Chapter 44
Chapter Forty-Four
Florian gazes around, taking in the sight of my studio.
There’s a large H-frame easel in the corner toward the peak of the roof.
Beside it is a storage rack holding medium to large canvases.
“My dad built this to store my paintings,” I explain.
We walk past a bookcase full of old sketchbooks and art reference books, cups of colored pencils and markers.
There’s a table against the wall at the back, close to one of the skylights for coveted natural light.
I hesitate, looking around. Everything’s tidy and in order. I fidget with the band of my watch.
“I’ve never visited an artist’s studio before.” Florian smiles warmly at me. “It means a lot to see this, Matty. Thanks.”
I shrug a shoulder. “My parents have been very generous since I was in school, giving me the space to paint.”
“I can see why this would be hard to leave.”
“Mm.” I nod, conceding the point, and walk over to the rack.
Chewing my lower lip, I steel my courage and pull out the first painting as Florian comes to stand beside me.
The canvas shows a beach scene in warm colors, somewhat abstract, with figures painted in a minimalist and expressive style where my paint strokes are visible.
“Wow,” says Florian, leaning in. “Matty, this is gorgeous.”
I flush. “I don’t know. From Brighton Beach, last summer.”
“I think this is beautiful,” Florian tells me with frank openness.
My lips twitch as I try to suppress a wry smile. “I’ve taught you everything you know about art,” I chide. “But your knowledge is quite limited.”
Florian laughs. “Maybe. But this feels like summer. Tell me I’m wrong.”
“Well… that’s what I was going for, anyway. I’ll give you that much.”
He looks terribly pleased.
“Okay. Next, another beach painting. More people, more beach.”
“Also stunning.” He gazes from the painting to me and smiles, eyes dancing.
I shake my head at Florian, but the smile that comes is genuine this time. “Focus on the work.”
I show him more, portraits of my friends with my loose, expressive style, my love of colors and mood. “I try to capture their energy. Try to paint them live when I can. It’s just different than working from a photo, but I can do that too. There’s just more movement in the work like this.”
“These are so beautiful,” Florian tells me after I show him a portrait of my mum, putting it on the easel. We both study the painting. “You’re very talented,” he says.
“Talent only gets you so far.”
“And skilled.”
“Yes, skill,” I acknowledge. “But, yeah. It’s complicated.”
“Please consider continuing on with your work,” Florian encourages me. “I’m sure you would have buyers.”
“How do you know?” I press my lips together, amused. Florian doesn’t know about the art world.
“Because I would love to buy a painting.”
“Florian, these aren’t for sale.”
He gives me a hopeful look. “The beach paintings? As you’ve confirmed yourself, I have many blank walls.”
I just laugh and shake my head. “Nice try. Very funny.”
When he still looks at me like that, his gaze fixed on me with hope in his eyes, his mouth soft, it’s easy to forget that this is the man who is shutting down my art community.
And maybe he’s trying to make amends. Or get back into my good books.
There’s a chance he might genuinely like the paintings. But it’s hard to know what’s what.
“I’ll give you ￡2,000 each for the two beach paintings.”
“Florian. Be serious.”
“I am serious. What part of me doesn’t look serious?” He frowns at me, sliding his hands into his pockets, his head tilted to the side. The breeze from the open window ruffles his dark hair. His cheeks have a hint of pink since it’s warm up here.
“The most I’ve sold a painting for is ￡500. For similar work and size.”
“Nonsense. Undervalued.”
“Undervalued?” I peer at him, startled by his certainty. “How would you know? Sales are based on past sales records.”
“Perhaps. And perceived value. And scarcity. After all, look at auctions. Is that painting you love by Hockney worth ￡90 million? I don’t know.
But someone paid that price because they think it’s worth it.
” Florian’s convinced. There’s a tilt to his head, as if he’s waiting for me to dare challenge him.
“Florian, that was an auction with multiple bidders driving up the price. This is just me and you in a loft, looking at my work.”
His gaze is more intent. “Do you disagree with me that your work has value?”
My mouth opens and shuts. “Monetarily, some small amount.”
“Value,” Florian tells me, “is more than money.”
I shake my head, holding his gaze, which doesn’t waver.
Then, I realize he’s close. Very close. So close I’m dizzy and thinking some desperate thing.
I reach out and brush his lips with my fingers.
He nips them, lightly at first, then catches my index finger between his teeth and holds me there for a moment ’til I shiver, and he releases me.
And then I lean forward to kiss him, melting against his mouth, letting him draw me close. God, I’ve been aching for this. I’ve missed him so much. He tastes of tea and honey. And I want more. I grasp his arse, and Florian shudders.
When we straighten, he’s flushed, his gaze riveted on mine. “Matty,” he breathes.
Then I lower to my knees, after glancing over to make sure the door is closed, and run my fingers along the front of his jeans. He hardens under my fingers.
“Can you be very quiet?” I ask, tilting my head back to look at him.
His eyes widen. “What are you planning on doing?”
“Sucking you off. Quickly.”
Florian blinks and leans into my hand. He’s already breathing hard and nods.
I unfasten his belt, his jeans, pushing them down around his hips. I free his cock from his boxers, rigid and damp with precum. I trace the head with my tongue, and I draw him in deep for a moment, and he whimpers. He’s hot in my mouth. Then I release him, and his body practically convulses.
“Shh.”
And I deliver on my promise.
I continue urgently, my hand and mouth working him, as his breathing becomes desperate and his hands tighten in my hair. Against my tongue, he practically trembles, rigid in my mouth.
I feel reckless, and he’s intoxicating, and I can’t think about what I’m doing.
Or how much I want him or how much I’ve craved him and how lonely I’ve been since leaving London, even surrounded by my family.
I can’t believe we’re doing this. I can’t think about it.
Especially here, of all places, or I’ll lose my nerve.
He’s thrusting into my mouth to meet my intense movements.
Florian’s trying his best not to make a sound, but he’s huffing and shuddering, and it’s so fucking hot.
When he erupts with a muffled sound deep in my throat, I swallow his cum, licking his head and shaft clean.
And he’s now standing braced with his hands on the slanted ceiling, gasping. He stares at me.
I draw his boxers up and stand and kiss him. The kiss he gives back is ferocious, hungry. His hand comes to hold the back of my head, and I groan. My body ripples with pleasure.
“Let me return the favor,” he murmurs, kissing along my jaw. I press into him, goose bumps covering my body. I’m so into him right now.
Yet.
“Wait,” I manage unsteadily. “I can’t have you suck me off right now. Not here. Not at my parents’.”
“Didn’t you just give me a blow job?” Florian looks slightly confused. He’s flustered. “When? Where?”
“I don’t know. And it’s different when it’s my cock’s involved at my family’s house. I don’t make the rules. I’m just not ready today. It’s too weird right now.”
“Got it.” He nods. Florian sucks back a shaky breath, flushed. He studies me. And he’s still trembling.
I kiss him again, more lightly this time, and straighten. “I’ll think about selling the paintings. Not today.”
He exhales sharply.
I smile, tracing his cheek. “Have some tea.”
Florian sits down hard on the stool, stunned and reeling. I pass him his tea. I sit on the desk chair partway across the room, out of arm’s reach. “I just… need a moment,” Florian says.
I work on my tea, sitting quietly at my desk, and I reach for a sketchbook.
In quick sketches, I draw Florian, the intense way he looks at me, the way he’s loose-limbed and spent after he came.
I want to remember this moment, our conversation, the way it feels to have him so close, and yet we’re worlds apart.
Outside, the sun’s nearly gone, the skies over the fields turned gold with a hint of cloud above gone pink.
Finally, I finished my drawing, with Florian on the stool, his hands braced on his thighs. “Feeling alright now?” I ask.
He nods, a struggle across his features. I would love to kiss his lips, his face. But none of that helps either one of us. Instead, I fold my hands in my lap.
“Think about coming back to London?” he tries. “Please.”
I shrug. “We’ll see.”
“I miss you, Matty,” he murmurs, and something in him looks broken and lost, and all I want to do is go to him. But it’s not going to make anything better, and ultimately, it will feel a whole lot worse. “But more than anything, I want you to be happy.”
My throat’s tight. I just nod. I don’t dare say I miss him too. I don’t trust what I might say. Or do. And, after all, his investments come in first place. And maybe it’s silly to think that way, like it’s a choice between me and the Rose, but he knows where I stand.
“I should leave,” Florian whispers. “I need to go early to help my brother.”
“Yeah?”
He nods, rising. “Gabriel’s not well.”
But he doesn’t say anything more, and I don’t ask more because it’s not my place. Not when things are like this between us. Not that there is an us. “I’m sorry he’s unwell.”
I walk him out to his car after he says good night to my parents, thanking them for the meal. We linger with our hands in our pockets beside his black car. The sun’s gone, and it’s the first hint of the evening moving to twilight.
“I hope to see you again,” Florian offers softly. “But I understand if it’s too difficult.”
I press my lips together. All I can do is nod.
Florian unlocks his car, opens the driver’s door, and starts the engine. And soon, he’s backing down the driveway, onto the lane, and out of sight. I retreat to my room and fling myself face down on my bed.