Page 98 of My Sweetest Agony
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He takes mercy on me and plants his feet, driving up into me harder, faster, but still completely in control, an artist with his canvas, every stroke deliberately placed, all the tension and harsh lines of his body coiled beneath and around mine. And when he finally takes my clit between his fingers and pinches, twisting it, I come on a strangled cry that echoes off the exposed brick and steel beams of the ceiling.
His own gasp joins the sound as my pussy clenches around him and unleashes something he had managed to restrain until this moment.
Cam’s hips piston harder.
His body tenses as he chases his own release with hammering drives up into me until he finally finds it, lips and teeth clamping down into my collarbone as he comes underneath me.
He drags my head to the side until he can get to my mouth, kissing me in the same rhythm with his tongue as he just did with his cock.
Advance and retreat.
Long and slow as we both try to catch our breath and come down from the high we just experienced.
Finally, I sag fully against him, and he rolls me back onto my side, coming with me, his cock still embedded inside of me. His arms tighten, his body twitching as he nuzzles me, gently dragging his fingers down my arm.
Minutes tick by in comfortable silence, only our heavy breathing filling the air until his chest finally stops heaving against my shoulders.
He kisses my cheek and pulls out, slipping away with a groan.
I roll over to watch him as he climbs from the bed, his semi-hard cock glistening with our releases. He stalks across the studio, buck naked, completely, unabashedly nude, tattoos coming alive as he moves. “Cam? What are you doing?”
He grabs a blank canvas and moves toward the paints lined up along the floor near the one we spent the evening on earlier. “I have to paint you.”
“What?” I push up onto my elbow, my head spinning, still foggy from exhaustion and the pleasure still making my body twitch. “Camden, no.”
The look he tosses over his shoulder at me shuts me up immediately.
He wasn’t asking.
His eyes blaze with the same absolute focus I saw when I first arrived and watched him start painting. This is his muse speaking to him, telling him what to create. And apparently, it’s me.
Almost frantically, he gets what he needs on his palette and brings it over toward the bed, along with the blank canvas and several brushes.
He pauses, stares down at me, and under his assessment, I fall back, allowing my head to hit the pillow.
“Just like that. Don’t move.”
With one leg up, my pussy, still dripping with his release, is fully exposed, as is the rest of me. The corners of his lips curl as he takes me in by the pale moonlight shining in from the row of windows, and he casually moves back a few feet, sets the canvas on the floor, then squats, still fully nude, and starts painting.
Every movement of his hand makes the corded muscles of his forearm and biceps bunch. He uses broad strokes of blacks and whites, then creates three different shades of gray, slicing the bristles across the canvas so fast that I can barely follow it.
His eyes narrow on me. “Don’t move.”
“I’m not.”
The corners of his lips twitch. “You are. You’re trying to peek.”
“Well, it is me…”
He chuckles low, the sound doing something to me that I don’t want to admit as he keeps painting, his gaze flicking between the canvas and me.
Minutes tick by, the time melting away easily, the longer I watch him work.
Because he’s a fucking masterpiece himself.
The way he moves, how easily he creates something so beautiful with seemingly so little effort…
