Chapter 3 #6
“So where does this go, Devo?” I say from my post on the settee. “Do you paint me like one of your French girls?” I shift sideways, pointing my toes and arching my back—my version of a mock-sexy pose while in my current predicament. I pucker my lips for good measure.
He chuckles again and the corner of his lip tugs up. “Something like that,” he murmurs, looking back and forth between me and the contents of the red solo cups. “And it’s actually ‘draw me like one of your French girls’ for your information. Common misconception,” he chastises.
I roll my eyes and bite down on a smile.
“And what’s a common misconception about you, then?” I tease.
“Hmm—” I can tell his mind is only half on the question.
“—that as a man, I don’t enjoy romance.” He rolls his “r,” making light of his answer, and I shock myself when a giggle escapes my lips.
Our eyes meet and a shared grin spreads across our faces, like we’re middle schoolers who’ve just cracked a stupid joke that landed with the class.
“Ah, yes,” I say, “I’ve never been in such a romantic predicament.” I glance up at my wrists, still smiling.
“Romance is in the eye of the beholder, Charlotte,” he sing-songs.
“I thought that was beauty,” I reply. “And art?”
“You don’t think romance is an art?”
“Clearly, I don’t know what constitutes art,” I say, pointedly looking around.
His response is just a grin, albeit a charming one, but then his attention returns to his supplies.
After some consideration, he picks up one of the solo cups and uses it to pour what looks like white paint into another. He then stirs the concoction with a jumbo craft stick—something I recognize as a tool to mix paint.
I think back through all my research of Devo’s past Muse Paintings. Many of them had been done in splattered jewel tones: royal blues and fire engine reds. The first one I’d ever seen had predominantly been a mixture of black splatters and an almost neon green as an accent.
“Starting already?” I ask, wanting as much of his attention as he’ll give me.
“Mmm, yes we have.” His tone is rich, and he casts me an admiring glance.
“How am I to collaborate like this then?” I tug at my wrists and raise an eyebrow.
“Oh, don’t worry, you’ve already given me plenty to work with,” he says, and then takes a cup and a brush over to the side of the raised canvas.
Without much warning, Devo dips his brush in, raises his arm above his head and forcefully throws the paint down onto the canvas.
My instinctual reaction is to pull back into the settee, even though the flying paint went nowhere near me, and in fact, didn’t make it far past the canvas tarp beneath it.
There are a few wayward flicks of light blue paint on the concrete floor opposite Devo now…
but hey, it’s an art studio closet, the flecks of paint blend right in.
I hear another splatter across the canvas and then Devo begins to move a bit quicker.
He walks around the raised platform spraying the paint with throws and flicks of his arm and wrist. Sometimes the sound is loud and wet, sometimes it’s a soft swish, like the sound of walking an umbrella between awnings in the rain.
I watch, mesmerized at how quickly he’s working.
I can’t quite see the top of the canvas from my position since it’s elevated a few inches above me.
All I can see is the color and the tail of the splatters that miss the canvas.
Could he possibly be painting a silhouette on there like this? Assuming that’s what we’re doing here.
Devo pauses to survey the results. His eyes drag down the canvas. My interest in him is no longer just physical, I want to know about his process.
“Devo?” I beckon.
“Hmm?” He sets his brush into another cup and rolls up his sleeves now that they’ve somewhat unfurled. It takes a moment before his eyes leave the canvas, like he can’t tear them away.
Once his eyes are back on me, that mischievous gleam returns to his eyes and a corner of his mouth tugs up.
“Are you done?” I ask softly, hoping he’s not, but also wanting to set my expectations correctly.
“Am I done?” He chuckles and shakes his head back and forth. “Charlotte, we’ve barely begun!” He crouches down beside me and goes to put his paint-speckled hands on either side of my hips before hesitating. “Are these pants important to you?” He holds himself back and looks me in the eyes.
I suppress a grin. How can this young man be so many things?
He’s kind and creative and in control. My control, on the other hand, is slipping; I feel myself wanting to curl up in the palm of his dexterous hand.
Now it’s my turn to laugh and I jut my chin down towards the paint swipes already gracing my jeans.
“I’m an artist too, you know,” I say back. “And I wore these clothes to the studio for a reason.”
“Good,” he says hungrily. Before I know it, Devo’s fingers are roughly opening the button on my pants and pulling them down to mid-thigh. I gasp.
Finally.
I don’t realize how much heat I’ve been harboring between my legs until the cool air hits me.
I squeeze my thighs together and squirm.
Devo’s watching me with his lower lip between his teeth.
His warm hands grip my hips, just over the band of my panties.
I’d chosen a navy lace number... you know, just in case.
I wish I could touch him in return, but all I can do is slant my hips toward him.
He begins to run his hands up my outer thighs and over my hips, meeting the hem of my shirt and sliding under it, squeezing the sides of my waist. I love it.
In this moment, I realize I don’t want these warm, admiring hands to ever leave me.
Part of me remembers that there was something else I cared about just seconds ago… what was it? Oh!
“So, um,” I breathe, “why, um—” Focus! A little yelp escapes me as one of his hands slides down over the crotch of my underwear and cups me, his palm grinding slightly into my clit. “Why blue?”
“Why blue?” he murmurs into my neck, all whilst the heel of his hand rubs slow circles down below, and one moves up to clutch my breast.
“I’ve never seen you use a pastel like this before,” I barely get out. His sensual movements pause, and he lets a couple seconds tick by before looking up at my face, his eyes sparkling.
“So, you’ve been looking me up, have you?” He’s playful, if not a bit cocky. Of course I’ve looked him up and he knows it.
“The color is always inspired by the subject,” he says, taking a moment to remove his hand from my breast and rub the scruff of his jaw.
“And you have an innocence about you, but not a true naiveté.” He glances at me, not sure how I’m going to take his explanation.
“Just a softness, a femininity that’s pure, like a gentle morning. ”
I listen, enrapt.
“I’m not as innocent as you seem to think,” I challenge.
“Oh, I believe you.” He shows me that wolfish grin. “It’s more of the aura that you exude.” Then he softens the smile. “And I saw your painting, the woman in the field with the—” he waves his hand in the air by his head.
“The mist,” I say. “The woman in the mist.” My volume drops off. I’m surprised he brought up my work in progress, but it makes sense he stole a look when he left the note on my easel.
“I may have taken inspiration from the hues there,” he says. A warmth spreads throughout my chest.
“So what’s on the canvas now?” I ask. He looks over at where it lays from my vantage point.
“Ah, yes, you can’t see from here.” He smiles, then bends over my abdomen, beginning to kiss my stomach.
His lips graze over the top of my belly button, and head lower.
“That’s just the background,” he breathes across my skin.
“We have yet to paint the subject.” He looks up at me and winks, then slides a corner of my underwear down and exposes skin that never sees the sunlight.
I want him with an animalistic need at this point—I urge my hips up.
He pushes me back down. “Nuh-uh. I’m in charge, Charlotte.” I groan in response.
He keeps going, one slow lap with his tongue of the area just above my clit. A sharp intake of breath from me. Then a lazy lap around my clit. My eyes almost roll back in my head. At this point, I’m a simple vessel of need and my body is acting accordingly.
Finally, he hooks both sides of my underwear with his forefingers and begins to pull them down to the bottom of my thighs.
He does so at an excruciatingly slow pace.
With my pants and underwear still bunched around my knees, my thighs are pressed together.
Devo takes one hand and slides his fingertips down my slit between my inner thighs.
His calloused fingers against the wet heat of my folds is everything I want in that moment.
More. I want more. I want to place his hand back over me, but I’m once again reminded that I’m restricted.
He brings his fingers to his mouth then and sucks off my wetness, looking directly in my eyes as he does so. Once he’s done, he grins and licks his lips. It’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.
“Damn,” I breathe, eyelids heavy. The physical ache in my wrists and arms is completely overcome by the needy ache weighing heavy on all my erogenous zones.
“I love the way you taste,” Devo semi-growls.
He’s staring at the fresh pearlescence gleaming between my thighs and I can see the yearning.
Devo tugs my jeans and underwear further down and pulls them off over my feet.
I do anything I can to help so I point my toes.
It’s both liberating and frustrating to be so physically limited.
I’m trusting this man to do what he wants with me in a way that satisfies both of us, and it’s exhilarating.