Chapter 4 – Ten Years Later - Age 37 #2
“Take off your clothes.” His voice hums with command and I find it difficult to make my fingers work.
“Now, baby.” The muscle in his jaw tics as he stares, the guttural cadence of his tone has me aching between my thighs.
“Let me see you.” His voice gets all raspy and deep-chested and I grow tingly all over, my skin prickling.
I don’t know why I’m nervous. He’s drawn me before.
But not since I had Cyres . . . I like my body, but not enough to take off my clothes while he sees me with the bright lights shining down over me.
There are too many imperfections on my skin these days.
And having him draw them, it brings me unease.
He must sense it, his brows tugging before he falls a step toward me, then more until he’s close enough to catch my cheek in his palm.
“What’s wrong, baby?” The tenderness with which he touches me, talks to me . . . it speaks to me, aches through me.
I glance down, not sure how to voice my insecurities.
He says, “You know I think you’re gorgeous, right?”
I nod, and when I still don’t look at him, he tilts my face up with the back of his hand. “Let me show you just how beautiful you are.”
My eyes prickle. My heart pounds in my rib cage, growing far too large to fill the space there. My gaze perches onto his with adoration, and within his, I find carnal desire burning like embers. I could tell he’s hard already without even touching him.
He twines his fingers through mine and takes me to the mirror that lines the entire back wall. My pulse picks up, anticipating what he plans to do.
He stands behind me, and I can see him through the mirror just as his hands find the zipper at my back. Gradually he drags it down, those eyes practically undressing me already.
My skin alights with warmth, spreading over my full body as his fingertips brush down my spine, his mouth leaning into the crook of my neck, lips softly meeting my skin.
“Mine,” he groans, his hands slipping into the straps as he draws the dress lower, past my breasts.
Those eyes meet me again. “All mine,” he growls as his palms cup my breasts, his thumbs slowly sweeping around my hardening nipples.
Lust swoops through me in a frenzy and all I want is him inside me.
With a low, breathless moan, my head falls back against his chest, and he brings the rest of the dress down, until it pools around my feet.
I step out of it, now only in a lace nude thong.
I look at him then, needing to watch what he’ll do to me.
He fastens our gaze, like two storms colliding.
The intensity of his eyes, it has my stomach flipping.
His hand runs from in between my breasts, down over my stomach, a finger tracing my very wet slit.
“Go lie back on that sofa and let me draw every perfect inch of you.” He practically groans every word. His lips, his teeth grazing from my collarbone to my shoulder.
“Mmm . . .” I sigh, instinctively cupping my breast and massaging. “These stretch marks,” I explain, just as he zaps his attention up. “I—I hate them.”
He pauses, his hand resting on my lower stomach.
“Oh, baby. Do you think I give a shit? Do you think that it somehow makes you less attractive to me?” He spins me around, both hands clasping each side of my throat, palms stroking my lips.
“You could be covered in them from head to toe and I’d still get hard for you above any woman in this entire fucking world.
Do you hear me? Do you get how much I love you?
” He kisses me against my jaw. “How attracted I am to you?” he breathes.
I can’t help it . . . tears burn behind my eyes. Even as I gasp, wanting more of what he’s doing, it’s too much at once. He brushes under my eyes, and with a kiss to my lips, he kneels, dropping to the floor before me.
Staring up at me with awe, his fingers slip into my panties, and he lowers them to the ground, until I’m nothing but bare skin.
With a long, deep inhale, he presses his mouth into my lower stomach, kissing me in the spots I’ve come to dislike. Over and over, he loves on my skin, showering me with whispered praises.
“So perfect,” he groans. “I can’t wait to taste you, to make you quiver around my tongue.”
“Oh God,” I grumble, grabbing a fistful of his hair. His mouth descends lower until his mouth meets my core, and he drapes my leg over his shoulder, sucking on my pussy. His growling sets me off. I could feel myself grow slick, hunger permeating my every cell.
I yank harder and he backs off, a pure animalistic look on his features.
He gets back on his feet, curling his fingers around the back of my head and pulling me toward his mouth with a passionate kiss, his tongue harshly parting my mouth, twirling with the tip of mine before he sucks it into his mouth.
“Fuck,” he grits as he draws away. Taking my hand, his fingers gripping my wrist, he leads it to his thick cock.
“Feel what you do to me, Aida.” He presses my palm into his thick cock and I fight to curl my fingers around it, his trousers in the way.
“You see how hard I am for you.” I rub him up and down, our lips hovering above one another’s, our breaths tangled in need.
“I can’t wait to watch you swallow my cock with that pussy. ”
My mouth trembles. I need him now. “Matteo . . . please,” I plead.
His eyes shut, head falling back with a groan. “Don’t you say my name like that. Not when I intend to draw every gorgeous inch of you first.”
“Don’t you have enough drawings of me already?
” I grab the collar of his suit jacket, pulling him in for a hard kiss.
His groaning intensifies as our lips meet once more, fingers spilling into my hair, fingertips dipping into my scalp as he angles me closer, tongue twining with mine.
With a harsh tug to my hair, he separates us, teeth, mouth nipping at my jaw.
“Not nearly enough,” he rasps, sucking on the skin under my chin. “Now, go lie down on the sofa while I get everything ready.”
His heavy-lidded gaze flitters down my curves, and when he runs his hand through his hair, a deep exhale leaving his lungs, he marches toward his supplies.
I make my legs cooperate, even as the flaming desire, that shivery feeling, cascades down my body as I lie on top of the black leather sofa, unsure how to position myself.
He rolls his canvas stand over until it’s right before me, getting his equipment ready.
And once he does, he removes his suit jacket, his large biceps flexing beneath the tight confines of his white button-down.
He places the jacket on the back of the chair while his eyes swim with passion and savagery as they find my naked form spread open for him.
The beat of my arousal drums through me, my nipples growing more erect the more he stares at them.
“What the hell did I ever do to deserve you?” He loosens his tie with one quick jerk, and my God, it’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen. His masculinity only makes the craving inside me build.
I swallow down the butterflies as he moves closer, looming over me as he picks up my wrist and places my arm over my head, placing the other hand on top of my hip.
I bite into my lower lip, the hair on my arms standing up from his warm touch. He notices, his deepened smirk following the path until he looks into my eyes again. “Stay just like that for me.”
He palms his cock as he releases a sharp breath. “You’re killing me here.”
“I promise not to move.” My voice is a mix of hoarse desire. “But you better finish fast or . . .” My fingers drift in between my thighs with a devilish grin.
“Woman,” he grits, his jaw tensing. “You get that hand off your pussy. It’s mine once I’m done.”
I do as he says, returning the hand to my hip. He takes a seat, and once his hands move, those eyes now set with deep concentration, like they’re committing my body to memory, I watch him work.
There’s beauty in the way he brings his artwork to life, like the objects and people in them are really there, alive on his canvas. Breathing and living and feeling, the way we do.
I knew he was gifted from the moment he first drew us. Best friends forever is what his picture said, and boy, was he right.
My husband, the artist. The gallery owner. The lover. The father. The survivor.
We survived.
We lived our lives free of the clutches of our oppressors. And though the past is a part of our future, it isn’t infinite. It doesn’t define us or break us. Instead it makes us stronger. Gives us a brand-new understanding to the world we’ve been born into.
And there is something special about being with someone who can relate to your pain.
I never had to explain myself to him when I was having a particularly difficult day.
He understood. He was there. He didn’t have to tell me it was going to be okay.
He knew I didn’t need that. He gave me what I truly needed—a partner who held my hand and let me cry.
Let me spill my heart just so he could hold it and nurture it.
And over the years, I’ve done the same for him.
We healed each other in many ways. Self-love and therapy.
“Almost done,” he says gruffly, his eyes jolting between me and the painting.
“Does that mean we can play now?”
“Oh, we’ll play.” His smirk lights up his face as he places his brush down, his shirt now splattered with black and red paint.
“You’re a little dirty,” I say, popping a brow, my bottom lip swallowed up into my mouth as he gets to his feet.
“Then I guess you’re gonna clean me up, aren’t you?”
Did the temperature in the room just climb up? I let out a sharp exhale.
He puts himself next to my feet, and before I could get up, he grabs one of my ankles, then the other and spins me until my backside hangs off the couch. He lowers to the floor, placing my thighs over his shoulders.
“I’ve been waiting all fucking night to taste you.”