♛Chapter Six♛
Lola
I stare at the blank canvas, brush in hand, willing something—anything—to come to me. But my mind is an empty void, except for him.
Mikhail.
The way his muscles flex when he moves. The tension in his jaw when I push too hard.
I’ve tried sketching other things, abstract ideas, faceless bodies, but they all morph into him.
I can’t host an exhibition with nothing but painting after painting of his naked form.
No. That would be a problem. I’d have to kill every last person who laid eyes on them.
A sharp vibration from my phone pulls me from my thoughts. My father. I let it ring twice, just to remind him that my time isn’t his to demand. Then I answer. “Yes?”
“Lola.”
“I assume you’re calling about the gallery,” I sigh.
A beat of hesitation. “It’s being arranged.”
Not good enough.
“That wasn’t my question.”
“It’ll be done.”
“It should’ve already been done.”
“I—” He hesitates. “I should’ve called sooner. After your move. It’s been… a while.”
I move the brush aimlessly on the canvas. “You don’t have to pretend, Father. We both know I wasn’t expecting you to.”
“I’ll be in New York next week, we should meet.” He says instead.
“I don’t see why.”
“You can’t avoid me forever.”
“I don’t avoid people,” I grumble. “They avoid me.”
I know he’s gripping his phone tighter, maybe shifting in his seat. “Lola—”
“Did you book the gallery or not?” I cut in.
“Don’t worry about it.”
“I want confirmation by tomorrow.”
“I—”
“Tomorrow.” I hang up.
I would’ve stayed irritated the whole day if it weren’t for my happy pill.
I drop my paintbrush, my full focus on the screen in front of me.
On Mikhail. Like clockwork, he steps into the camera frame.
His face is unreadable, but my eyes lower to his chest, his stomach, and the deep ridges of muscle shifting beneath his skin.
I know what comes next. His fingers move to his belt, unfastening it.
The leather slides free, dropping to the floor with a soft thud.
His pants follow, shoved low on his hips, exposing the deep cut of his v-line and the thick, hard length of his cock standing rigid against his stomach. My mouth goes dry.
Fuck, he’s big. Not just long, but thick, veined, a swollen head flushed dark with need. The kind of thing that would split me open if he ever—
No.
I shake the thought away so I don’t barge into his apartment and demand it, but my body has already reacted, heat pooling low in my stomach.
His hand wraps around himself, fingers curling tight.
He starts slow. Controlled. Long, firm strokes from base to tip, his grip shifting as he spreads the bead of moisture at his head down his shaft.
Two fingers slide through the slickness pooling between my thighs, teasing over my clit before I bite my lip and press down, circling slowly.
Mikhail’s strokes quicken. I match him, my fingers pressing faster, circling, dipping lower to sink inside, curling just right.
I can almost hear it. The sound he’d make if I were on my knees in front of him instead, if I replaced his hand with my mouth.
Pleasure slams into me, sharp and sudden, my thighs shaking as my fingers work through the waves, my body arching, twisting.
A second later, his hand stills. His stomach tightens as his cock pulses in his grip. Thick ropes of his release spill over his abs. And then, like always, he steps away.
I let my head drop back, heart hammering. I should stop this, or at least feel guilty. But I don’t. I can’t take it anymore.
I grab the canvas I was working on with him posed for me, putting the paintbrushes under my armpit, and rushing to his door, knocking so hard it could be considered pounding.
He opens the door with his hair mussed and his skin still flushed from his masturbation session not even ten minutes ago.
He hasn’t had time to clean himself up.
His eyes darken when he sees me.
“You’re fucking kidding.”
“I need to finish the painting.” I push past him, shoving the canvas inside before he can stop me.
“You need to leave.”
“I will.” I turn. “After you pose for me.”
He looks down at himself like he just realized the state he’s in, then back at me.
“No,” he growls.
“Yes.” I challenge.
His nostrils flare. “I don’t remember agreeing to another session.”
“That’s because you didn’t.” I watch his expression shift. “You already know how this goes. Shirt off.”
He glares at me. Reluctant, stiff-jawed, he reaches over his shoulder and pulls the fabric up and over his head in one smooth motion, exposing his perfect body. I hold out a hand, and he hands me the shirt. “The pants too.”
“What?”
“For the painting,” I lie. “I need to study the way light moves over skin. You want this to be accurate, don’t you?”
“You don’t need my pants off for that.”
“No?” I tap my chin. “Well, maybe not completely off. Just unbuttoned. Open enough to catch the shadows.”
His left eye twitches as his fingers move to his belt.
He struggles with it. I don’t give him the chance to figure it out.
Before he can protest, I kneel. His breath hitches.
The metal of his belt clinks under my fingers as I undo the buckle.
My knuckles graze the heat of his cock, thick and hard beneath the fabric, and I take my time popping the button and lowering the zipper.
He stays still, like if he moves, he’ll break.
Something catches my eye, a drop of something on his throat. I know exactly what it is. And still, I press my tongue to his skin, licking the drop of his release away, slow and savoring, before pulling back with a thoughtful hum. “Yum,” I murmur.
I expect him to finally snap and give in. But Mikhail stays stoic, unmoving, his face carved from stone. I smirk up at him, waiting. Daring. But he doesn’t take the bait. I press my hands to his hips, shifting him into position. “Stay just like that,” I order.
He looks like he’s regretting every decision that led him here. I let him stew in his frustration as I turn back to the canvas and start painting. It’s hot in here. With a sigh, I reach for the buttons of my shirt, slipping them open one by one.
Mikhail’s eyes track every movement with a hunger so sharp it could carve through steel.
“It’s warm,” I say absently. “Your pants,” I add with a sigh. “They’re ruining the composition.”
“I’m not taking off my fucking pants. They’re already unbuttoned.”
I walk away from the canvas, letting my fingers ghost over the fabric caught on his hips.
“I think you should.”
He glares. “And why’s that?”
“The V,” I say simply. “Artists kill to paint it.”
He flicks a glance to the ceiling, praying for patience.
“Fine.” The word is dragged out of him, reluctant and gritted through his teeth.
He shoves them off his big thighs, his boxers clinging low on his hips, the dark fabric doing absolutely nothing to hide the shape of him.
I hook my fingers into the waistband, glancing up at him.
“Just a little lower,” I assure. “For the sake of the painting.”
He’s not happy, but he lets me. I pull down the fabric just enough to expose the ridges of his happy trail, the first hint of light curls beneath.
My breath catches.
Because just above the waistband is a fresh bead of his release, a leftover from our little... session.
I drag a finger through it, collecting it. I bring it to my lips, pop it into my mouth, and suck lightly before pulling it free with a quiet pop.
“You’re messy,” I murmur.
I swear he nearly snaps.
But then he exhales. Slow and Controlled.
And when he speaks, his voice is low, dark. Dangerous. “Get back to painting, sweetheart.”
For the next hour, I paint. And I make sure he suffers for it.
Every now and then, my fingers skim his ribs, his hip, pretending I need to feel the heat of his skin to capture it on canvas.
At one point, I lean in, close enough that my breath skates over his collarbone.
“Tilt your chin up,” I whisper. “Let me see the way the light catches.”
He obeys, muscles tight with restraint. He’s at war with himself.
Poor Mikhail.
So disciplined.
So controlled.
And yet, his cock hasn’t softened once.
When I’m finally finished, I admire my work. The painting is gorgeous, brutal, raw, and everything I wanted. But there’s something else coiling inside me. Something bitter.
Because after everything—after the way I touched him, the way I all but begged him to break—
He never did.
I drop my brush in the jar and wipe my hands on my thighs. “All done.”
Mikhail acts like he’s just been released from hell. His hands move to his jeans on the floor, but I don’t linger to watch.
I gather my things and head to leave. I’m the one who’s frustrated. I’m the one who’s suffering. None of my attempts to get him to lose his inhibitions and fuck me worked.
I stride to the door and wrench it open. But I make sure he sees the way my tongue flicks out to taste the last trace of him on my lips.