Lluvia en el Cristal

The rain was a curtain of grey static against the cafe windows, blurring the world into watercolor smears. I was sketching a woman by the window, the curve of her neck, the way her fingers curled around a cooling coffee cup, and then she turned, caught my eye, and smiled like she knew exactly what I was drawing.

“You’re staring,” she said, sliding into the seat across from me. Her accent was honey and smoke. “And you’re not very subtle.”

“I’m an artist,” I said, my voice rougher than I intended. “It’s my job to stare.”

“Camille.” She held out her hand, and I took it. Her skin was warm despite the chill outside.

“Marcus.”

Her eyes flicked to my sketchbook, then back to me. “Show me.”

I turned the page. She studied her own likeness for a long moment, then laughed—a low, dirty sound that went straight to my cock.

“You drew me naked,” she said, not accusingly.

“I drew what I see.”

She leaned closer. The top of her blouse gaped just enough to show the shadow of her cleavage. “The cafe’s closing soon. I have a studio around the corner. It’s warm, and I don’t mind being looked at.”

The rain hammered the pavement as we dashed down the street, her laughter mixing with the thunder. Her studio smelled of turpentine and cold coffee, canvases stacked against every wall. She kicked off her heels, and I watched her ankles, her calves, the slow reveal of skin as she unbuttoned her blouse.

“You want to paint me?” she asked, letting the fabric fall. Her tits were perfect—full, pale, tipped with pink nipples already tight from the cold. “Or do you want to touch me?”

I crossed the room in two steps, my hands finding her waist, pulling her against me. She tasted like rain and red wine, and she bit my lower lip hard enough to make me groan.

“Patience,” she whispered, but her hands were already working my belt, yanking it open, shoving my jeans down my hips. Her fingers wrapped around my cock, stroking me slow, and I felt my knees go weak.

“Fuck, Camille.”

“Shh.” She sank to her knees, her tongue tracing the length of me before she took me into her mouth. The heat of her throat was blinding, and I grabbed a fistful of her dark hair, guiding her rhythm. She moaned around me, and the vibration sent sparks up my spine.

I pulled her up, spun her around, bent her over the edge of a paint-stained table. Her skirt was already bunched around her hips, and I saw the dark patch on her panties—she was soaked.

“Look at you,” I breathed, dragging the fabric aside. “So fucking wet for me.”

“Stop talking,” she gasped. “Fuck me.”

I drove into her in one stroke, her pussy clenching around me like a fist. She cried out, gripping the table’s edge as I set a brutal pace, my hips slapping against her ass, the sound filling the empty studio. Her head dropped, her back arching, and I leaned over her, my mouth at her ear.

“You like that?” I growled, fucking her deeper. “You like being filled?”

“Yes,” she sobbed. “God, yes, don’t stop.”

I reached around, found her clit, slick and swollen, and rubbed in tight circles while I pounded into her. She came with a sharp, strangled scream, her body convulsing around me, and that was it—I buried myself to the hilt and spilled inside her, my own orgasm ripping through me like a storm.

For a long moment, there was only the sound of our breathing, the rain still tapping against the glass. She turned her head, her cheeks flushed, a lazy smile on her lips.

“Well,” she murmured. “That’s better than being painted.”

I laughed, pulling her upright, wrapping my arms around her. “Your coffee’s getting cold.”

“Let it.” She nestled against my chest. “The rain’s not letting up anyway.”

“No,” I agreed, stroking her hair. “It’s not.”

CATEGORIES: [French woman, Artist, Rain, Studio, Just the Two of Us]