His palm lingered against my face. Rough and warm. Steady in a way I hadn’t known in years.
My body stiffened, ready for battle.
But all he did was look at me.
Like he was trying to memorize my face.
Like he wanted to say something he didn’t know how to speak.
And I, goddess help me, I didn’t pull away.
Then he moved, sudden and feral, scooping me up and setting me on the paint-splattered table, the wet colors smearing beneath me.
A shocked laugh burst from my lips, but it died as I saw the bulge straining his trousers, his eyes dark with hunger. “Don’t worry, Malyshka,” he rasped, kneeling before me, his voice a deviant vow, “I’ll let you finish your painting, but first, I’m going to worship you.” He tore my shorts off, the fabric ripping, and buried his face between my thighs, his lips parting my folds with a groan that vibrated against my clit.
“Fuck!” I screamed, my hands fisting his hair, encouraging him to devour me deeper. His tongue was fire, relentless, sucking with a passion that drove me insane, my moans, filling the studio, loud enough to echo beyond the open window. My body arching as he fucked me with his mouth, devouring my wetness like it was his lifeline.
He grabbed a tube of crimson paint, squeezing it over my thighs, the cold liquid dripping down my skin like blood.
“You’re my canvas,” he growled, smearing the paint across my hips, my breasts, his fingers marking me as he sucked harder, his tongue diving deeper. I wailed, my body trembling, the paint’s slick chill amplifying every lick, every graze of his teeth.
My climax coiled, sharp and inevitable.
“More!” I screamed, my nails raking his scalp, drawing blood that mingled with the paint.
“Fuck... I’m close,” I gasped, my voice breaking, but he didn’t stop, his tongue thrusting inside me, fucking every inch of my core. The pleasure was maddening, too much, too good. My back arched, fingers clawing at the paint-slick desk, and then I shattered, screaming, squirting, my body convulsing as release poured over his face.
He didn’t flinch. He drank it in like it was holy.
“You taste like sin,” he rasped, standing slowly, his mouth glistening, eyes burning with unhinged devotion. He sucked his fingers clean, slow and deliberate, then nodded toward the canvas with a dark smile.
“Finish your painting, Malyshka,” he said, voice low and lethal. “I’ll be waiting in the room.”
He stepped back, eyes dragging down my wrecked body.
“We’re not even close to done.”
I nodded, breathless, my body still burning, the paint streaking my skin a testament to his claim.
He kissed my cheek, soft but searing, and left, his footsteps fading. I turned to the canvas, now a chaotic masterpiece of our chaos, but how could I paint when my core still pulsed, my thighs slick with paint and desire? He’d set me ablaze, and only he could quench it. Damn right, I wanted more, his body, his fire, his ruin.
Chapter 18
LUNA
The next morning, I made a beeline for the studio the moment I finished breakfast.
I didn’t let myself overthink it.
Not the fact that Misha had rebuilt it for me. Not that it felt like something sacred. something close to what my mother and I used to share.
He might’ve thought it was just a gesture. A calculated peace offering. But this place... it mattered.
Maybe I wasn’t as good as my mother. My strokes weren’t soft like hers, and I never had her patience with shading. I was better with metal and fire, with carving stones into delicate things that didn’t feel delicate. But painting? I wanted to learn. Maybe I’d find someone to teach me.
Maybe, for once, I could create something that didn’t end in smoke.
I was half-lost in a blur of colors when it happened.
