Page 15 of The Beast's Hidden Rose
"No." I return to the canvas, adding definition to the curve of her hip. "That's exactly how it felt when I first saw you. Like recognition."
We lapse into silence again, the only sounds the scratch of brush against canvas and our breathing—gradually syncing without conscious effort until we inhale and exhale in unison. The intimacy of it strikes me, more profound than our physical joining has been.
I lose track of time, lost in the process of creation, in the miracle of having her here, real and willing. The painting takes shape beneath my hands—her form emerging from the canvas like she's being born directly from my mind onto the surface.
But as the session extends, something changes. The professional distance I've maintained begins to crumble. Each time I look up to study some aspect of her body, my gaze lingers longer. The clinical eye of the artist gives way to the hungry regard of a lover. I find myself dwelling on the parts of her I've touched, tasted—the softness of her inner thigh, the salt-sweet flavor of her nipples, the wet heat between her legs.
She notices the shift. Of course she does. Her breathing changes, quickens. A flush spreads from her cheeks down her neck to her chest. Her eyes, when they meet mine, hold knowing heat.
"You're not looking at me like an artist anymore," she observes.
I set down my brush, acknowledging the truth. "No. I'm not."
"Show me." She shifts on the chaise, abandoning the pose, stretching like a cat waking from a nap. "Show me how you're looking at me."
The invitation breaks the last of my restraint. I cross the space between us in three long strides, sinking to my knees beside the chaise. My hands, stained with paint, reach for her—one cupping her face, the other sliding along her ribs to her breast. She arches into my touch, a soft sound escaping her lips.
"I've painted this a dozen times," I murmur, lowering my mouth to her breast, taking her nipple between my lips."Imagined tasting you here." I suck harder, drawing a gasp from her. "Reality is infinitely better."
Her hands tangle in my hair, holding me to her chest as I worship her breasts with lips, tongue, teeth. Paint transfers from my fingers to her skin, leaving colorful smudges across her flesh—blue against the pale brown of her areola, yellow along her ribs, red streaking her hip as my hand moves lower.
"You're marking me," she observes, breathless.
"Good." I raise my head to look at her, at the colors blooming across her skin like bruises, like brands. "I want everyone to know you're mine."
She shivers at my words, pupils dilating. "Then mark me properly."
The invitation sends blood rushing to my cock, already hard and straining against my pants. I stand, stripping off my shirt, watching her eyes track the movement, drinking in my body with the same hunger I feel for hers. When I reach for my belt, she sits up, batting my hands away.
"Let me," she says, fingers working the buckle with deliberate slowness.
I let her, savoring the sight of her naked on her knees before me, hands working to free me from my clothes. When she finally releases my cock, her intake of breath is deeply satisfying. She looks up at me through her lashes, a question in her eyes.
"Not like that," I tell her, though the sight of her mouth so close to my erection tests my resolve. "I want to be inside you. Want to feel you come around me."
She rises, a new confidence in her movements, and turns to bend over the chaise, looking back at me over her shoulder. "Like this?" she asks, the position an exact mirror of one of my more explicit paintings.
The realization that she remembers, that she's deliberately recreating my fantasy, nearly undoes me. "Exactly like that," Igrowl, moving behind her, hands gripping her hips to position her perfectly.
I enter her with one hard thrust, burying myself to the hilt. She cries out, back arching, hands fisting in the velvet of the chaise. There's no gentleness in our coupling this time—just raw need, primal claiming. My hands leave more paint on her skin as I grip her hips, her shoulders, her hair, marking her in every way possible.
"Mine," I pant with each thrust, the word becoming a chant, a prayer, a declaration. "Mine. Mine. Mine."
"Yours," she gasps back, meeting each drive of my hips with equal force. "God, Guy—yours."
Hearing my name on her lips as I take her pushes me closer to the edge. I slide one paint-stained hand around to find her clit, circling the sensitive bundle of nerves with firm pressure. She moans, head dropping forward, body tightening around me.
"Come for me," I command, voice rough with exertion and need. "Let me feel you. Let me see you come apart."
She obeys, her orgasm crashing through her with a violence that triggers my own. We come together, her inner muscles pulsing around me as I empty myself inside her, claiming her in the most primitive way possible.
Afterward, we collapse onto the chaise, a tangle of paint-smeared limbs and sweat-slicked skin. I hold her against my chest, feeling her heartbeat gradually slow to match mine.
"Look," she says softly, pointing to where we can see our reflection in the large mirror across the studio.
We make a striking image—her olive skin decorated with streaks of color, my larger, scarred body curled protectively around hers. Like a living work of art.
"Beautiful," I murmur, pressing a kiss to her temple. "More beautiful than anything I could create on canvas."
