Chapter Twenty-Six
In which we would ALL like a Paint Night like this one.
Liria…
I ask myself the same thing I did that night in Boston when "Beauford" took me home.
Am I really doing this?
I'm naked on a canvas and my husband is painting me.
The watercolor is cool and slippery on my skin.
I never would have thought of something like this, even with all the times I'd fantasized about Alexsey.
He's kneeling over me, his jeans tight and his erection painfully obvious.
His tanned skin is gleaming and he's beautiful in a perfect, almost unearthly way.
His blue eyes are alight with anticipation, like he's creating art, and I'm the canvas.
Alexsey dips his enormous hands in green paint and slides his slippery palms up my legs, parting my thighs and before I can my breath, his mouth is on my pussy and the time for thinking is over.
Ohhhh… god. Hell yes, I'm doing this.
The heat of his mouth is on me, with confident strokes of his tongue, circling my clit and sliding down to push it inside me.
His big, rough hands keep moving along my legs, pushing them apart.
The green paint is smearing all over his broad shoulders as he wedges them between my thighs, spreading them painfully wide, my tendons straining against the stretch.
The only thing that matters though, is his mouth.
His warm mouth and agile tongue, how he delicately runs his teeth against my swelling lower lips, and when he sucks my clitoris into his mouth and pulls, and I let out a shocked shriek and come.
Embarrassingly fast. I cover my face with my hands, mortified.
Alexsey doesn't let up, humming approvingly and smoothing his paint-slick fingers against my stomach, every muscle taut and the vibrations of his humming radiate through my center and my thighs.
My hips push up greedily and my hand finds his hair and I grip it.
I'm flying apart into so many pieces and my hand clinging to Alexsey's thick hair is the only thing holding me down.
The wet paint and the rough texture of the canvas are slick and then scratchy against my back and I laugh a little wildly.
The world is a blur of color and heat and sensation.
My flailing hand knocks over a tube of paint and it squishes out, leaving a puddle on the floor.
I draw my fingers through it and smear it down Alexsey's neck and shoulder.
Blue. A nice dark blue that contrasts with his pale eyes and he chuckles, moving up to squeeze my breasts as that talented mouth goes after my nipples in a way that is more ferocious than sexy but what the hell, that's the theme tonight, right?
I feel something cool on my stomach and look down to see that he's painting my skin lavender. The paint brush circles my belly button and outlines my ribs before moving up and crossing over the pink stripes he's left on my breasts.
Finding my blue puddle of paint, I gather up more, my fingers dripping and drawing them up the firm lines of his back, each muscle there shifting and moving as I find them. Out of the corner of my eye, I see purple and dip my hand into that can, sloppy and careless and I squeeze his ass with it.
Now, he groans. "You're painted enough." His knee roughly spreads my thighs wider and my muscles strain in protest. "Playtime's over, baby.
Don't get any paint on my cock." Kneeling over me, he takes my clean hand, the one that had been gripping his blond hair like a life rope and wraps it around him. His dick is hot, and throbbing.
"It looks bigger." I'm babbling but the words keep falling out of my mouth. "Did it get bigger? I'm not sure about this."
"Yes, you are," he grins, so fucking pleased with himself. "Even while you're proclaiming your maidenly vapors about the size of my cock, you've got it pressed against your cunt."
My gaze darts down. I do. My hand looks small against his length, he's thick enough that my long, pianist fingers barely touch my thumb as I squeeze him experimentally.
This makes him growl and shift his hips, pushing forward hard and finishing the job my hand was attempting, shoving himself as deep inside me as he can go in one thrust.
"There it is…" I can hear the strain in his voice and it makes me happy.
I shouldn't be the only one who feels half-insane right now.
"The very top of you." He bites my ear, and not gently.
"I can feel your cervix pulse against the head of my cock.
" His feet dig into the floor and he pushes a bit harder, like there's any room left.
His pulse is throbbing in his cock, hard enough for me to feel it.
"Give me a second," he groans. "You feel too fucking good wrapped around me like this. "
Hearing him like this, hoarse and close to losing control… I feel powerful. Wanted.
And stuffed full.
It feels like he's invaded every cell in my body, his cock stretching me, pushing everything aside to shape me for him. I'm taking small, wheezy breaths because it feels like I'm too full to take a deep one.
The feel of him is familiar, the memories I'd kept safe after that night in Boston. This, though, is no Beauford. This is Alexsey Morozov. Powerful, greedy. It feels different this time. He feels different, like he's created something out of me and now he's enjoying his art.
The afternoon heat is draped around us, heavy, like a blanket and the paint's smearing over our skin, dripping onto the canvas. The frame is broken and I'm sure somewhere, Van Gogh is shrieking his displeasure at how harshly we're treating it.
When he moves again, his head falls back in pleasure and the strong column of his neck is beautiful, and I arch up to kiss it.
The world narrows down to this canvas square and the man over me.
Everything feels stretched to my absolute limit, he's so thick I feel the veins on his cock rubbing against my channel, the broad head of him as it pushes everything inside me to make room.
"Tell me how it feels," he says.
"Like you're reshaping me inside," I gasp, paint-slick hand gripping his shoulder, trying to hold on.
"Perfect," he rasps, kissing me again, sliding his tongue along my lips and teeth like he wants to be inside me everywhere. "Now, tell me who you belong to."
Instead, I dig my heels into the tight muscles of his flexing ass and he chuckles, pulling his thick cock out and ramming it back into me.
"I won't stop until you say it." He thrusts harder, almost like he wants to hurt me and I don't mind, my heels pushing against him.
"Tell me, Liria Morozova. Say who you belong to.
Who you were waiting for, the only man who could fill you up like this.
" He's all muscle and heat, driving into me, rough, calloused fingers toying with my nipples, squeezing my breasts and I grit my teeth.
There's no way I'm telling him anything. He doesn't deserve it. Not when-
His right hand slides between us and his thumb presses my clitoris, pulsing in time with his thrusts first and then circling it. The muscles in my thighs are shaking. There’s a cyclone brewing that's ready to explode inside me and he knows it.
"Tell me, you dirty, greedy thing. You know who owns this pussy. So, say it." His dark voice keeps pouring demands in my ear, switching from English to Russian and back again and I'm almost there.
He stops. The world stops, and my eyes fly open, glaring up at him.
"So close, aren't you?" His grin is infuriating.
Arrogant. Knowing. His eyes, though. They're blazing.
He's needing this as much as I do. "I'll give it to you.
" Fingers twist in my hair, yanking my head back.
"You'll come so hard you'll cry, you'll forget who you are, just a desperate, sweaty girl who comes and comes -"
"You!" The word scratches from my throat and I can't take it back. "I belong to you. I'm yours."
"Yes…" It's a pleased exhalation and his hips move again, his cock driving back inside me, thumb circling my clit and it takes maybe four, five hard thrusts and I come.
It tears everything apart, my sanity, my pride.
I'm mindless, gripping down on him and loving his groan and as the second wave hits me, harder than the first, Alexsey stiffens and explodes inside me and we're writhing together, moaning, gripping and pulling at each other.
His hips stutter and push against me one last time and my shaky thighs tighten against his hips and we don't move for a long time.
There is a moment at the end.
I'm covered in an insane kaleidoscope of color, sweat, and our come.
My long hair is in snarled clumps, face red and as his gaze meets mine, I wait for the chill to spread, giving his blue eyes the polar sheen I've seen ever since we signed those cold, impersonal papers that night.
I look beyond debauched, deranged, really and I could not possibly feel more vulnerable. So painfully exposed.
Please don't pull away from me now. My heart feels like a fist is gripping it, squeezing mercilessly.
My husband leans over, looking at me closely. And then he smiles, a huge smile, something alive, and beautiful. A smile I would do anything to see again. He gathers me up in his arms, whispering, "Thank you. You're so beautiful, sweet wife. You are living art, my most exquisite canvas."
Maybe, I could let myself think there’s hope for us after all.
Hoisting me higher, he kisses me as he heads for the stairs. "Moya zolotse, Liria," he says. His Russian accent, oddly, is thicker. "So beautiful when you come."
Slinging a floppy arm around his neck, I let myself relax. "Where are we going?" I'm slurring a little, like I've had a couple of glasses of wine too many. Loose and everything slightly out of focus.
"I'm going to put you in my shower," he says, kissing me and I taste the salt of my finish and his musk together.
"I'm going to clean you up." He pushes his bedroom door open with his elbow and carries me to his bathroom.
"Then, when you're pink and sweet-smelling and clean, I'm going to make you all dirty again. "
***
Moya zolotse - Russian endearment, meaning "golden or precious."