Chapter 32
THIRTY-TWO
STERLING
“What song would you like me to sing?” she asks, climbing to her feet.
My answer is immediate and certain. “True Colours.”
She gives my hand a gentle squeeze, her eyes lighting with affection. “It makes sense now why you love this song so much.”
“When you’ve spent your entire life suppressing who you truly are, hearing the words of this song feels like an acknowledgment, you know?” I explain, adjusting the height of the easel in front of me, so that I can remain seated whilst I paint.
“I understand exactly what you mean,” she replies, her gaze soft with understanding as she studies me for a moment. Then, without another word, she takes a few steps back and begins to hum the intro. The gentle sound fills the space between us as we lock gazes, and I realise that she’s giving me a moment to acclimate to the sound, to settle into the rhythm before the song fully envelops me, and I’m grateful for her thoughtfulness. As the hummed notes continue to float in the air, a tingling sensation spreads over my skin, the first glimmers of colour beginning to awaken within me.
They’re tentative at first, nothing more than a faint shimmer, barely discernible, but as she begins to sing the lyrics, they become richer in hue. Soft gold and pale ochre float outwards from her body in a haze of warmth that has me gasping. She’s singing with such tenderness, it’s as though she’s offering me a piece of herself–a part that’s meant to heal, to comfort, and in turn my synesthesia is conjuring colours to reflect that.
I swallow back the emotion rising up in my chest, instead reaching for my paintbrush, my fingers curling around the smooth wood. A sense of peace settles inside of me as I pick up a tube of paint, its colour the closest to what I see wrapping around Harlow now.
When the first dash of colour spreads across the canvas, I feel another emotion stirring deep within me, pain . The lyrics are a reminder of all the years I spent hiding, pretending to be someone I’m not, just to keep others from seeing the truth of who I really am. The vulnerability of it is overwhelming, but here with Harlow, it feels safe. She makes me feel safe, and as her voice envelops me, I allow myself to feel everything I’ve kept buried for so long.
There’s anger, fear, rage, pain, disappointment, exhaustion, betrayal, and finally hope .
I’m hopeful because of her, because of Harlow.
Tears pour unbidden down my face, and Harlow pauses, her voice cracking.
“Sterling, should I stop?”
“No, please, keep going,” I rasp, needing to see this through, craving her voice and the comfort she brings me despite the tears. “Don’t hold back, Harlow.”
Harlow nods, the beauty of her voice washing over me as I swipe at my tears and continue to paint. My hand moves almost automatically, and I barely register the motion. For once, there’s no frantic energy in my strokes. This time, painting isn’t a purge of emotion or colour, it’s something else entirely, it’s a profound sense of peace.
I’m so engrossed in what I’m doing that I don’t immediately register Harlow undoing her shirt whilst still continuing to sing. It’s only when her hands fall away, and the material parts showing her smooth skin and simple cotton bra, that I realise what she’s doing.
Something flickers in her gaze as though she’s seeking permission. I nod, and with slow deliberate movements, Harlow strips, adding a sensual dynamic to the moment that has my heart pounding, and my cock stirring with need. Now every note is bathed in carnal promises, the colours changing to deep plums, rosy pinks and velvety reds as her voice drops an octave, adding a potency to the lyrics that I’ve never heard before.
“Fuck, Harlow,” I murmur, my heart hammering in my chest as I watch her strip until she’s naked before me, the last note of the song lingering in the air between us.
“You are baring the deepest parts of yourself with me,” she replies, her chest rising and falling as I study her. “I want to honour you in the same way.”
“God, I’m so in love with you,” I murmur, every inch of me aching to pull her close and lose myself in her. But then, with her lips forming a perfect circle, Harlow begins to sing The Night We Met by Lord Huron, and I’m swept away once more, caught in a whirlwind of colour, with Harlow at its heart.
For the next couple of hours I continue to paint, and during all that time Harlow sings for me. Song after song, her haunting voice fills the room, only pausing occasionally so she can take sips of water to keep her throat from drying out.
By the time my brain registers the pain in my arm muscles from keeping them aloft for so long, Harlow is laying down on the bed, her arms stretched above her, her chin tipped up as she sings Wicked Game by Chris Isaak.
The sultry cadence reminds me that I’m still hard, painfully so, and I rest my paintbrush on the table then shift the canvas to one side. Dragging in a deep breath, my gaze coasts over Harlow’s pebbled nipples, the rivets of her ribcage, and the soft curve of her belly that rises and falls with every melodic breath.
Reaching for the zipper of my jeans, I slowly undo them, my hand sliding beneath the waistband of my boxers as I pull my cock free. Groaning, I give my dick a squeeze, before pumping the shaft, my gaze never leaving Harlow’s perfect form. Her expression is one of pure joy that slowly softens into a heady kind of desire as she tilts her head to face me.
We lock gazes as the last line of the song settles around us, and then with feline grace, she rises to her hands and knees, and crawls to the end of the bed.
“Stay where you are,” she commands softly as she climbs off the bed, her hips swaying seductively as she walks towards me.
“Harlow, it’s not finished,” I say, flicking my gaze to the painting.
“I won’t look until it’s done,” she promises, her hair framing her face as she looks down at me.
“Then what are you doing?” I ask, my brain short-circuiting as she drops to her knees before me and presses her palms against my thighs. “Make room for me.”
“Fuck, Harlow,” I murmur, finally catching up as I widen my legs, and she smooths her hands over my jean-clad thighs.
“I want to taste you,” she whispers, reaching for my cock, her fingers grazing briefly over my hand before I let her take me in her hold.
Gently gripping the base of my cock, she leans forward, licking the crown, and I swear to fuck I’m so sensitive, so turned on, that I almost come there and then. My hips jolt, my cock slipping into her mouth as she hums around me.
“It won’t take much for me to come,” I admit, my cock leaking pre-cum, my heart pounding at the sight of her naked and kneeling before me.
“Hmm,” she hums, her lips sliding down my cock as she takes me deeper into her mouth.
My hands fly to her hair, a low moan ripping from my lips as my stomach muscles clench and release. She doesn’t ease me in, licking and sucking slowly. No, Harlow deepthroats my cock until I hit the back of her throat.
“Fuck, Fuck, Fuck!” I exclaim, my eyes rolling into the back of my head from the sensation of her throat and tongue wrapped so tightly around my engorged length.
She pulls back slightly, the ridges of my cock slip over her tongue. The heat of her mouth, the slippery warmth and the cascade of sensation making dark spots dance in front of my eyes. I’m fucking wrecked, in all of the best possible ways, and I don’t try to control her movements. Instead, I simply cup the back of her head, watching with wide eyes as she slips up and down my cock, coaxing out an orgasm.
With every dip and rise of her head, my breaths become more laboured, my stomach muscles tensing as my balls lift high and tight against my body. “Harlow, I’m going to come,” I warn her, and she simply lifts her gaze, her eyes meeting mine as her tongue lashes around the sensitive crown of my cock.
“Fuuuuuccckkkkk!” I roar, my hips jerking as my orgasm rips out of me and I come in Harlow’s mouth, the colours that lingers still shimmering and sparkling behind my closed eyelids.
I drag in a few tremulous breaths as Harlow pulls back, looking up at me with watery eyes.
“That was incredible…” I say, my voice trailing off as Harlow opens her mouth and slides out her tongue, offering me my release.
Fuck. Me.
“You want me to paint my cum into your image?” I ask.
She nods once, and I slip two of my fingers inside her mouth, scooping up some of my cum, then lean over her and swipe it across her breasts and stomach that I’ve painstakingly painted onto canvas. “There.”
“Good,” she murmurs, before pushing up onto her feet, making sure to avert her gaze as she steps towards the bed. With heavy-lidded eyes I watch her climb onto the bed, her slit glistening before she turns back around and settles onto the bed.
“Make love to me,” she whispers.
“Every fucking day, forevermore,” I reply hoarsely, as I climb to my feet and strip for Harlow. Taking my time, I revel in the way she watches me, her hand slipping towards her pussy as her legs spread.
“You’re so beautiful,” she murmurs, her fingers slipping between her folds as she touches herself. “Everything about you is so beautiful to me.”
“Ditto, my little poet,” I reply, my gaze drifting from her sweet pussy to the unused paintbrushes still lined up on the table. I reach for the one with the rounded beavertail handle, it’s bristles soft to touch. Grasping it in my fist, I climb onto the bed, kneeling between her spread thighs.
“Did you know that paintbrushes were used by man as early as the stone age?” I ask, lightly trailing the bristles up the inside of her leg.
She shakes her head, her eyelids drooping in pleasure as she swirls her finger around her clit. “No, I didn't,” she breathes.
“Imagine that, the earliest forms of humankind used pigment to paint scenes on the walls of caves as a way to record their experiences. It’s incredible, no?”
“It is,” she agrees, her breath hitching as I continue to gently trail the soft bristles upwards, drawing circles against her thighs, and over her stomach until finally reaching her peaked nipple.
Leaning forward on my knees I press my hand into the mattress beside her head, coasting the bristles over her nipple as I gaze down at her. She shudders, her back arching as I tenderly paint the colours that I still see into her skin.
“Golden yellow,” I murmur, staring into her hazel eyes.
“What?” she replies, her cheeks flushing a pretty blush pink.
“That’s the colour I see swirling around your nipples right now, Harlow,” I explain.
“You still see the colours even though I’ve stopped singing?” she questions softly, her mouth parting on a whimper as I move the paintbrush across her chest, swirling it around her other nipple.
“They linger for a while afterwards, yes, and right now you’re doused in colour. It’s intoxicating. You’re intoxicating,” I rasp out, so fucking overcome with love for this beautiful woman.
“Describe them to me,” she breathes, her fingers moving between her legs, the sound of her arousal making my cock thicken once again.
I gaze down at her, my heart swelling with love and gratitude, my gaze filled with a plethora of colours that douse her skin in a breathtaking display of light and shade. “The yellow is like warm rays of sunlight on an early summer’s day,” I say, using the paintbrush to swirl the colour across her breasts. “And here,” I say, stroking the paintbrush across her clavicle and throat, “It merges with sunset pink.”
“Sunset pink?” she muses, her voice soft as I lower my mouth to her lips, kissing her reverently.
“Yes, just like the kind of pink you might see as the sun slips past the horizon,” I explain. “And your lips, they’re a deep rose red,” I add, pulling back as I drag the paintbrush down the long column of her neck and between her breasts, tracing the curve of her ribcage.
“What do you see now?” she asks, her chest heaving.
Swirling the soft bristles over her skin, I paint ever decreasing circles over her stomach, stirring up more colour. “And here, it’s a warm ochre.”
“My God, Sterling, what you see, it’s incredible,” she whispers, as I trail the paintbrush lower.
Nudging her hand out of the way, I stroke the soft bristles over her clit. “Still berry red,” I say, my cock twitching at the glistening wetness.
She shudders beneath me, her hips rocking as I swipe the brush through her folds over and over again, making the bristles sticky with her arousal. Her breath comes in short soft pants, her back arching in pleasure.
“Please, Sterling,” she begs.
Twisting the paintbrush in my hand, I place the thick handle against her entrance, tentatively rimming her hole with the rounded tip, wanting to make sure she’s okay with this.
Her eyes snap open as she lifts up onto her elbows.
“Is this okay?” I ask.
“Don’t stop,” she whispers, watching as I slide the smooth wooden handle of the paintbrush into her slick heat, gently fucking her with it.
Her gaze is transfixed on the handle disappearing and reappearing from her tight cunt. Her body shudders with every thrust, her breathing ragged as she cries out in both pleasure and surprise.
“Faster, Sterling," she begs, her fingers digging into the sheets beneath her.
I comply instantly, increasing my pace, the handle slipping in and out of her in a steady rhythm. It’s so fucking erotic that my jaw slackens with need, and when I press my thumb against her clit, adding just the right amount of pressure, she drops back to the bed, a groan releasing from her plump lips.
“Sterling, I'm going to…” she gasps, her face flushed and eyes glassy.
“Then come for me, Harlow,” I urge, watching as she reaches the peak of pleasure, her back arching and her stomach muscles clenching.
“Sterling,” she cries, her eyes rolling back as an orgasm washes over her, her pussy pulsing around the handle. Her hands grab my wrists, her fingernails digging into my skin as I hold the paintbrush there, and she rides out the final waves of her orgasm.
Slowly her body relaxes as her breathing begins to regulate, and I gently remove the paintbrush, placing it on the bed beside her hip. Adjusting my body over hers, I brace my forearms by the side of her head and kiss her tenderly, my aching cock slipping between her parted folds.
“I’m not done,” I say, nipping on her lower lip before sliding my tongue inside her mouth.
As we kiss, tongues languid and searching, the crown of my dick presses against her entrance. Slowly I slide inside of her inch by inch until I’m fully sheathed. Her legs wrap around my arse, and she tangles her fingers in my hair, her whimpers against my lips fucking music to my ears.
“Harlow,” I groan, so turned on that I’m already close to coming again.
She moans, her eyes locked on mine as I move within her, her walls tightening, our bodies moving in perfect synchronicity, each thrust bringing us both closer to the edge.
“This is where I belong, Harlow, buried deep inside of you,” I mutter against her lips, revelling in the feeling of her internal walls tightening around my cock.
“I love you,” she whispers back.
“Say it again,” I demand roughly, pleasure racing down my spine with every rock of my hips.
“I love you,” she exclaims, smiling up at me.
“And I love you,” I reply, then with one final thrust I come, Harlow following shortly after.