Complementary Colors (45 page)

“Fuck that feels good.”

“Is that your way of telling me I should use it more often?” He pushed a finger into my hole. I rode back against him.

“More.” I needed him now.

“So eager.”

“Please…”

“I thought you were worried about your boyfriend catching you.”

“Finders keepers.”

The man pushed in a second finger. Together, those thick digits were bigger than most men’s cocks.

I shook a foot free from my slacks so I could widen my stance and take his cock so deep I wouldn’t be able to breathe. “Now.”

He thrust his fingers.

“Don’t make me wait. Please don’t make me—” The sudden emptiness wouldn’t last because the man would never leave me unfulfilled.

The fat head of his cock breached my opening. With every inch, my breath shortened. By the time he stopped, that wonderful sense of fullness gripped me.

I tried to rock back, but he held me against the wall.

“Not yet.” He pushed his hands under my shirt. A flick from his thumbs over my nipples sent an electric thrill to my cock. Then he found the scar near the center of my chest and traced it.

Most of the time, the skin there was numb, but at times like this, the nerves lit up. There was no pain, just the eternal reminder of the man who’d been willing to die for me.

He tightened his hold. “I love you so much.”

Sometimes, the man in the Armani whispered those words in my ear when he thought I was asleep. And when he was asleep I would hold him, especially when the nightmares about my death gripped him. I would tell him everything was all right, we were safe, I was alive, and with him for as long as he would keep me.

“I love you too.” I turned my head enough to catch his mouth. His kiss was more methodical this time. Him exploring me, me tasting him.

Sometimes when I painted, that’s all we’d do was kiss. Rolling back and forth on the canvas stretched across the studio floor. Wrapped in each other’s arms.

Captured in each other’s hearts.

Then while the paint was still damp, we’d cut up the canvas and stretch it over a frame. It would dry, and I would apply the pure colors only found in oils.

But the imprints of our bodies, ridges, valleys, faint lines and curves, perfect interruptions in the vast field of color, would remain.

He rocked back, pulling out enough to make me gasp, then slowly went deep again.

We also made love on those canvases. Sometimes, we’d even fall asleep. Even thinned with vegetable oil, the acrylic would dry enough we’d have to peel each other off.

The voids of color left behind were always speckled with lines where our flesh melded together. I surrounded those spaces with the brightest colors. I wanted them to stand out. To be unforgettable. Like the loss of those you love.

Like a mother.

A brother.

Or a boy who gave you your first kiss.

He fondled my cock with one hand and held my shoulder with the other. Braced against the wall, I was at his mercy. The slow movements of his hips quickened into short violent thrusts.

I locked my hands around the back of his head, forcing our bodies together. I claimed his mouth, and he drank my pleas from my lips.

Harder, faster. He thrust into me until sweat soaked my skin and my muscles ached with the need for release.

Small barks of pleasure rumbled in his chest, adding to the thrill of being possessed by him. But I didn’t stay with the man in the Armani because I had no choice. I stayed because he set me free.

“Almost.” He buried the word into my neck.

“Yes.” I clenched around him as he fucked me harder.

He stroked my cock. The calluses on his hands intensified the friction. “Come for me, Paris.”

His voice alone, the colors it created, was more than enough to push me over the edge.

My muscles tightened, and a prickling sensation spread across my skin. The crash of euphoria dragged a cry from my chest. I called to him. I pleaded with him. I howled that I loved him.

He jerked hard enough to shove me into the wall, and his cock pulsed inside me. I loved that feeling. The thickening of flesh, the rush of warmth, how he exhaled a sigh against my cheek as he sobered.

The man in the Armani cradled me close, for the longest time. Just us, there, in that narrow hallway, still inside me, reluctant to let go.

I held his hand, and he held mine. Blue and green outlined his cuticles. Mine were stained with orange and yellow.

“So.” The word was nothing more than a breath against the shell of my ear. “Tell me about yourself.”

I couldn’t stop the grin. “What would you like to know?”

“We could start with your name.”

“Maybe I don’t want to tell you.”

“Of course, you do.”

“And why is that?”

“Because if you don’t, I can’t tell you mine.”

“And who says I want to know?”

He peppered kisses down the column of my neck. “You will.”

“I will?”

“Yes.”

“And why is that?”

He pushed a cum-covered finger between my lips. “Because you’ll want something to scream when I make you come again.” He left a wet trail across my bottom lip to my chin.

“Paris…Duvoe.” I turned my head enough to nip his jaw. “Yours?”

“Roy Callahan.” He huffed a breath against my throat. “You are so beautiful.”

“You always say that.”

“I’ll always mean it.”

And he did.