Brushstroke by Brushstroke

The light was wrong. That's what I told myself, adjusting the easel for the third time, pretending the problem was the way the afternoon sun slanted through the lake house windows. It wasn't. The problem was Leo, sitting naked on the chaise longue by the water, and the way my fingers itched to touch him instead of paint him.

"You're fidgeting, Maya."

"I'm *adjusting*."

Leo chuckled, that low, lazy sound that always did things to my stomach. "You've been adjusting for twenty minutes. The light's perfect. I'm going to get a sunburn."

"Then put on sunscreen." I dipped my brush in turpentine, then wiped it clean. Stalling.

"You know," he said, shifting, the muscles in his thigh catching the light, "you could just admit you're staring."

I set the brush down. "Maybe I am."

"Then come here."

The words hung in the air between us, thick and heavy. I walked over, bare feet on the wooden floor, and stopped right in front of him. He looked up, dark eyes crinkling at the corners.

"I can't paint when I'm distracted," I said.

"Then don't paint."

I reached out, fingers brushing his jaw. His skin was warm from the sun. He caught my wrist, turned it, pressed a kiss to the inside of my palm. My breath caught.

"Leo..."

"I've been sitting here for an hour," he murmured against my skin. "Watching you watch me. Wondering when you'd break."

"I'm not breaking. I'm... redirecting."

He laughed again, pulling me down onto his lap. The chaise creaked. I straddled him, the heat of his cock already pressing against my thigh through my thin cotton shorts. His hands slid up my back, under my tank top, fingers tracing my spine.

"Redirection," he repeated, mouth at my throat. "Is that what we're calling it?"

"Shut up."

He did. His mouth found mine, slow and deliberate, tasting of coffee and something saltier. I ground down against him, feeling him harden, and he groaned into the kiss.

"You're still wearing too many clothes," he said against my lips.

"So take them off."

He did. First the tank top, pulled over my head in one smooth motion. Then my shorts, unbuttoned and tugged down my hips. I lifted my hips to help him, and he slid them off, leaving me in just my panties. The air was cool on my skin, but his hands were hot, cupping my breasts, thumbs brushing over my nipples until they tightened.

"These too," I whispered, reaching for the waistband of his shorts.

He stood, lifting me with him, and I wrapped my legs around his waist. He carried me to the edge of the chaise, laid me down on the cushions, and stood over me, pulling off his shorts. His cock stood hard and thick, and I reached for him, wrapping my fingers around the shaft.

"Impatient," he said, but his voice was rough.

"Your fault."

I guided him down, pulling him on top of me, and his weight was exactly what I needed. He kissed me again, deeper this time, and his hand slid down my stomach, into my panties. His fingers found me wet and ready, and he groaned.

"Fuck, Maya."

"I know. Please."

He pushed my panties aside, and then he was inside me, slow, inch by inch. I arched into him, a moan escaping my throat, and he pressed his forehead to mine.

"Look at me," he said.

I did. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, and I watched his face as he started to move. Slow at first, deep strokes that made me gasp, my nails digging into his shoulders.

"Like that," I breathed. "Don't stop."

He didn't. He picked up the pace, hips slapping against mine, the sound filling the room. I wrapped my legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, and he swore under his breath.

"You're so tight," he groaned. "So fucking good."

"Harder."

He obliged, pounding into me, and I felt the heat building, coiling low in my belly. I reached between us, fingers finding my clit, rubbing in circles as he fucked me. My breath came in short, ragged gasps.

"I'm close," I said. "Don't stop, don't stop—"

He drove into me, deep and hard, and I came apart, crying out his name. My body clenched around him, and he followed, a guttural moan, spilling inside me. He stayed there, buried deep, breathing hard against my neck.

We lay there, tangled and sweaty, the afternoon sun warming our skin. After a long moment, he pulled out gently, and I felt the wetness between my thighs.

"Stay," I said, when he started to get up.

"Wasn't going anywhere."

He settled beside me, pulling me against his chest. I could feel his heartbeat, still racing, matching mine.

The next morning, I woke to the smell of coffee. Leo was standing by the window, wearing only his jeans, watching the lake. I pulled the sheet around me and joined him, taking the mug he offered.

"The light's perfect today," I said.

He smiled, that slow, lazy smile. "You going to paint me, or just stare again?"

I took a sip of coffee, watching him. "I'll let you know."