by Katie Allen
It took her a few minutes to realize that he’d stopped. Her first feeling was one of disappointment that it was over. It was like having to get up after a good massage, only being painted by Louis had been a hundred times more intense.
She shifted her head first, turning it to the side to watch as he cleaned up and put away his supplies. “I hate that this will be washed away,” she said. It wasn’t until her words were out, breaking the silence of the studio, that she realized that was the first time either of them had spoken in hours. She hadn’t realized that Louis could go that long without talking. Even in his sleep, he sometimes muttered and grumbled incomprehensible things she’d discovered after the past week of sharing a bed with him.
His head came up, as if the sound of her voice had surprised him, but then he smiled. “I’ll take a picture.”
“Okay.” She rested her temple on her folded arms, amazed at how content she was to continue to lie there on the hard table, watching Louis and letting paint dry on her back. After the past few days of dealing with almost painful boredom, she would’ve thought that being a human canvas would’ve made her so twitchy and anxious to move that she wouldn’t have lasted past her shoulder blades. Instead, she’d lain still for hours and would’ve been happy for the painting to go longer.
Pulling out his phone, he took photos of her, first her legs and then her back. Dropping his cell to his side, he frowned. “I can’t get all of you in the shot.” He looked around the studio, and Annabelle knew exactly what he was thinking.
“Nope,” she said, propping herself up on her elbows, her concern for him drawing her out of her calm state. “You’re not climbing on top of some tower of overturned crates.”
His slight look of guilt proved that she was right about his plan. “Not a tower. Maybe two? Three at the most. Or we can get the ladder from the gallery.” He hurried to tack on the last suggestion when she gave him her best stern-teacher glare.
“I have a better idea. I’ll get down, and you can take it with me standing over there. That way, no one’s falling off anything. Aren’t you the one who was talking about safety first?” She moved to slide off the table, not wanting to swivel around and sit first in case she smudged any of the paint on her backside.
“It was ‘safety is no accident,’ and I was talking about condoms.” Louis reached out and helped, and his mention of that incredible night in his arms and the feel of his hands against her skin, so warm and alive in comparison to the touch of the paintbrush, brought all of her simmering desire back to full flame. Reaching up, she grabbed the back of his head and yanked his mouth down to hers.
Chapter Sixteen
He froze for a split second as she kissed him, frantic with need. After all that time he’d been painting her, all those long minutes she’d lain still as repressed hunger circulated through her, her desire had grown so intense that it felt like her skin couldn’t contain it. She closed her teeth on his bottom lip, the one he’d been torturing her with for the past few days with his gorgeous smiles and puppy-dog pouts and stubborn sulks. It wasn’t just this day or these hours or minutes. She’d been needing him since the night of the burglary, since he’d slipped his fingers inside her and set her off like a firecracker.
Jerking out of his moment of shock, he wrapped his arms around her, one at her waist and one under her hips, lifting her right off the ground as he pivoted around. Her back pressed against the smooth painted wall as she gasped from the suddenness of the movement. With the cool wall behind her and the burning hardness of the body in front of her, the contrast of the two made everything she felt even more intense.
She lifted her legs and wrapped them around his waist, yanking her head back so she could gasp out a question. “Is this okay?”
“This is fantastic.” His words were a hungry growl as he shifted his hold on her, cupping her ass in both huge hands, his fingers digging into the flesh of her cheeks, massaging them as he pulled her more tightly against him. Her clit finally found the friction she’d been deprived of since Louis had started undressing her, and she moaned with sheer relief as she ground her pussy against his rigid ab muscles.
She yanked at his shirt, needing it to be gone, desperate for the feel of his skin against hers. Pressing her more firmly against the wall, he released her with one hand so he could grab the back of his T-shirt and yank it over his head. There was a ripping sound as the fabric slid up his torso, but he didn’t look like he cared as he dragged it over his head and tossed it behind him. His teeth were bared, and his face was tight with desire, and the sight of him looking at her so ferociously, as if he wouldn’t survive if he didn’t drive himself inside her immediately, erased every practical thought in her brain. All she knew was that she wanted him just as desperately.
Once his shirt was gone and his luscious chest and abs were exposed, she tightened her grip on him, needing to feel him against her. They both groaned as she flattened her upper body against him, but the sound was muffled when their lips crashed together again. Their kiss was frantic, wilder than she’d ever experienced before, sucking and nipping as if they couldn’t get enough of each other.
She felt him reach down with one hand and jerk the front of his pants and underwear down just far enough that the tip of his erect cock brushed damply against the crack of her ass. Her legs and arms squeezed him more tightly, trying to urge him on with her gripping limbs and her ravaging mouth, needing to be filled up by him, to be stretched and pounded and driven over the edge of the climax that she’d been waiting for—for days.
He didn’t let her sink down onto him, though, didn’t drive that waiting erection deep into her pussy. Instead, he yanked something out of his pocket, holding it up as he pulled back from their kiss. She made a desperately needy sound, one that might have embarrassed her if she hadn’t been exactly that—both desperate and needy to the point of not caring how she looked or sounded. All she needed was for him to be inside her, for them to finally be connected after all those months of waiting and imagining and trying to pretend she wasn’t interested.
He managed to pull away, just enough to speak. “Condom.”
That single word managed to work its way through the hazy fog of lust enveloping her mind, and she gave a short nod of comprehension as he ripped open the packet with his teeth.
“Hold on.” The words were little more than a grunt, but she didn’t judge him for his caveman-like speaking skills, since she knew she wouldn’t be able to say anything at the moment. All she could do was cling to him as he pushed her harder against the wall, keeping her aloft as he rolled on the condom. It was just seconds, but it felt like longer, her anticipation built to the point that every moment of delay was unbearable.
Then both his hands were on her ass, and he was sliding into her, as thick and hot and fulfilling as she could’ve ever hoped for. He took his time, easing the way in, slow when they’d been flying at top speed, and she could feel every nerve ending inside her, every stretch and slide as he burrowed deeper into her heat.
By the time his hips met hers, she was panting, her fingers digging into the muscles of his shoulders, needing to hold still, needing to move, needing everything all at once.
“Fuck, Annabelle.” His gritty voice rubbed against her like sandpaper, making her shiver and clench down on him. In response, his fingers dug deeper into the cheeks of her ass. “You feel better than anything.”
Words were still beyond her. All she could do was cling to him as she held him tightly deep inside her. He eased out slowly before shoving back in. Again and again, he drove into her, putting pressure on just the right spots—both inside and out—on the inward stroke. His skin grew slick under her grip, and the slide of their bodies, skin against skin, was almost as good as the feel of his cock pushing inside her.
His rhythm grew faster as the pressure inside her grew, all the frustration and waiting and touching and looking building into somethi
ng so huge that her muscles tightened with as much fear as anticipation.
“Shh... Just let it come. I’ve got you.” It was like he’d read her mind, plucking out her anxious thoughts and knowing just what to say to relieve them. He rubbed his raspy cheek against hers, dipping his head lower to nip at her earlobe before finding her mouth again.
This, she thought, the only one she could cling to as her body tightened unbearably, desperate for release. This is the best thing.
His kiss was strangely sweet and hungry at the same time, but it was perfect and exactly what she needed. As he thrust into her, pressing hard against her swollen clit, she started to come, and the pinch of his teeth against her lip was the hard shove she needed to fall into it completely. She cried out against his mouth, his name muffled as he kissed her harder, his thrusts getting uneven and wild as her body tightened around him.
He kissed her through her climax and then through his, as well, only moving to tuck his head against her neck when her muscles started to lose their tension. They stayed like that for a while, coming down from the best orgasm that Annabelle had ever had, until she was limp and boneless and having a hard time holding on to him.
A tremor went through him as he pulled out of her, and his hands squeezed her ass convulsively as he lifted his head. “I’ve never come that hard in my life. I went off like a rocket. There’s nothing left inside of me. I’m just a hollow, pulpless honeydew melon rind now.”
Her laugh was breathless, which was understandable, since her chest was still rising and falling like she’d been running sprints. “Yeah. That was...intense.” Her words felt grossly inadequate for the fireworks show that had just happened in the nerve center of her brain, but she felt too emptied out and limp and—as Louis had said—pulpless to think of a more accurate way to describe what had just happened.
She felt another shiver go through him, the slightest shake of his muscles, and she realized that he must feel like he was about to fall over, and she was still clinging to him like an orphaned koala. Reluctantly, she untangled her legs from his hips and slid to the ground, immediately feeling chilled and wishing she was still wrapped up in his arms.
Tossing the used condom into the trash can by the worktable, he adjusted his pants, tucking his cock back inside. Annabelle felt oddly disappointed. She’d become really fond of that part of him, especially over the past half hour or so.
Her thoughts made her laugh.
“What is it?” Louis retrieved her abandoned clothes and offered them to her. Instead of dressing, she hugged them to her chest.
“I was just thinking about how much I like your penis.”
His grin was wide. “He really likes you, too. A lot.”
She laughed again, marveling at the craziness of the whole situation. Here she was, with a masterpiece on her back, just having been fucked against a wall by Louis Dumont. Peering over her shoulder, she tried to see how the painting had fared. She couldn’t see it very well, but she couldn’t see how it could’ve held up against sweaty wall sex. “I think it’s ruined.” Disappointment filled her. They hadn’t even gotten a good complete picture of it yet.
“That’s okay.” He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and hugged her against his side. “I’ll just have to do it again.”
An anticipatory shiver skated down her spine. She couldn’t wait.
Chapter Seventeen
Annabelle closed her laptop, feeling satisfaction at the tiny click. Now that her headache was gone, Louis had grudgingly allowed her to use her phone and computer again, so she’d spent the past two days catching up on book work—well, catching up on book work and having all sorts of sex with Louis. Now the bulk of the office work was finished, and her body felt languid and satisfied. She’d never been so happy. The only ant at her joy picnic, niggling at the back of her blissed-out brain, was the fact that he still hadn’t gotten completely naked around her. Even at night, he’d keep his residual leg covered, resisting every attempt she made to convince him to strip completely.
It bothered her more than she wanted to admit that he hid part of his body from her. Everything else was wonderful. He’d started sleeping better, and she’d even woken up before him that morning. After leaving him a note, she’d slipped out to work in her office. Knowing that she’d helped with his insomnia made her especially happy, but the situation still felt too tenuous to allow herself to fully dive into the new developments. Now, when he’d joke about their engagement, she had to force herself to tease him back. After all, if he didn’t trust her enough to show her his scars, then he couldn’t be serious about wanting to marry her.
A thump from the studio, followed by the sound of Louis swearing, snapped her out of her thoughts. Concerned, she hurried out of her office to see him on his crutches by the empty shipping crates. Although she quickly figured out that he’d just knocked into the stack and was reassured that he wasn’t injured, her eyes went to his pinned-up pants leg.
“Why aren’t you wearing your prosthesis?” she asked curiously, moving to help restack the crates. She was well aware how much he hated using his crutches more than absolutely necessary.
He made a face. “The liner bunched up yesterday, just enough to rub. I didn’t think it was a big deal when I noticed it last night, but when I tried to put the leg on this morning...” His wince was obviously exaggerated, but Annabelle knew that his pain tolerance was off the charts. It really must’ve hurt him if he’d resorted to crutches.
“Sorry.” Before she could say anything more, a pounding from the gallery interrupted. From the determined sound of the knocking, it wasn’t just a curious tourist who’d quickly give up and go away once they realized the gallery was closed. They planned to reopen on Monday, after switching out Velvet’s paintings with Louis’s.
They exchanged a curious look before Annabelle followed him into the gallery, grabbing the keys from her desk on the way. When she caught up to him at the door and saw who was waiting outside, she frowned. “Wasn’t Velvet supposed to come tomorrow?”
“That’s what she said.”
Unlocking the door, she held it open as Velvet swept through into the gallery. “Sorry! I know I’m scheduled for tomorrow, but I couldn’t take one more day of my dad’s bitching. Can I pick up the unsold paintings today, please? Pretty please?”
“Sure, although you’ll need to wait while we pack them up,” Annabelle said.
“No problem.” Velvet looked relieved. “I’ll even help.”
Annabelle moved to secure the door, but then left it unlocked. Packing up the paintings wouldn’t take that long, and the Closed sign would deter any random visitors from popping in. Instead, she pocketed the keys and followed Louis and Velvet to the back.
“Are you feeling better?” Annabelle asked as they started wrapping the pieces and packing them into one of the crates.
“Yes, finally.” As if her body decided to contradict her words, she turned her head to cough. “Sorry. Despite how it sounds, I feel so much better. I think the stress of the commission and then trying to get this show together wore me down. When that kid coughed on me, I didn’t have any germ defenses left.”
“Ugh.” Louis made a sympathetic face. “First that portrait, and then you get the plague, and then your painting gets stolen. You’ve had a rough few weeks.”
“I’m not upset about that painting. It was insured.” Velvet waved off his concern as she moved over to pick up the last painting, the other park scene. “It wasn’t one of my favorites, either. This one’s better.”
“I thought Max wanted...” Annabelle started to say, but Velvet interrupted her with another bout of coughing. As she hacked, her hands slipped off the frame, and the painting fell to the floor with a crash.
All three of them converged on the painting. “Thank God you aren’t a glassblower,” Louis said as Velvet and Annabelle crouched to examine it. “Looks like the fram
e is cracked.”
Velvet grimaced as she examined it. “Broken.” She held up the two pieces that had completely separated from the others. “Dad’s usually so fussy about things, but he must’ve rushed on this one. That short of a drop shouldn’t have completely demolished a frame like that.”
Although Annabelle figured it would be rude to agree, she met Louis’s gaze, and she could tell that he felt the same way. Pulling the rest of the pieces away from the painting, she examined the canvas to see if there was any damage. A frame could easily be replaced, but the painting was much more valuable. She ran her fingers along one side, noticing that the canvas had pulled free from the stretcher bar.
“You’ll need to reattach this, but the painting doesn’t seem to be torn.” When she felt a lump under the fabric, she remembered that this was the painting that had appeared to have a second stretched canvas beneath the painting. “Why did you double up like this?”
Velvet peered at the spot that Annabelle was examining. “What do you mean?”
“There’s a canvas underneath this one.”
“No, there’s not.” Velvet flipped up the loose edge, revealing the slightly darker surface of a second canvas. “Hang on. Yes, there is. What is that?” She started tugging at the edge of the painting, trying to pull the material out so she could see what was beneath it. “This is crazy. I stretch my own canvases. There was nothing under there when I painted this, I swear.”
“Wait, don’t pull on it. You’ll tear it.” Louis crutched over to the shelf for pliers that he handed to Velvet. She immediately started pulling out the staples holding the canvas to the stretcher bars. As soon as she had three sides free, she flipped the top painting over, revealing a second one beneath.