The Artist's Touch (The Gentlemen's Guild Book 1)

by Dr. Rebecca Sharp

  Fuck, he couldn’t take it slow. Not when she needed him like this.

  Pulling his hands from her hair, he shrugged out of his suit jacket, her hands coming to assist in the process. While her hands were momentarily free, Tristan took ahold of the blazer that she was wearing, acutely aware of her reaction from yesterday, but so frenzied with lust that all he could hope was that this wasn’t moving too fast and that he didn’t scare her again. With as much care as he could muster, he slowly drew the material down to reveal the creamy expanse of her shoulders and chest.

  Ellie moaned softly, and Tristan froze. Every cell, every nerve paralyzed for a split second expecting her to pull away from him again. Then, he felt the material in his hands shift and give way, realizing that she had reached up to yank the blazer completely off of her, tossing it onto the floor.

  Thank God.

  The relief was immediate, intense, and quickly interchanged with the raging hunger that he’d been forced to immediately restrain. His fingers gripped into the soft flesh of her hips, turning her even further towards him. Her hands returned to his chest, but this time with a new goal in mind; her fingers first loosened and discarded his tie, then beginning to make quick work of the buttons down the front of his shirt, eager to feel the firm skin beneath.

  He groaned at the first touch of her soft hands on his bare chest. Forced to release her again to rip the shirt from his body, he threw the offending material onto the floor behind him, hearing as it hit one of the wine glasses, tipping it over.

  “Tristan! The wine!” Ellie exclaimed, breaking away from him.

  The moment it took to take in the sight of her – her flesh tinted pink with arousal, her eyes deep green with hunger, and her lips purple and swollen from their kiss, was all it took for him to realize that his erection might rip through his pants, he was so crazed with need for her.

  “I don’t give a fuck about the wine,” he rasped harshly into her ear.

  “But it spilled…all over…the carpet,” she panted, trying to focus on the mess that she was concerned about.

  “The only thing,” he began, biting her earlobe as she let her head fall back with a moan, no longer able to keep it steady and alert under his assault, “that I care about having,” he continued as his mouth furthered its trail of bites down her neck, “all over the carpet,” his hands moved to bunch her dress up around her hips, his fingers finally able to sink into her bare skin, “is you.”

  With that, he yanked her to him and then lowered them both down to the floor. Her legs parted to accommodate him, pain and pleasure shooting through him as the hard ridge of his erection came to rest on the hot center between her thighs.

  Whether it was his words, or their change of position that elicited her gasp turned moan, he couldn’t say. Panting, he looked down at the sea of red beneath him, her glazed eyes barely focusing on his; her silk dress no match for concealing the firm peaks of her nipples, her long bare legs completely exposed to him, with just the barest hint of her matching navy silk underwear peeking out below the hem of her dress.

  Tristan groaned, fire pumping through his veins. He wanted everything – and nothing. He wanted to touch all of her, and yet, he wanted to just stay right where he was and consume her beauty in this moment.

  “Please,” she moaned, making the choice for him.

  With his hands on either side of her face, his head bent to take her mouth again tasting her passion on her lips. Shouldering all his weigh on one arm, his right hand moved immediately to caress her breast that was begging for his attention. He cupped the swollen weight in his hand, kneading the tender flesh in his palm, his thumb brushing the silk of her dress back and forth over her erect nipple.

  She arched into his hand, begging for more, needing more, and he wasn’t going to let her down. Releasing her mouth, his head moved directly over her other breast, dropping to suck on her nipple through her dress. Her fingers threaded through his hair, anchoring him to her chest, as he pulled relentlessly on the desperate peak.

  Then, her hips jerked against his erection and his vision went black.

  Fuck, he needed her.

  His pulled his mouth from her breast, gasping for air after the paralyzing jolt of lust that just seared through him. Pushing himself up to kneel, he briefly indulged in the sight of her writhing with need, her dress wet and wrinkled from where he had been; grasping the hem of her dress, he caught her gaze for one second before he pushed the material up and over her head, tossing it to the side, leaving her laying beneath him with nothing but her red hair, white skin, and blue thong.

  He stared at the vision in front of him, again mesmerized by her beauty, the beauty of her swollen breasts, pink nipples turned a vibrantly warm red with arousal, the dark material of her underwear a glaring contrast to the paleness of her skin. His hands immediately went to her chest, filling both his hands with the full globes, reveling in the way she arched into his caress, biting her lip trying to ground the intense pleasure that threatened to tear her apart.

  “Please,” she moaned again.

  “What do you want, Ellie?” he ached to hear the words leave her mouth.

  “To feel…” she replied on a gasp as both his hands tugged on her nipples.

  “What do you want to feel?” he pressed on.

  This time her only response was a moan.

  “What do you want to feel, Ellie?” he asked again, “Pain?”

  With that question, he firmly pinched the two buds, her eyes going wide as she gasped in air, the pleasurable pain shooting through her straight to her core.

  “Yes,” she groaned, her hips arching up to brush against his straining erection. Tristan hissed at the onslaught.

  She was a siren.

  “What about pleasure, Ellie?”

  This he asked as his hand trailed from her breast, across the creamy expanse of her flat stomach to the edge of her thong.

  Her ‘yes’ was barely decipherable through her moan, her hips jerking as the backs of his knuckles brushed over her swollen and aching core. Tristan groaned realizing that her thong looked so dark because it was soaking wet with her desire.

  He had to taste her.

  Grasping the flimsy material in both of his hands, he tugged it down over her hips, gently bending each of her legs to extricate them from the scrap of material standing between him and his dessert. Finally, he was able to see all of her, even if it was only with the glow of the city lights coming through his windows; it was enough.

  “What do you want to feel, Ellie?” he rasped again as his hands moved slowly up the lengths of her thighs, heading straight for the center of her. His hand brushed over her swollen folds, stopping as he waited for her answer.

  “Alive,” she gasped, “I want...to feel…alive.”

  “As you wish, Siren,” he replied, his finger delving into her hot core, enjoying her small scream at his first touch.

  His mouth dropped to her stomach, nipping and kissing the delicate skin. His fingers slid easily inside her tight passage, she was so wet. As slowly as he could force himself, his mouth kissed its way down to the top of her mound. Pausing all of his movements, he looked back up at her once last time, once last chance for her to stop him before he feasted on her.

  “Please,” she moaned, unable to even open her eyes.

  “Don’t worry, siren,” his words hoarse with arousal, as he looked down at the sweetness he was about to enjoy, “I’ll make you come alive.” And then his lips descended on hers.

  Ellie bucked underneath him at the first touch of his mouth on her folds, her hands fisting in the drop cloth at her sides.

  God, she tasted incredible.

  Tristan moaned, lapping the sweet syrup between her thighs. His tongue flicked over her clit, enjoying the feel of her leg muscles tensing to the point of spasm underneath his hands. He vaguely registered her moans in the background, his body painfully aroused as he lavished his attentions onto hers.

  “Please,” she begged, on the edg
e of her release.

  Her hands moving to thread her fingers through his hair, pulling his head and mouth even tighter against her. In reward, Tristan pushed his tongue inside of her, feeling the growing contractions of her passage. She whimpered underneath him, so close to the edge of her orgasm, her skin on fire, muscles taut, begging for release; she couldn’t hold on much longer.

  And neither could he.

  His right hand released her leg, skating up to meet his mouth. He pressed two fingers into her as his tongue returned to her clit, her body bucking underneath him as pleasure overwhelmed her. His fingers moved inside her, once, twice, her muscles flexing frantically around him.

  “Tristan,” she barely whispered his name, her breath held, her body trapped on the precipice on orgasm, begging to be released.

  And he would set her free.

  Pushing three fingers deep inside of her, he sucked on the swollen nub of her clit, shattering her world. Ellie screamed with her release, her body shaking with the force of the contractions that wracked her body. His mouth and hands never left her, gently licking over the sensitive bud, riding out the waves of her release, bringing her slowly back down to Earth.

  He slowly raised his head, licking his lips of the remnants of her orgasm as he looks at her beautiful body sprawled out on the floor, limp, sated, and flushed with the blood that was pumping rapidly through her veins.

  Her eyes fluttered opened, the satiated sereneness painted on her face knocked the wind out of him. Last time, he’d only seen her reflection in the window, which was arousing enough, but this time, actually seeing her took every last molecule of oxygen from his lungs.

  When he could breathe again, it was with painful, forceful inhales that he tried to control his body. He watched her body explode with life while his still remained on the excruciating edge of release. Pain seared through his body forcing him to stagger back, lifting himself up onto the settee away from her before he lost control and took her the way that he craved.

  Fuck.

  Seeing her face, her rose-tipped nipples still firm with arousal, and her swollen pink folds glistening in the faint light from the city – all he wanted to do was rip off his pants and thrust his painfully engorged flesh inside her, over and over again until he could watch her release from the outside and feel it from the inside as he finally got the orgasm his body had been craving.

  Not now. Not yet.

  She wasn’t ready for that yet; she craved desire but he needed her to need him.

  His sudden movement away from her startled Ellie. Her limbs, previously paralyzed with pleasure, now stirred with a semblance of renewed life. She groggily pushed herself up to sit, her legs closing and bending to the side, shielding him from the view that would only torture him more. Modestly trying to shield her chest, she reached for her discarded dress, holding it over her as a poor attempt for a cover.

  God, she was so fucking beautiful – even with her look of satisfied embarrassment.

  “Why are you smiling?” she said hoarsely.

  “Because, siren, you’re trying to cover yourself with the flimsiest piece of fabric I have ever seen,” he began, his teasing smile not quite like normal as his face was tight with agony, “when I just had my tongue buried inside of you.” His gaze burned into her all of the pent-up desire that he was feeling, her face flushing a bright red underneath its heat.

  She moved to stand so that she could quickly and easily slip her dress back on, the sudden movement was too much and easily exacerbated the side effects of the medication that she was on, the blood rushing from her brain, she swayed, about to topple back over.

  Tristan was up and holding her in a second, heart beating out of his chest, his excruciating state of arousal forgotten as he picked her up and laid her on the couch.

  “Sorry…” she mumbled, trying to sit up again, embarrassed even further.

  “Don’t be sorry, just lay here for a second, and relax; your brain needs blood flow – don’t move,” he instructed, “I’m going to get you a blanket.”

  Ellie nodded, resting her head back down on the pillow on the settee, just needing to close her eyes for a second and collect herself.

  Wine was definitely not the best idea with these medications – duly noted.

  Tristan stood, wincing as his pants tightened painfully. Walking into the bedroom, he pulled a blanket from his closet. When he returned to the living room, now mostly dark with the sun having completely set hours ago, Tristan found Ellie curled up and fast asleep where he had left her. Opening up the blanket, he knelt and gently tucked it around her, moving the soft wisps of hair away from her face.

  She looked so blissful, so content; he had to capture it.

  He turned to where his easel still stood, the effort reminding him that there was something he needed to take care of first.

  Stalking back through his bedroom into the bath, closing the door behind him and opening the door to the shower. He efficiently unzipped his pants, yanking them partially over his hips to free his tortured erection. Grasping the base firmly, he pumped his hand up and down, closing his eyes and thinking of the soft, exquisite woman lying in his bed, the way she had responded to his touch, to his taste. He could still faintly taste her on his tongue, her sweetness lingering in his mouth. He pumped his erection harder and faster, remembering the way she’d, moments ago, held his mouth to her core as if drinking her juices was the only thing that would sustain him. The way her climax had clenched around his fingers sent him over the edge. Tristan groaned loudly, the painful pleasure of his release finally tearing through him, jets of semen shooting onto the shower tiles in front of him as he relived the feel of her muscles flexing around him.

  Minutes later, he grabbed a tissue to clean the remnants of his ejaculation off of his still semi-hard erection. Carefully pulling his boxers back up, he shut the door, vowing to clean the shower in the morning and moved into his closet to change into a pair of sweatpants.

  Soon enough, he found himself back out in the living room, turning the lights on dimly to stare at the sleeping beauty before him. Tristan’s hand began to move over the canvas, tracing her soft, expressive curves. One portrait led to another; this one from earlier – her face when she realized where he had brought her; to another, of her awe-filled expression inside the theatre at the performance; to another, of her face when she told him that she wanted to feel alive. His hand moved of its own volition capturing the nuances of her reactions. Finally settling to trace the tranquil loveliness of Ellie as she slept, undisturbed by the world.

  With no consciousness of time or tiredness, he worked. It was only when Ellie moaned and shifted, trying to extend her legs but unable to because of the length of the settee, that the spell was broken.

  He couldn’t let her sleep here.

  Setting down the charcoal, he wiped his hands on the drop cloth before going to her, maneuvering his arms underneath to pick her up. She moaned softly as she buried her face into his chest, the warm, softness of her body hardly disguised by the velvet fabric.

  Carefully crossing the threshold into his bedroom, he yanked the comforter on his bed down, gently laying Ellie onto the mattress. She whimpered and stirred against him, worrying him that something was wrong.

  “Ellie, are you ok? How do you feel?” Tristan asked her softly shaking her blanket-covered shoulder.

  “Alive,” she whispered, half-asleep, “Finally…alive…” Then she nuzzled her face further into the pillow and fell asleep. Knowing she was ok, Tristan pulled the comforter back over her, completely covering allowing sleep to consume her.

  Taking out another spare blanket for himself, he walked back out towards the settee, eyeing up his bed for the night. He paused in front of all the portraits that he had done of her tonight, most from complete memory, laying scattered all over the floor. As he looked at her face in each one, it reinforced his belief that Ellie, too, had secrets.

  The thought reminded him of her arms; he hadn’t even looked at t
hem earlier – granted, he’d been pretty preoccupied, but there was more to her secrets than what she was physically hiding.

  Just like there was to his.

  He gathered up the pieces, laying them neatly in a pile before laying himself down on the settee, the makeshift bed still warm with a subtle hint of vanilla left behind by its previous occupant. Covering himself with the blanket, he closed his eyes, realizing just how exhausted he was. He wondered, his mind drifting off to sleep if his revenge on Jack Carter was really worth it? Was it worth losing the most potent source of inspiration that he had ever had? The last thought to cross his mind before sleep consumed him was a dreamy awareness that,

  Ellie hadn’t inspired his art, she’d inspired his heart to open, to feel again, and that, he knew, could change his life if he would let it.

  Chapter 20

  Ellie sighed, snuggling deeper into the soft pillow and mattress beneath her, relishing in its softness and warmth. Even though she fought it, the slivers of consciousness slipped their way into her well-rested mind, reminding her that she had to wake up eventually.

  Since when had her bed felt this comfortable in the morning?

  She smiled, just enjoying the moment, when the lucid thought hit her that it had never felt this way because this wasn’t her bed.

  What happened? What had she done?

  She rubbed her eyes, slowing opening them to the memories of what had happened last night. The scene between her and Tristan vividly replaying in her mind as her eyes recognized that she was, in fact, laying in his bed. Slowly moving her head around, she could see that there was no one else in the room, giving her the confidence to slowly roll over and confirm that there was no one else in the bed with her. Turning over onto her left side, she could see that that side of the bed had been left completely undisturbed, the pillows and comforter barely marred by her presence.

  Where had Tristan slept?

  She wondered with concern knowing that as much as it would have shocked her, he could have slept next to her. Somewhere deep down inside of her warmed at the idea of waking up next to him in the morning. She wondered what his face looked like completely at rest; every time she saw him, he was always so focused, so intense it made her wonder if he ever really relaxed. The closest she had seen him come was when he was drawing her, there was a focused peace over him as if it were just taking a moment to breathe; that rarely lasted, though, since their portrait sessions seemed to be rife with sexual tension.