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Stripped Desire – Chapter 15: Color
"Desire is the kind of thing that eats you and leaves you starving."
Nayyirah Waheed. ~
"I thought you wouldn't be here," I say, looking around the living room. There are several canvases with wet paint lying down on the floor.
"Then why—" he starts, then shakes his head. It unnerves me how lost he looks. The fact that I'm most likely the cause of his distress makes me feel better and worse at the same time.
I unbutton my coat, and he follows my moves like a predator.
I feel his gaze on me, weakening any resolve I may have entered with.
"I'll go get ready," I say, and walk toward the bathroom.
He follows me.
"Isabella." He grabs my arm before I can lock myself inside.
I look at his hand on my elbow before meeting his eyes. He loosens his grip but doesn't let go. He stares at me, his lips in a thin line and his brow furrowed. I don't know what he's searching for, but I make myself stoic.
"Let's just finish this," I say, locking my eyes with his.
We stand there for a minute in strained silence. After a few deep breaths, he nods and lets me go, stepping back, and out of the bathroom.
"Okay then."
He closes the door and I'm left alone with the burning of my skin and the screaming of my heart.
I try counting. It doesn't help.
Looking at my reflection in the mirror only makes it worse. It's as if I can see the need in my eyes, the restraint, the fear.
I want him so much.
I breathe in and out, steeling myself to undress one last time so that he can finish the painting. After today, these little intimate moments will be over.
There's no point in postponing the inevitable.
When I walk back to the living room, he's sitting on the stool. I go to my place on the blankets. He doesn't look at me until I'm settled, and when he does, I burn.
I close my eyes and breathe. Each lungful of air feels more shallow than the last. Every piece of fabric that touches my skin feels like a razorblade cutting me open.
There's no music on today. I can only hear the soft sound of the movements on his canvas. I itch to look up at him, but force my eyes to stay close.
By the time I hear the stool scrape on the floor, I'm a bomb ready to explode.
I open my eyes and see him admiring the canvas. I sit up, jealous of a painting, already missing his attention.
As if he's listening to my thoughts, he meets my eyes, his gaze flickering down. I'm not holding the blankets around me.
There's a question on his face as he walks toward me. I hold my breath until he reaches me.
"Isabella," he says. His voice is a soothing cream over my skin and a scorching spark to my senses all at once.
I whimper and tremble in need, gripping the sheets in frustration. He crawls over me, his presence almost too much to bear. It hurts to feel his skin so close, yet not close enough.
"Let me love you," he begs, with his hand atop the piece of fabric that has been teasing us both for weeks. The movement makes the fabric rustle. It's soft, a caress, a feather. I whimper again.
"Please," I say with a moan on my lips, consumed with desire. I can't pretend to be strong enough to resist him anymore. I can't pretend not to want him to awaken me.
I need his paint-colored fingers on me, in me, all over me.
"Shh," he whispers, caressing my hair and searching my eyes.
He touches the root of my locks before caressing my upper lip. I part my mouth open, tongue seeking, a taste, anything, everything.
He pushes his index finger inside and closes the rest of his finger under my chin. His eyes are the defining part. They tease me with stories I yearn to know. They ask me to trust him.
To give in.
I moan around his finger as I swirl my tongue around it. His hold tightens. He curses under his breath.
And he's gone. Up and away from me, taking off his t-shirt. Then he's on me.
Everywhere.
His tongue is so deep inside my mouth it's almost too much. But it's not even enough.
I let go of the sheets and grip his hair instead. He pushes against me, kissing me deeper.
Then, he stops.
"No," I say, reaching out to keep him close to me.
"It's okay," he assures me. He stands up and walks around the rumpled sheets. He stays at my feet before kneeling to close his left hand around my ankle. I can almost feel the small tattoo on his wrist impregnating my skin. I try to get my leg away from his fingers, but his hold is strong.
"Edward," I say, breathing hard. I feel as if I'm all over the place. I feel as if I've left and come back and he hasn't lost his calm.
Why isn't he burning like I am?
Why isn't he desperate like I am?
"We'll go slow," he says, and I know it's final. His face is serious, and his eyes are set on the white fabric. I move my other leg away, opening up.
He groans.
He lowers his mouth to my instep, licking my skin up to my knee, then back down. I tense in anticipation.
"Relax," he says, much as he did the first afternoon I came here. I try to, but I grip the sheets harder with each new inch he kisses.
My nipples are so hard. I'm so wet. I feel like screaming, like begging, like pleading. My "please" and "Edwards" escape me out loud. I'm delirious, waiting, clenching around nothing, feeling empty.
Just when I think I won't take it anymore, he's there. His face and his hands are right there. He pulls the ends of the see-through robe, making it straight and uncrumpled.
He sees everything.
I see him.
He licks his lower lip before blowing down over the fabric. I arch up. I could've come from that alone. He spreads my legs wider and continues to blow over the fabric, sneaking a few licks over my most sensitive place.
He plays with me, bringing me to the edge, and then pushing me back again. I grit my teeth in frustration, and I can feel the shape of his grin on me. It makes me want to fight him. To not give in. The minute my muscles tense in refusal, he doubles his efforts.
He noticed my intentions and now he wants me to come.
He finally pushes the fabric away and pushes his fingers inside me. It feels so right I could cry. I thrust my hips up, and then fall back down in anger and helplessness.
I can't do anything anymore but feel him. I can't do anything but plead to him. This time, I feel his smile as he dives in, tongue, teeth and fingers. Now we're in sync. Now we work towards a common goal.
I can feel my impending fall, and I can feel him pushing me towards it. There is no more backing up. He's letting me get it. I'm giddy, bucking against his face, my fingers in his hair.
I explode with stars behind my eyes. I come for what feels like a very long time.
It feels like I'll never stop falling.
I soar under his touch.
I'm out of my body and back in it again.
I'm melting.
I'm burning.
I'm living.
"It's okay," he says to my ear, and I don't know when he got up here again. I whimper because his fingers are still teasing me, pulling shivers out of me.
I moan, sensitive but wanting, moving to and from his touch. He cradles my neck and turns my face to his. I can barely open my eyes, but I want to see him. I can't not see him.
"Edward," I say, asking him, answering him. He touches his lips to mine. I press back, and it's the only thing he needs to deepen the kiss. I can taste myself on him. At first, I recoil from it, but he grips my neck harder. I scratch my nails down his back.
He grunts into my mouth and sits up, bringing me with him.
He handles me like a doll, soft but sure. He sits me down on his lap, a leg on each side of him. He kisses down my neck and my collarbones. I let my hands rest behind me, pushing my chest to his face.
His jean and his belt are rough, he's hard underneath, and I want closer. So I push down. He bites my nipple as if in warning to behave. But I'm done with waiting. I'm done with slow.
I want him too much.
I unbuckle his belt and unbutton his jeans. He doesn't stop me.
"Isabella," he breathes out my name.
A prayer.
A command.
A favor asked.
"Take this off," I say, trying to sound confident but coming off as a child. He looks at me for a moment, his eyes locked on mine. He nods to himself as if in agreement or a settlement with himself.
With what he wants.
With what I want.
He stands up, never breaking eye contact with me and takes his jeans and his underwear off. I'm left kneeling at his feet, looking up at him.
His face, his body, his ink.
He's not a canvas.
He's art and sex.
He's light. And I've been living in the dark for so long.
I kiss the right side of his hip. I lick my way all over the world map tattoo, my tongue dipping over the valleys of his muscles.
Then I wrap my lips around him and take him as deep as I can. He grunts and moans and curses. His hand pulls my hair from my face. He's not thrusting, he's not gripping, he's just enjoying. His face is a mask of pure bliss.
His eyes are on me, daring me to torture him. To get my revenge, but I don't want that. I just want to see him—make him come.
And when he does, he whispers my name.
Thank you so, so, so much for reading. I hope you enjoyed this one.
See you next time.
xx