The Taste of Paint

The smell of turpentine and her perfume—something sharp, like bergamot and sweat—hung in the hotel room. The air conditioner hummed, but it did nothing to cut the heat between us. I was supposed to be painting her. Instead, I was watching the way her collarbone caught the lamplight, the way her tongue darted out to wet her lower lip.

"Are you going to stare all night, or are you going to work?" Mira asked, a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. She was perched on the edge of the bed, one leg tucked under the other, wearing nothing but a thin silk robe that had come undone at the waist.

"You're distracting," I said, my voice rougher than I intended. "You're supposed to hold still."

"Maybe I don't want to hold still." She reached up and let the robe slip off one shoulder, revealing the curve of her breast. "Maybe I want you to put the brush down."

I set the brush down. The canvas was forgotten. She watched me cross the room, her eyes dark and knowing. When I reached her, she didn't flinch. She just tilted her chin up, inviting.

"Kiss me," she whispered. "But not on the mouth."

I didn't ask where. I dropped to my knees in front of her, my hands finding her thighs, pushing the robe aside. She was already bare underneath. Her skin was warm, smooth, and I could smell her—musky, wet, ready.

"Lower," she said, her voice a thread. "Lower."

My tongue found her. She gasped, her fingers threading through my hair, gripping tight. Her taste was salt and honey, and I drank her in like I'd been starving. She was slick, swollen, and I circled her clit slowly, teasing, making her hips roll against my face.

"God, yes," she breathed. "Don't stop."

I didn't stop. I licked her from bottom to top, savoring every inch, then pushed my tongue inside her, feeling her clench around it. She was vocal, moaning, cursing under her breath, her thighs trembling against my ears.

"More," she begged. "Please."

I gave her more. I sucked her clit between my lips, flicking it with the tip of my tongue, feeling her body tense. She was close—I could feel it in the way her fingers tightened in my hair, the way her breath came in shallow gasps.

"Look at me," I said, pulling back just enough to speak. Her eyes were glazed, pupils blown. "I want to watch you come."

She nodded, biting her lip. I dove back in, relentless, and she shattered. Her back arched, a cry tearing from her throat, and I lapped at her through it, drinking every drop of her release. She collapsed onto the bed, breathless, her chest heaving.

But I wasn't done. I stood, shedding my shirt, my jeans, my boxers. My cock was hard, aching, and she saw it. Her eyes widened, then darkened with hunger.

"Come here," she said, reaching for me. "I want to taste you."

I climbed onto the bed, straddling her chest. She wrapped her hand around my shaft, stroking slowly, then took me into her mouth. Her tongue was a miracle—flat against the underside, curling around the head, laving every vein. She took me deep, gagging slightly, but she didn't pull back. She pushed further, her nose brushing my skin, and I groaned, my head falling back.

"Fuck, Mira," I breathed. "That's it."

She pulled off with a wet pop, stroking me with her hand. "I want you inside me," she said. "Now."

She lay back, spreading her legs, and I positioned myself between them. The heat of her pussy was almost unbearable, and when I pushed inside, we both moaned. She was tight, wet, perfect. I buried myself to the hilt and stilled, letting us both adjust.

"Move," she commanded. "Don't you dare be gentle."

I wasn't gentle. I fucked her hard, my hips slamming against hers, the sound of our bodies meeting filling the room. She wrapped her legs around my waist, pulling me deeper, and I felt her nails rake down my back.

"Yes," she hissed. "Right there. Don't stop."

I didn't stop. I drove into her, over and over, feeling her tighten around me. She was close again—I could see it in the way her eyes rolled back, the way her mouth fell open. I reached between us, my thumb finding her clit, and she screamed as she came, her pussy milking me.

That was all it took. I came with a groan, pouring into her, my body shuddering as I collapsed on top of her. We lay there, tangled, sweaty, panting.

"Not bad for a business trip," she whispered, her voice hoarse.

I laughed, pressing a kiss to her shoulder. "We're not done yet. I still have a painting to finish."

She smirked, glancing at the canvas. "You're going to need a new reference."

I looked at her, flushed and satisfied, and grinned. "I think I'll manage."

CATEGORIES: [Tongue, On a Business Trip, Artist, Hotel, Just the Two of Us]