Chapter 33 #2
With each article of clothing that falls, I’m left feeling more powerful.
The craving for him returns, the same one I felt the night the photos were taken—it licks at my core.
I know how good it is, I’ve had a taste, and I want more.
I strip out of my leggings and underwear, standing naked before him—skin flushed, thighs aching, and a mind full of dirty thoughts.
He’s mine just as much as I am his, and I don’t want him painting some random woman’s body on my modeled form. Fuck that. He won’t paint anyone but me.
I reach for the stool behind him, but his palm lands heavy on the seat, keeping it in place.
“I told you I would sit on my hands and watch.”
“And I said you would sit where I tell you,” he says with a low voice. “You can’t see the canvas if you’re beside it.”
He takes his seat and motions for me to climb onto his lap. I straddle one of his thighs, balancing my weight as he shifts to the side so he can reach the canvas. However, the warmth of his bare chest on my back is enough to keep me from squirming.
“I don’t want you to paint anyone but me,” I explain, jealousy coursing through me over a painting that isn’t even complete. I’m well aware his artistic expression isn’t indicative of his feelings toward me, but I still don’t like it. Jealousy is rarely logical.
“Oh, Chaos,” he says, pressing the lowball glass into my palm, encouraging me to take a sip. “You think I’d have your face permanently inked on my arm just to paint someone else? Don’t insult me.”
He takes back his drink, bringing it to his lips while keeping his eyes fixed on mine. Heat washes over my chest.
“It’s healed really well,” I comment, tracing my finger over the ink, feeling a bit foolish for being so territorial of paint.
He hums in agreement, setting down the bourbon. Sweeping my hair behind my shoulder, he leans in. “You gonna hold still for me?” he asks, his breath ghosting over my ear.
A smile eases onto my lips. “Depends on if you distract me,” I state.
The dark chuckle from him has me soaked. It sounds like danger and sex. I will replay it a million times in my thoughts, of that I am certain. “I’ll see what I can do.”
He selects a tube of paint and squeezes a cold dab on my thigh, sending a wave of goose bumps over my flesh.
Then after selecting a different tube, he adds another.
And another. He mixes the paint with his palette knife against my skin, making me twitch, until the colors blend into that of a deep bruise.
“Told you I would paint you purple,” he murmurs.
A shiver climbs up my spine. “I didn’t know you were so literal.”
He dips his brush into the oil paint above my knee, bringing it to the canvas.
Logan works with so much dexterity and skill it’s mesmerizing to watch—and sexy as hell.
He commands the paintbrush effortlessly, and his other hand snakes between my thighs, climbing higher.
My chest rises and falls as he teases me with his touch, grazing the backs of his knuckles over the sensitive area.
“More,” I whisper, opening my legs wider.
“Hold still,” he says. His lips land on my neck and he sucks my flesh, biting, while his fingers trace faint circles over my inner thigh.
I exhale, a tremble building in my legs.
Lost to his art, he continues painting as if I’m not here.
His forearms flex with every precise stroke, and I’m as fascinated by him as I am his talent.
The hand between my legs toys with me relentlessly, moving so close to where I need him, and then pulling away—it’s maddening.
I release a frustrated whimper. The longer I watch him work, the more aroused I become.
He rests his chin on my shoulder, occasionally praising me for sitting still, but I’m becoming restless as each minute seems to stretch longer than the last.
Just when I think he’s going to keep me waiting forever, I’m rewarded by him brushing over my clit before his fingers penetrate me. I sigh, arching my back, and then he grips me from inside, tucking me close and massaging that spot. I writhe in his lap, wanting more.
“Hold still,” he repeats. This time adding a corrective swat to my thigh with the paintbrush.
No.
My patience runs out. I twist in his lap, dragging his mouth to mine and licking the taste of bourbon and temptation off his lips.
“If you want to be my masterpiece . . .” he mutters, “then don’t move.”
I grasp his jaw firmly. “I want to be more than one of your many masterpieces.” I shake my head. “I want to be your obsession. The muse you chase, the piece that torments you. Something you sign your name to and never let go.”
His pupils blow wide, and something inside him comes loose. I see it—the moment he cracks.
He pulls out, wrapping an arm around my middle and yanking me up.
The sudden shift sucks the air out of my lungs and my hand blindly shoots out for balance—smacking into the canvas.
Wet paint slips under my fingers and I freeze, releasing a horrified gasp.
I just smeared the piece he’s been working on all night.
I gape at the damage, unable to believe that just happened.
How could I be so clumsy?
I open my mouth, sputtering apologies, but he simply laughs. He fucking laughs.
He carries me over to the bed and rips off the comforter, throwing it aside.
“Paint!” I remind him. My thigh and palm are covered in it. He drops me on the crisp white sheets and I bounce, transferring a handprint. Great, now I’ve ruined that too. He tosses his glasses on the nightstand and towers over me,
Skating his hand up my thigh, through the paint, over my hips, between my breasts, he smears it all the way up to my collarbone and back to my stomach again. The oil spreads like grease, making one hell of a mess.
“Logan. I’m sorry. You worked so hard—” His mouth catches mine.
“I’m about to work much harder with you,” he gruffs, unbuttoning his pants and shucking them off with his underwear. My eyes flick to his stiff length, glistening with pre-cum. Fuck.
He climbs up my body, bracing above me, every muscle straining as it tries to maintain a semblance of control.
His hands clamp down on my thighs and he forces them apart.
Our gazes lock, and for a brief second I drown in him—his stare dark and savage.
He drives his cock inside me, stealing my breath.
The growl that tears from his throat is menacing.
My jaw slackens at the fullness he provides, my body accommodating his girth.
He runs his thumb over my bottom lip, smudging my chin with remnants of paint, and grins. “You want obsession? Look at my face,” he snarls. “You’re more than a masterpiece, more than a muse, or all the ways you torment me. You and I are more powerful than art, sweetheart—we’re alchemy.”
His words tighten every muscle, heat curling low in my stomach. I haul him to me, scratching my nails down his back with my own paint-covered palm.
He’s right. When we come together, it’s different, it’s more than two people fucking. He makes passion feel like magic. His soul calls to something deeper, and he charms the darkness from my depths, bringing parts of me I didn’t know existed to the surface.
It’s those times I look at him and see myself reflected in his eyes.
I don’t have to say a word because he already understands.
The once-clean sheets are streaked in blacks and blues, handprints and smudges that were painted with lust and longing.
“I’ve signed my name on you, you just haven’t realized it yet,” he murmurs.
He grabs my wrists in one hand, trapping them above my head, and sinks inside me with long deep strokes, slowing his pace to a crawl that makes me want to scream.
He cocks his head to the side, studying me with a dark fascination as I give in to him, like he’s cataloging every gasp, moan, and shudder.
“You may know how to make me snap, but you break just as easily.” I prepare to bite back with a quick retort, but I’ve got nothing.
I can hardly think with the way his cock slowly drags in and out of me.
The corner of his mouth turns up in a smirk.
“You can be a smartass later,” he says, knowing he’s got me cornered.
“Right now, you’ll take what I give you. ”
Pinned beneath him, throbbing and desperate, I realize there’s nothing left for me to do but obey and do as he says. He’s dishing out his own torment—and I savor every thick inch of it.
“That’s better.” He nips at my lower lip. “How’s that surrender feel?”
“So fucking big,” I whimper.
“That’s my good girl.”
His forearm flexes above me as he claims me with untamed, inelegant thrusts.
Sweat beads on his forehead, and his hazel eyes are unforgiving as he punishes my body in the most delicious ways.
He fucks as if he has a personal vendetta against meaningless sex.
He’s feral. Uncontrolled. Exactly how I like him.
My gaze traces the ink up his blacked-out arm until it bleeds into delicate strands of hair.
The piece I tattooed on him—the piece of me he will carry with him for the rest of his life.
Fifty years from now, I’ll still be inked into his flesh.
I’m permanent. Few things in life make me feel more invincible than Logan, who seems more god than man, fucking me while proudly wearing my face on his arm.
“Give it to me, Chaos.” He wraps his arms around my chest and rolls us so I’m on top. I straddle him with my knees dipping into the mattress as I roll my hips, sliding up and down his length.
“Goddamn it, sweetheart. You know exactly what you’re doing to me. Driving me fucking mad . . .” His hand finds my throat, and I lean into it, letting him squeeze as I ride.
I groan, undulating and circling over him. My body is eager and begging, wanting not only my own gratification but his too. I want to make him come, see Logan vulnerable and helpless to the way I affect him.
“Slow,” he says.
I shake my head. “I’m on top, I pick the pace.”
“You’re on top.” He smirks. “But I’m the one fucking you.
” His strong fingers dig into my left hip, surely leaving marks that will turn into bruises by morning.
He sits up, and I wrap my arms around his shoulders.
My breasts press against his chest, smearing more of the greasy paint.
He grips under my ass and bounces me on him like I’m a rag doll he’s not done playing with.
I pull him closer, capturing his lips, and kissing him long, slow, and deep. This is the moment. This is what it’s all about. This feeling right here.
“Please, Logan, make me come,” I beg, my voice pleading, and he kisses me again. I kneel on either side of his hips, but he’s doing all the work. Relentlessly filling me over and over. Hitting every spot just right.
He nods, burying his forehead into my neck, and pushes me onto my back, then sits above me and takes me with brutal thrusts, sending me into oblivion. His hand slips between us, and he circles my clit. “Fuck,” I say between pants. “Don’t stop.”
My mind starts to empty, and the world falls away.
Every worry evaporates until there’s nothing but him.
In this moment, Logan and I are the only two people in the world.
My eyes find his and he nods, offering a silent permission.
I clutch the back of his neck, arching into him, surrendering completely as my body seizes, every muscle locking before the release tears me apart.
“Oh hell, you were made for this. Good fucking girl.”
His jaw sets and his strokes grow frantic; he looks just as wrecked as I feel.
The sight of him makes me want to unravel all over again.
His head drops to my shoulder, breath harsh against my ear, but he doesn’t stop moving, he grinds deeper, rocking his hips into me and wringing every ounce of pleasure from the both of us.
Logan growls, spilling into me—seeing this man lose control is its own kind of high.
Our chests heave ragged breaths in unison as the last shudders roll through us, racing pulses finally slowing as the tension leaves our bodies.
Not a noise is uttered between us; the thump of our racing hearts syncs together. There’s no need for words when our eyes say everything.
Paint streaks where his hungry hands roamed over my body, a visual display of his physical lust and yearning. But what Logan doesn’t realize is, his art has bled into my flesh, so deep that if they cut me open right now, I’m certain they would find his streaks of paint on my heart too.