
My heart raced faster and faster, sending blood and oxygen through my veins as well as colour. Bending as swan-like and regal as my back would allow, I selected another bottle from the stage.
Metallic silver.
So perfect and luminescent it looked like pure starlight.
This was too special to waste. The colour too pure.
But Gil looked like he stood in Hell, all while I teased him from Heaven. And I wanted to erase the misery inside him. I embraced debauchery and tipped the silver starlight over my breasts.
Sterling perfection rivered over me, pebbling my nipples as it turned my skin from pink to priceless.
I followed its path with my fingers, biting my lip as it trickled through my trimmed pubic hair, dripping lazily down my thighs to my feet. It tickled and teased, more erotic than anything I’d ever done.
The Finished Masterpiece (Master of Trickery Book 3) Page 24