I feel my mouth form an O-shape at his explanation.

“She was the strongest woman I have ever known.”

As I move over to the door about to leave, I make sure to ask, “When should I come back?”

It’s clear he wants to be left alone.

“When you’re ready to pose, Gemma. Tonight, we get to see how strong you can be. Or perhaps you think you need to arrive wearing the armor, hmm?”

Annoyed at his reference to my lack of trust and bravery, I say nothing as I turn, leaving him to his paints and his ghosts.

* * *

Handling Things ~

Phillipe convinced me to pose full-side profile nude today.

It had taken some persuasion on his behalf, and in the end, a compromise had been reached.

“Here. How about you sit over here?” he instructed as he took my palm in his.

Laughing softly, I followed to where he led me. “So, tell me again. Why must I first remove all of my clothes to appear strong?”

I heard him move in close to me before his lips touched mine. “Because I like looking at the full picture, and, Chantel, your body is a work of art.”

“You just like keeping me naked,” I told him as I felt him move away from me.

“Well that, too. Okay, so sit down here. Yeah, that’s perfect. Face the wall, so I can capture you from the side. Now, place the bout of Diva on your crossed legs and cradle her curves, so the handle is resting between your breasts. There. That’s perfect.”

The cool surface of the violin’s handle fits nicely against my chest.

“Wow, the way your breasts and hips look from this angle is a thing of beauty.”

“I feel kind of ridiculous,” I told him, licking my bottom lip as my nipples hardened in the cool morning air. “Are you going to paint me real to life?”

“Of course,” he mumbled in the way he always did when he was concentrating on a piece.

“I mean, are you going to paint my nipples hard, like they are right now?”

The room went silent until he cleared his throat. “Stop trying to distract me.”

“Is that what I’m doing, Phillipe? Distracting you with my hard nipples?”

He chuckled before making a promise. “If you behave for thirty minutes, I’ll let you take a break.”

It was funny because when he first told me about this idea he had to paint me, it had been one picture. Now, it had turned into two, but if I knew Phillipe, it would end up being more like ten or eleven. Who knew? Maybe he’d never stop. He was always telling me he could look at me all day.

“Okay, I think I can manage that for thirty minutes.”

“Good, good,” he answered in that far away voice again.

Around thirty minutes later, he told me I could break pose, so I lowered the violin to the floor gently. I stood and made my way over to where he was, uncaring now of my nudity. When I got there, I felt him make a move to stand. He must have turned to face me because I felt a fingertip trace down the curve of my breast to my straining hard nipple.

“Hmm, I like painting you like this,” he told me, fingering my sensitive flesh.

“Will you do something for me?” I asked.

I waited patiently for an answer. He took a moment, but I thought that was because he was too busy playing with my naked breasts.

“Phillipe?”

“Yes, Beauty, anything.”

I reached up and gripped his wandering finger. “Can you show me what you’ve painted?”

“How? Tell me how,” he urged.

“Turn around,” I instructed. I smiled when I felt him move away from me.

Reaching out, I placed my arms around him and ran my palms down his arms that were left bare from the T-shirt rubbing against my skin. The hair on his arms tickled and brushed against my palms as I stroked down his biceps to his forearms, where I could comfortably reach.

As I stood plastered to his body, my sensitive breasts against his back, I rested my cheek against his shoulder blade. “Now, trace your hands over the paint. Trace me the way you saw me just now.”

Closing my eyes, I let his body lead mine as his hands and arms started to move.

Just as his fingertips must have touched the canvas, in a voice that sounded slightly strained, he told me softly, “This will ruin the image. Are you going to sit again tomorrow?”

I grinned into his back, as I turned my head and opened my mouth, biting his shoulder blade gently. “Yes, I’ll sit for you again tomorrow, and the next day, and the day after that. I’ll sit for you every day for as long as you want me to.”

He took a deep breath, and my heart sped up after he replied, “So forever.”

Taking my left hand, I ran it back up his arm, and then I removed it, bringing it to his side where I smoothed my palm down over his abdomen to the edge of his shirt. That was when his right hand started to move.

“Here, this is your right shoulder,” he told me as he ran his hand over the wet paint.

I stroked my fingers across his lower belly, flirting with the edge of his jeans.

“What are you doing, Chantel?” he questioned as he dropped his hand from the canvas.

I could feel him getting ready to turn and face me, so I requested softly, “No. Don’t turn around.”

“Why not?” he asked.

Honestly, all I could think of was that I wanted him to experience this just like me.

“I want you to be blind for a moment. Just feel me, hear me.”

Moving slightly back from him, I brought my right hand down to join my left under his shirt. He let out a deep breath.

“Do you want me to take my shirt off, just like you?”

“No,” I told him right away.

I felt him shift his feet a little wider to get a steadier stance.

“I like rubbing my nipples against the material. It feels so good.”

“Christ, Chantel. What the fuck has gotten into you?”

Slowly, I rubbed myself against his back. It was true. The material felt amazing as it abraded my stiff pointy tips. I could already feel my pussy start to moisten.

“I don’t know,” I confessed.

Reaching the button on his jeans, I undid it, only fumbling a little as I slipped my right hand inside, rubbing my palm against his pulsating cock.

“Oh, fuck yeah.” He groaned.

I smiled against his back. “Do you like that?” I asked, just the way he always did with me.

“Hell yes.” He groaned again. “Grip it, Chantel. Take me in your hand.”

Not wanting to disappoint him, I unzipped his jeans and pushed my other hand inside, freeing him from the confinement of only his denim.

Wrapping my palm around his hot cock, I stroked him slowly from base to tip. His hips flexed and bucked forward, seeking the warm downward slide of my palm. Gliding my hand over his sensitive skin, I turned my face into his back and took another bite of his shoulder as I brought my hand back up in a tight squeeze.

“Yes.” He hissed and demanded, “Again.”

Removing my hand from him, I told him softly, “Make it wet.”

“Huh?” He grunted.

I took great delight in the confusion I could hear in that single distracted noise. Bringing my hand up to where he could see it, I told him again, “Make it wet, Phillipe.”

This time, he seemed to get my meaning. He moved to the left, and the next thing I felt was his hand clasping mine with cool liquid. Somehow, I knew it was paint.

“What color?” I questioned.

“Are you fucking serious?” He groaned, his hand moving mine back to his impatient cock. He wrapped our fingers around him, as he punched his hips forward on a tormented growl, letting his head fall back.

“What color, Phillipe?”

“Red,” he hissed out. “Fiery fucking red.”

“Perfect,” I purred against his trembling back, as I resumed my slow torment.

Over and over, I stroked him. Each delicious tug of his stiff member rendered a strained groan from deep inside his chest as his hot palm assisted my movements.

“So fucking good.” He cursed as his hips flexed and his muscles bunched, thrusting forward into our palms. His flesh was now burning hot, rubbing against my hand hard.

“Bite me again, just like before,” he demanded.

I smiled against him. I teased him, nibbling softly. “Like this?” I reached up now with my free hand, stroking it along his abdominal muscles that were straining with each controlling motion of those powerful hips.

“No,” he forced out between his gritted teeth.

“No?”

“Chantel,” he told me in warning.

I ran my hand up to his nipple while I rubbed my own against his back. His breathing hitched as he grunted in a voice so husky and deep that I could swear he must have stroked my pussy because it contracted and moistened.

He demanded, “Put your fucking teeth on me, Chantel.”

How could I resist that? I couldn’t, and I didn’t.

Instead, I bit him hard, harder than I would have expected, as I stroked and squeezed his cock as fast and rough as I could. It must have been what he was waiting for because his palm gripped my hand and stilled it as I felt his big body twitch and shudder while he groaned my name.