Chapter 10 #2
I heard him move in close to me before his lips touched mine. “Because I like looking at the full picture, and Chantel, your body is a work of art.”
“You just like keeping me naked,” I told him as I felt him move away from me.
“Well, that too. Okay, so sit down here. Yeah, that’s perfect. Face the wall so I can capture you from the side. Now, place the bout of Diva on your crossed legs and cradle her curves, so the handle is resting between your breasts. There. That’s perfect.”
The cool surface of the violin’s handle fits nicely against my chest.
“Wow, the way your breasts and hips look from this angle is a thing of beauty.”
“I feel kind of ridiculous,” I told him, licking my bottom lip as my nipples hardened in the cool morning air. “Are you going to paint me true to life?”
“Of course,” he mumbled in the way he always did when he was concentrating on a piece.
“I mean, are you going to paint my nipples hard, like they are right now?”
The room went silent until he cleared his throat. “Stop trying to distract me.”
“Is that what I’m doing, Phillipe? Distracting you with my hard nipples?”
He chuckled. “If you behave for thirty minutes, I’ll let you take a break.”
It was funny, because when he first told me about this idea he had to paint me, it was one picture. Now it had turned into two, but if I knew Phillipe, it would end up being more like ten or eleven. Who knew? Maybe he’d never stop. He was always telling me he could look at me all day.
“Okay, I think I can manage that for thirty minutes.”
“Good, good,” he answered in that faraway voice again.
Around thirty minutes later, he told me I could break pose, so I lowered the violin to the floor gently.
I stood and made my way over to where he was, uncaring now of my nudity.
When I got there, I felt him make a move to stand.
He must have turned to face me, because I felt a fingertip run down the curve of my breast to my straining nipple.
“Hmm, I like painting you like this,” he told me, fingering my sensitive flesh.
“Will you do something for me?” I asked.
I waited patiently for an answer. He took a moment, but I thought that was because he was too busy playing with my naked breasts.
“Phillipe?”
“Yes, Beauty, anything.”
I reached up and gripped his wandering finger. “Can you show me what you’ve painted?”
“How? Tell me how.”
“Turn around.” I smiled when I felt him move away from me.
Reaching out, I placed my arms around him and ran my palms down his arms, which were left bare by the T-shirt rubbing against my skin. The hair there tickled and brushed against my palms as I stroked down his biceps to his forearms, where I could comfortably reach.
As I stood plastered to his body, my sensitive breasts against his back, I rested my cheek against his shoulder blade. “Now, run your hands over the paint. Draw me the way you saw me just now.”
Closing my eyes, I let his body lead mine as his hands and arms started to move.
Just as his fingertips must have touched the canvas, in a voice that sounded slightly strained, he told me softly, “This will ruin the image. Are you going to sit again tomorrow?”
I turned my head and bit his shoulder blade gently. “Yes, I’ll sit for you again tomorrow, and the next day, and the day after that. I’ll sit for you every day for as long as you want me to.”
He took a deep breath, and my heart sped up when he replied, “So forever.”
I ran my left hand back up his arm and then removed it, bringing it to his side, where I smoothed my palm down over his abdomen to the edge of his shirt. That was when his right hand started to move.
“Here, this is your right shoulder,” he told me as he ran his hand over the wet paint.
I stroked my fingers across his lower belly, flirting with the edge of his jeans.
“What are you doing, Chantel?” he asked as he dropped his hand from the canvas.
I could feel him getting ready to turn and face me, so I said softly, “No. Don’t turn around.”
“Why not?”
Honestly, all I could think of was that I wanted him to experience this just like me.
“I want you to be blind for a moment. Just feel me, hear me.”
Moving slightly back from him, I brought my right hand down to join my left under his shirt. He let out a deep breath.
“Do you want me to take my shirt off, just like you?”
“No,” I told him.
I felt him shift his feet a little wider to get a steadier stance.
“I like rubbing my nipples against the material. It feels so good.”
“Christ, Chantel. What the fuck has gotten into you?”
Slowly, I rubbed myself against his back. It was true. The material felt amazing as it abraded my stiff, pointy tips. I could already feel my pussy start to moisten.
“I don’t know,” I confessed.
Reaching the button on his jeans, I unfastened it, only fumbling a little as I slipped my right hand inside, rubbing my palm against his pulsating cock.
“Oh, fuck yeah.” He groaned.
I smiled against his back. “Do you like that?” I asked, just the way he always did with me.
“Hell yes.” He groaned again. “Grip it, Chantel. Take me in your hand.”
Not wanting to disappoint him, I unzipped his jeans and pushed my other hand inside, freeing him from the confinement of his denim.
Wrapping my palm around his hot cock, I stroked him slowly from base to tip. He flexed his hips and bucked forward, seeking the warm downward slide of my palm. Gliding my hand over his sensitive skin, I turned my face into his back and took another bite of his shoulder.
“Yes. Again.”
Removing my hand from him, I told him softly, “Make it wet.”
“Huh?” he grunted.
I took great delight in the confusion I heard in that single distracted noise. Bringing my hand up to where he could see it, I told him again, “Make it wet, Phillipe.”
This time, he seemed to get my meaning. He moved to the left, and the next thing I felt was his hand clasping mine with cool liquid. Somehow, I knew it was paint.
“What color?” I asked.
“Are you fucking serious?” he asked, moving my hand back to his impatient cock. He wrapped our fingers around him as he punched his hips forward on a tormented growl, letting his head fall back.
“What color, Phillipe?”
“Red. Fiery fucking red.”
“Perfect,” I purred against his trembling back as I resumed my slow torment.
Over and over, I stroked him. Each delicious tug of his stiff member pulled a strained groan from deep inside his chest as his hot palm assisted my movements.
“So fucking good.” He cursed as he thrust forward into our palms. His flesh was burning hot, rubbing against my hand hard. “Bite me again, just like before,” he demanded.
I smiled against him, teasing him, nibbling softly. “Like this?” I reached up with my free hand, stroking his abdominal muscles, which were straining with each controlling motion of those powerful hips.
“No,” he forced out.
“No?”
“Chantel…” he told me in warning.
I ran my hand up to his nipple while I rubbed my own against his back. His breathing hitched as he grunted in a voice so husky and deep that I could swear he must have stroked my pussy, because it contracted and moistened.
“Put your fucking teeth on me, Chantel.”
How could I resist that? I couldn’t, and I didn’t.
Instead, I bit him hard, harder than I would have expected, as I stroked and squeezed his cock as fast and rough as I could. It must have been what he was waiting for, because he gripped my hand as I felt his big body twitch and shudder while he groaned my name.
Snapping the journal shut, I place it on the bed beside me, annoyed and frustrated.
Every word I read from her pulls me deeper into their relationship.
The more I read, the more I find myself craving the knowledge.
What is it about them that I find so intriguing?
Is it the fact that I am reading something so very private?
I feel as though I am violating their love in some way, yet I can’t help myself from wanting to know more. No, I need to know more.
Sliding down the bed, I rest my head on the pillow and stare at the ceiling, remembering the image of Phillipe as I saw him only a few days ago. Naked, hard, and stroking himself so violently that I thought he must have been hurting himself. What did he tell her? Put your fucking teeth on me.
Fucking hell, that was so damn sexy.
I sit, letting my legs fall over the edge of the bed. He wants to start painting Armor tonight. The painting is the second in the collection, and it’s the first full nude, where you can see a portion of my front side. I’m not sure how I feel about it.
I make my way over to the mirror and stare at my reflection.
There, looking back at me, are wide green eyes.
Raising my hand, I grip the hairband holding my hair away from my face and pull it out, releasing my blonde strands.
It tumbles down around me, so I shake it back from my shoulders, looking at the picture I present. I’m trying to see all that he sees.
Reaching down to the bottom of my top, I lift it and pull it over my head, leaving myself standing in my nude-colored lace bra. I finger the material and run my hand down to the curve of my breast, watching the reflection of my nipple as it hardens.
It’s strange inspecting myself, seeing my body change as I feel it happen. I unclasp my bra then take a breath as I pull the cups away from my body and let it fall to the ground. I’m left standing there, naked from the waist up, trying to see myself objectively.
My breasts aren’t huge. A small C-cup makes them full enough that I usually have to wear a bra, but sometimes, if I want to dress up for someone special, I can go without.
Below my right arm, where my breast curves out, I have a small beauty mark that I have hated for as long as I can remember. As I stand here now, looking at myself, I find that I don’t mind it. I think it adds a certain character to me.
I gently brush my red-painted fingertips against my nipple and let out a small gasp.
Biting my bottom lip, I watch my fingers in the mirror as I run them around the sensitive tips.
I remember Chantel talking about how good Phillipe’s shirt felt against her nipples.
Probably as good as my fingers now feel against mine.
I pinch and tug them between my thumb and index fingers, pulling the tight little tips. I sigh as I feel myself get wet. Shocked by my own brazen behavior, I can’t seem to tear my eyes away from myself.
That’s when something in the room changes, and I feel like I’m going a little crazy. I swear I’m seeing dark hair falling over my shoulder. Instead of my red-tipped fingers, I’m seeing long, elegant ones with blunt-cut nails tracing my body.
Feeling my lips part, I watch as the hands in front of me cup my breasts and squeeze. I’m mesmerized by the scene. The hands gliding over my body have morphed into hands I know. They are hands that shock me.
They’re hands I have seen before, hands I’ve studied, hands that have created music I’ve listened to, and hands I have just read about.
“Ah,” I groan as my nipples are plucked and twisted. They are pinched hard and teased. Transfixed on the mirror, I can feel myself becoming increasingly wetter.
“Fuck.” I pant as my right breast is squeezed, and my left nipple is pulled. Crossing one leg over the other, I close my eyes and imagine beautiful, pale, talented hands caressing me. I can hear music flowing over me, violins, and I can feel my aching core clenching with each moment of my pleasure.
Arching my back and pushing my breasts forward, hands now squeezing my supple curves, I swear someone whispers, “Do you like that?”
As my climax crashes into me, I find myself calling out a name I never thought to say in a moment such as this.
“Chantel.”