Page 12 of Beautifully Deranged

I stare at the blank canvas, brush in hand, willing something—anything—to come to me. But my mind is an empty void, except for him.

Mikhail.

The way his muscles flex when he moves. The tension in his jaw when I push too hard. I’ve tried sketching other things, abstract ideas, faceless bodies, but they all morph into him. I can’t host an exhibition with nothing but painting after painting of his naked form. No. That would be a problem. I’d have to kill every last person who laid eyes on them.

A sharp vibration from my phone pulls me from my thoughts. My father. I let it ring twice, just to remind him that my time isn’t his to demand. Then I answer. “Yes?”

“Lola.”

“I assume you’re calling about the gallery,” I sigh.

A beat of hesitation. “It’s being arranged.”

Not good enough.

“That wasn’t my question.”

“It’ll be done.”

“It should’ve already been done.”

“I—” He hesitates. “I should’ve called sooner. After your move. It’s been… a while.”

I move the brush aimlessly on the canvas. “You don’t have to pretend, Father. We both know I wasn’t expecting you to.”

“I’ll be in New York next week, we should meet.” He says instead.

“I don’t see why.”

“You can’t avoid me forever.”

“I don’t avoid people,” I grumble. “They avoid me.”

I know he’s gripping his phone tighter, maybe shifting in his seat. “Lola—”

“Did you book the gallery or not?” I cut in.

“Don’t worry about it.”

“I want confirmation by tomorrow.”

“I—”

“Tomorrow.” I hang up.

I would’ve stayed irritated the whole day if it weren’t for my happy pill. I drop my paintbrush, my full focus on the screen in front of me. On Mikhail. Like clockwork, he steps into the camera frame. His face is unreadable, but my eyes lower to his chest, his stomach, and the deep ridges of muscle shifting beneath his skin. I know what comes next. His fingers move to his belt, unfastening it. The leather slides free, dropping to the floor with a soft thud. His pants follow, shoved low on his hips, exposing the deep cut of his v-line and the thick, hard length of his cock standing rigid against his stomach. My mouth goes dry.

Fuck, he’s big. Not just long, but thick, veined, a swollen head flushed dark with need. The kind of thing that would split me open if he ever—

No.

I shake the thought away so I don’t barge into his apartment and demand it, but my body has already reacted, heat pooling low in my stomach.

His hand wraps around himself, fingers curling tight. He starts slow. Controlled. Long, firm strokes from base to tip, his grip shifting as he spreads the bead of moisture at his head down his shaft.

Two fingers slide through the slickness pooling between my thighs, teasing over my clit before I bite my lip and press down, circling slowly. Mikhail’s strokes quicken. I match him,my fingers pressing faster, circling, dipping lower to sink inside, curling just right. I can almost hear it. The sound he’d make if I were on my knees in front of him instead, if I replaced his hand with my mouth. Pleasure slams into me, sharp and sudden, my thighs shaking as my fingers work through the waves, my body arching, twisting.

A second later, his hand stills. His stomach tightens as his cock pulses in his grip. Thick ropes of his release spill over his abs. And then, like always, he steps away.

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