Page 13 of Beautifully Deranged

I let my head drop back, heart hammering. I should stop this, or at least feel guilty. But I don’t. I can’t take it anymore.

I grab the canvas I was working on with him posed for me, putting the paintbrushes under my armpit, and rushing to his door, knocking so hard it could be considered pounding.

He opens the door with his hair mussed and his skin still flushed from his masturbation session not even ten minutes ago.

He hasn’t had time to clean himself up.

His eyes darken when he sees me.

“You’re fucking kidding.”

“I need to finish the painting.” I push past him, shoving the canvas inside before he can stop me.

“You need to leave.”

“I will.” I turn. “After you pose for me.”

He looks down at himself like he just realized the state he’s in, then back at me.

“No,” he growls.

“Yes.” I challenge.

His nostrils flare. “I don’t remember agreeing to another session.”

“That’s because you didn’t.” I watch his expression shift. “You already know how this goes. Shirt off.”

He glares at me. Reluctant, stiff-jawed, he reaches over his shoulder and pulls the fabric up and over his head in onesmooth motion, exposing his perfect body. I hold out a hand, and he hands me the shirt. “The pants too.”

“What?”

“For the painting,” I lie. “I need to study the way light moves over skin. You want this to be accurate, don’t you?”

“You don’t need my pants off for that.”

“No?” I tap my chin. “Well, maybe not completely off. Just unbuttoned. Open enough to catch the shadows.”

His left eye twitches as his fingers move to his belt. He struggles with it. I don’t give him the chance to figure it out. Before he can protest, I kneel. His breath hitches. The metal of his belt clinks under my fingers as I undo the buckle. My knuckles graze the heat of his cock, thick and hard beneath the fabric, and I take my time popping the button and lowering the zipper. He stays still, like if he moves, he’ll break.

Something catches my eye, a drop of something on his throat. I know exactly what it is. And still, I press my tongue to his skin, licking the drop of his release away, slow and savoring, before pulling back with a thoughtful hum. “Yum,” I murmur.

I expect him to finally snap and give in. But Mikhail stays stoic, unmoving, his face carved from stone. I smirk up at him, waiting. Daring. But he doesn’t take the bait. I press my hands to his hips, shifting him into position. “Stay just like that,” I order.

He looks like he’s regretting every decision that led him here. I let him stew in his frustration as I turn back to the canvas and start painting. It’s hot in here. With a sigh, I reach for the buttons of my shirt, slipping them open one by one.

Mikhail’s eyes track every movement with a hunger so sharp it could carve through steel.

“It’s warm,” I say absently. “Your pants,” I add with a sigh. “They’re ruining the composition.”

“I’m not taking off my fucking pants. They’re already unbuttoned.”

I walk away from the canvas, letting my fingers ghost over the fabric caught on his hips.

“I think you should.”

He glares. “And why’s that?”

“The V,” I say simply. “Artists kill to paint it.”

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