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 * 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.