32. Damon
Damon
Roman’s mouth is still on mine when I feel the shift. That slow, electric flicker of want under his skin, that barely reined-in need that pulses between us like a second heartbeat. He’s always hungry when we’re together, like he’s trying to crawl under my skin and take up residence there, and fuck, I let him. Every time.
But this time, I want something. Something deeper. Something more… us.
I pull back just enough to catch my breath and meet his eyes. They’re dark, glassy, and locked on my face like I’m something sacred. My chest fucking aches from the way he looks at me—like I’m not just someone he wants, but someone he knows.
“I want to paint on you.”
He freezes, those ridiculous lashes fluttering. “What?”
I reach out and tug gently at the hem of his shirt. “I want to paint you. Not a sketch. Not an impression. ” My voice drops further, soft but steady. “Your skin. Your body. Mine. ”
Roman’s mouth parts, his breath hitching. I can already see his pulse ticking in his throat. “Dead serious?”
“Dead fucking serious. I’ve been painting you from memory all week. It’s time I use the real thing. Strip for me, Hotshot.”
His eyes snap to mine. Wide, dark, and hungry, but he obeys. His fingers hook under the hem of his shirt, and in one slow, fluid motion, he peels it over his head and lets it fall to the floor.
And goddamn.
Roman’s body is ridiculous. All lean, sculpted muscle and faint bruises from the game, a trail of dark hair disappearing beneath the waistband of his joggers. My gaze tracks over every inch, the slope of his collarbone, the scars on his ribs, the taut lines of his stomach.
My boy isn’t just beautiful. He’s a work of fucking art. A body built for punishment. I’ve sketched him a hundred times from memory, but nothing compares to this—him, real, inches away, and waiting.
When he kicks his joggers off, he’s left in nothing but dark briefs that cling tight to his hips. I let my gaze settle there—where the waistband cuts into his skin, where the bulge presses against the fabric. He’s hard already.
Of course he is.
I step in close, paint-stained fingers dragging up the line of his ribs, across the curve of his pec, then down to his stomach, leaving dark streaks behind. Roman twitches under the touch, sucking in a breath.
“Hold still,” I murmur.
“Damon—”
“I mean it, Roman.” I curl my fingers around his hip, my thumb pressing into the sharp jut of bone. “You said I fucked you up. That I live in your head. Let me show you what you do to mine.”
I reach for the palette—messy, chaotic, full of blacks, reds, golds—and dip two fingers into the deepest shade. Then I drag them down the center of his chest, slow and possessive. The paint is cool on his skin, but I watch it warm as it settles over him.
Roman exhales through his nose. “This supposed to be therapeutic?”
“No,” I say, smearing another stripe over his shoulder. “This is about ownership.”
His eyes flare. “You’re painting your name on me?”
“No.” I press a hand flat to his stomach, leaving a palm-print over the ridges of his abs. “I’m leaving a mark no one else gets to see. A version of you that only exists when you’re mine.”
Roman swears under his breath, and I grin.
“Sit,” I order, nodding toward the stool I use when I paint larger canvases.
He moves like he’s in a trance. Sits with his thighs spread wide, his cock pressing harder against the fabric of his briefs, leaking at the tip. I grab more paint. Smudge it along his collarbone. Stroke a line down the side of his neck. I watch his throat bob as he swallows hard, his fists clenching on his knees to keep from grabbing me.
He’s falling apart, and I’m only just getting started.
“Damon,” he grits, his jaw tight. “You keep doing that, I’m not gonna last.”
“You’re not supposed to.” I kneel between his legs, dipping a brush into red. “You think this is about self-control? Baby, I haven’t had that since the day you walked into my life and smirked like you knew I’d be yours.”
I drag the brush across his hip bone, and paint blooms across his skin like blood, curling in abstract strokes that follow the sharp edge of muscle. I don’t speak for a minute, I just paint and let the silence stretch.
Then I murmur, “You’re my favorite canvas.”
Roman’s head tilts back. “Fuck.
“You’re the one I think about when I’m alone. When my hands ache to create.”
My fingers twitch around the brush. I toss it aside and go back to using my hands. I smear paint across his ribs, down his thighs. I grip his jaw, smudging the black along his throat like a collar.
I walk up behind him and smear it across the small of his back, and he gasps. It’s warm and thick, sliding over his skin like oil. My other hand grips his hip, holding him in place as I spread the paint with slow strokes—no pattern, no shape, just touch.
“Goddamn,” he mutters, his voice strained. “You’re actually trying to kill me.”
I smile. “No, baby. I’m worshipping you.” I press closer, my chest brushing his back, my lips grazing his neck.
“You think I painted that canvas because I missed your face?” I murmur. “I missed this. Missed putting you in my hands and turning every breath you take into something that belongs to me.”
Roman lets out a low sound that’s half-groan, half-whimper. His head tilts to the side, giving me more of his neck, and I take it. I kiss just beneath his ear, then trail down to his shoulder, licking a line through the paint I just smeared there.
He shudders again.
“Turn around,” I whisper. “I want to see your eyes.”
When he does, I almost lose it. His chest is heaving, lips parted, pupils blown. There’s red streaked over his collarbone now, a smudge of black across his ribs, gold dusting his hips. I dip two fingers into crimson, dragging them over his pecs, circling a pierced nipple, and watching it tighten under my touch.
He shudders, legs tensing, knuckles white. He doesn’t touch me. He’s being so good. My perfect fucking canvas.
“Touch me,” he begs.
I shake my head. “Not yet.”
“Babe—”
I palm him through his briefs, slow and teasing. The fabric’s already damp. His cock jerks in my hand and he lets out the filthiest noise I’ve ever heard from him. My fingers curl around him through the fabric, and I watch him fucking shudder.
“You’re gonna come just from this, aren’t you?” I taunt, leaning in, lips ghosting his ear. “From my hands, from the way I talk to you.”
“Damon,” he gasps, like my name is the only thing keeping him together.
“You’re a mess for me.” I kiss the paint I left on his throat. “You like being a mess for me.”
“Take them off,” he pants, tugging at his briefs. “Fuck—baby, please —”
“God, you beg so pretty,” I murmur, finally peeling the briefs down, letting his cock spring free. He’s leaking, throbbing, his whole body shaking with restraint.
“You’re so good for me,” I murmur, kissing the spot just above his cock. “Letting me do this. Letting me claim every inch of you. There’s not a single part of your body I haven’t imagined covered in my colors.”
“Baby,” he begs again, his eyes glassy now. “Please. Fuck, I—”
I look at him—really look.
Roman, panting and flushed and trembling. Covered in dark strokes of color, smudged pigment, fingerprints and lips and devotion. And he’s never looked more beautiful.
I lean in and kiss him, slow and deep, tasting the desperation on his tongue. “You look like a dream, Roman,” I breathe against his lips. “And you’re all mine.”
He lets out a broken moan, his hands finally gripping my arms, pulling me closer, uncaring about the mess. “Then fucking take me,” he snarls. “Paint me on the inside too.”
He watches me, chest rising and falling, completely under my control. Roman isn’t just the art anymore. He’s the canvas, the inspiration, the subject and the story. And I’m going to paint every inch of him until the only thing he knows is me.
I lean in, lips brushing against the corner of his mouth, just enough pressure to make him chase it. “I want you to open yourself for me.”
His breath catches and he blinks at me like I just knocked the wind out of him. “You—you want me to…”
“Yeah.” I nod, my voice lower now. “I want to watch you do it. My hands are filthy.” I lift them, both covered in dark streaks of paint, glistening in the dim light like something holy. “I don’t want to wipe it off yet. You’re my masterpiece, Roman. I want to see how you prep the canvas.”
He shivers. “Holy fuck.”
“Can you do that for me?” I ask, gently now, my lips grazing the corner of his jaw. “Can you show me how good you look when you give yourself to me?”
He groans, the sound raw and low in his throat. “Yes—”
“On the mattress,” I murmur, not moving away. “On your back. Legs spread. I want to see you.”
He breathes out something half a curse, half a sob, and stumbles back toward the bed. The sheets are already a mess of canvas drop cloths and old comforters I keep for nights like this—nights where art and sin blur together so tight I can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.
Roman strips his briefs off completely and climbs onto the bed, his eyes locked on me the whole time. He spreads out like he was made to be looked at. Skin flushed, paint-streaked, his cock resting heavy against his thigh. He grabs the lube from the nightstand without breaking eye contact.
I settle into the armchair across from the bed, elbows on my knees, watching like I’m witnessing the second coming. He slicks his fingers, slow and unsteady, his eyes still on me. “This what you want?” he murmurs.
I nod, my voice gone hoarse. “Yeah, baby. Just like that.”
He bends his knees, spreads his legs, and presses one finger to his entrance.
And fuck, I nearly come just from watching him.
He bites his bottom lip, brows drawn together in concentration, a light flush spreading up his neck. The finger pushes in slow, careful. He moans low in his throat, his head falling back, exposing his neck—and the paint I left there.
I grip the arm of the chair, knuckles white. “Another one,” I breathe. “Let me see you stretch.”
Roman obeys.
Two fingers now. Slow and shaky. He moves with restraint, but the longer I watch, the more it crumbles. His hips twitch. His thighs shake and his lips part with a gasp every time he curls his fingers deeper.
“You’re beautiful,” I murmur, and I don’t even mean to say it.
His breath stutters. “You like watching me like this?”
“I love it,” I growl. “You’re my favorite fucking sight. All of you. Inside and out.”
His hand moves faster. He’s fucking himself open on his own fingers now, trying to be good for me, trying to show me what he knows I need. And God, I do. I need this. Need him.
When his head tilts and he makes a sound that’s too close to breaking, I rise from the chair and strip my sweats, fast and impatient. I don’t wipe the paint off my hands. I want it between us. I want to mark him in every goddamn way.
I crawl onto the bed, hovering over him, my hands bracing on either side of his face. “Switch with me,” I whisper against his lips. “Get on top. I want to watch you take me.”
He chokes on a breath when I lay down, and takes the lube, coating my cock quickly. Then he scrambles into my lap like he’s starved, straddling me, his thighs tight against my hips.
I guide him with one paint-slicked hand on his hip. “Take it slow,” I whisper. “Let me feel it. Let me see it.”
He lines himself up and sinks down an inch—and fucking hell, I grip his thigh like I’m about to come already. Roman moans; loud and guttural. It punches out of him like it hurts, but he doesn’t stop.
My head falls back, a strangled groan ripping out of me as I feel the heat of him slowly swallowing my cock; the tight slide, and everything I’ve been craving since the second he walked through that door.
“Jesus fucking Christ , Roman—”
He whimpers, hips trembling as he bottoms out—thighs bracketing mine, his paint-slicked hands pressing into my chest for balance.
He’s gorgeous like this.
So gorgeous it hurts.
Streaked with my fingerprints, with color, with the remnants of everything I am. His mouth open, his chest rising and falling like he’s barely holding himself together.
And when he starts to move— fuck.
It’s slow at first. Painfully slow. A drag and roll of his hips that makes my nails dig into his thighs, leaves more color smeared along his skin.
“That’s it,” I breathe, watching him ride me, watching him come undone on top of me. “Just like that, baby. You look so fucking good.”
His eyes flutter shut, but I don’t let him hide.
“Eyes on me,” I say, gripping his jaw again, not caring about the paint. “Look at me while you fuck yourself on my cock.”
His eyes snap to mine, wide and glazed over, and goddamn, I’ve never felt this much. It’s not just about getting off. It’s not even about the paint anymore. It’s about him. About the way his body moves over mine. About the way he opens for me, breaks for me, and lets me have him.
Paint smears across his thighs, across his hands, across me where we move together. He’s a mess. We’re a mess. And it’s fucking perfect.
“You see yourself?” I whisper, brushing my lips against his jaw. “You see what you look like covered in my colors, moaning in my lap, and taking every inch like you were made for it?”
His breath hitches.
“You’re art, Roman,” I rasp, gripping his waist as he bounces harder now, riding me, losing himself in it. “You’re the only thing I want to paint for the rest of my life.
He gasps, nails digging into my shoulders, his rhythm stuttering. “I’m—I’m close—”
“I know, baby,” I whisper, mouth hot against his throat. “Come for me. Paint my lap with it. Show me what I do to you.”
Roman sobs my name as he shatters. His body arches, his cock pulsing between us, streaking paint and cum across my stomach. He clenches around me so tight I lose it too, coming with a guttural groan that tears straight from my chest, my hands gripping him like I never want to let go.
When it’s over, we collapse together. He slumps against my chest, breath ragged, hands gripping me like I’ll disappear if he lets go. I wrap my arms around him, fingers tangled in his sweat-damp curls, lips brushing his shoulder.
No declarations.
No words.
Just two boys—one a canvas, the other an artist. Covered in paint, in sweat, in the quiet truth of something too big to name just yet.