Одри Карлан - February (Calendar Girl #2)

Chaotic.

Destructive.

I cried out, my screams echoing and merging with his own as he found his release.

Bliss.

He had turned us back onto our sides mid-orgasm, and the last thing I remembered was a final click and a flash of light. Then I passed out.

***

I woke alone, my naked body covered by a couple of robes. Classical music was playing through the speakers in the warehouse loft. Still sluggish, I propped myself up and looked around. Alec was on the other side of the room. He was wearing his jeans and nothing else. Yum. The muscles of his back flexed and rippled along with his paint strokes. I don’t know how long I was out, but it must have been a long time because he’d finished most of a picture of Aiden. One of the ones where he’d had his hand wrapped around his cock, his body bowed forward, teeth clenched and head thrust back. I slipped on one of the robes and tested out my ankle. Not too bad. I slowly walked over to Alec but didn’t make my presence known. He didn’t hear me either, the music loud enough to cover my movements. He was lost in his own world anyway.

Quietly, I sat in a chair a good twenty feet away and just watched him paint. He was fastidious in his art. Perfect in his strokes. It was magical to watch. He painted the image quickly with precise movements. It seemed as if each stroke was paired with the sound of the piano keys touching down in the music. Musical art. Absolutely beautiful. The view, the man, the painting all coalesced into an ethereal experience, one I’d surely never forget nor see again in this lifetime.

After a long while, I couldn’t wait any longer to touch him. On quiet feet, I took the robe off and left it hanging over the back of the chair. On quiet feet, I padded to where he stood, in a trance staring at his art. The image seemed complete to me, but I did not have an artist’s eye. I didn’t have an eye for anything but sexy men, concert tees, and motorcycles.

When I reached him I lightly wound my arms around his form placing my hands over his pecs and my lips to the space between his shoulder blades. He smelled divine. Like the woods, sex, sweat, and paint. Alec’s chest moved with the force of his inhale at my touch. He was in a contemplative headspace, and I was breaking that, but he didn’t seem to care.

I think Alec liked my hands on him. No, I know he did. “You’re beauty and light.” I kissed along his shoulder blades then slid my hands down along each ridge and valley of his abdomen. Christ, the man was cut. For an artist, he had the body of someone who spent countless hours in the gym staying fit, but I hadn’t seen him work anything but me this week.

“ Non . I am hidden in the dark, only lit when my art is on display. It is you who brings the light to surface. You are seeing your beauty reflected in me, the way my body calls to yours and yours to mine.”

His words seduced me as simply as his art did, the way his body did. I was lost in both and in him. Slowly, I opened his jeans and grasped his hardening cock. In this position he was massive, over-filling my hands. I bit into the flesh on his back, unable to hold back the desire to have him sink deeply into me the way I’ve come to expect in our love making.

He dropped his palette and brushes, and pushed his pants down. They fell to his ankles, trapping him there. I swirled a thumb around the head of his cock and spread the wetness pooled there all over his length. Then I stroked. Up, down, hard fast, slow, and with purpose, just the way he liked. He clasped the palm of my hand and brought it up to his mouth where he licked and sucked each finger, pulling each one into his mouth, wetting it. Then his tongue tickled my palm, coating it. He guided my hand down to his length. He wrapped my hand around his shaft and showed me how tightly to hold him and then he moved me up, pausing at the tip and then pushing down hard, much harder than I would alone. I got the hang of his rhythm and then he let go.

The French started the moment his hands separated and rested along the wall, caging the painting in front of him. His native language never sounded so sweet until he was lost in the act. I enjoyed it more than I’d ever admit. In that moment, Alec gave me control, allowed me to love him with my hands. I held tight went up slow, came down fast, and repeated over and over. He moaned then kept himself aloft against the wall with one arm and reached back with his right. My breast smashed harder against his back when his fingers found me, slipping between my legs, wet and wanting, coating my thighs with my desire for him.

Two fingers twirled around my hot button then sank deep. I gasped and locked my left arm up his chest and hooked him at the shoulder. My right kept working him up and down, tight and soft, giving him the exact amount of pressure he needed. Together we worked one another over both losing ourselves in the joy of being one in this moment.

He spoke in French, I spoke in English. Both whispering our version of sweet nothings against the other, until I knew if he touched that aching bundle of nerves I’d go off. I clenched around his fingers, a signal of my impending orgasm. In response, his cock leaked more fluid out the tiny slit at the top. I tickled that spot and the bumpy patch under it then squeezed tight, jerked against his body and came. My pussy had a lock on his fingers, my hand a lock on his dick. We bucked and spasmed against one another, his essence coating my hand, and the concrete floor. My teeth sunk into his back and he howled as the last vestiges of our lovemaking worked their way out.

When we both calmed down, I softly kissed and licked the spot on his back where I’d marked him. Pulling back, I found two perfect crescents just above the skin where his tattoo was most prevalent. He handed me a towel on a table near his supplies. I wiped my hands but my concentration was locked on the marks I’d left on his skin.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered against the bruise.

“ Tu ne devrais pas être désolé, ” he spoke in French shaking his head. “Don’t be sorry,” he repeated for me. “Never apologize for being swept away by passion. I’ll wear your marks like badges of honor.” He leaned forward pulled up his jeans but didn’t button them before turning around and embracing me within the warmth of his arms. I held onto him still shaking from what we’d done. Tears fell down my cheeks as the emotions overcame me.

Alec soothed me the way he always did. Long strokes up and down my bare back, whispered French mixed with English telling me I was beautiful. I was love. I was light. And for now, I was his.

Later, he had me posing for stills. It was three in the morning, and I didn’t care one bit. I was freshly fucked, naked, and sated.

“Hold your hand out as if you are covering his manhood,” he instructed. I did what he said. “Cover your breast with your hand and tip your head back and close your eyes, open your mouth.” I followed his instructions to the letter.

The camera clicked, and I smiled. It clicked again. I opened my eyes and looked at my artist. My Frenchman. He was gorgeous behind the camera in his jeans, still open, showing me a peek at the goods I’d had twice that night already. I closed my eyes again, crossed my hand over my chest, and hid my center.

**click**

“Are you done?”

“I am now,” he said with a sexy smirk. Then he came to me and lifted me into his favorite princess hold.

“You know, my ankle is doing better. I can walk.”

“But I prefer to carry you.” He tilted his head and carried me through the loft, into the elevator and up to his home where he tucked me into bed and curved an arm around my body as he settled himself in.

I could feel his breath against the skin of my neck. “Tonight, ma jolie , it was far more than anything I’d ever done before. Being with you is…it is like its own special place in the world. I shall never have this again. I want you to know I appreciate what you are giving me.”