Desire flashes in Loris’ eyes as he grips Charles’ shoulders for what could be a push or a pull, so ends up being a tight hold.
‘If it comes from the impression that we’re running out of time, then you’re validating my decision to—’
‘It doesn’t! That’s all I’ve been thinking about lately! I had excuses ready in case the night with your friends dragged on. And I’m sure you didn’t display your drawing to be congratulated with a high five! I’d lovefor at least one thing to go according to plan tonight, I love this energy you’re giving off right now, I love you, damn it, so could you please remove— Yes. Thank you.’
Loris takes off his jumper and t-shirt in one motion and reaches for Charles’ belt. ‘Fine! But for the record… I might still be mad at you.’
‘As long as I’m back to being irresistibly handsome.’
‘Who’s dense? You’re never not.’
Charles has learnt the map of Loris’ body by now. His lips and fingers don’t need directives to make him tremble, tense up or mumble in French. He draws an unparalleled sense of power from those reactions – all the more exhilarating that his minutes of control are numbered. There’s no telling when Loris will take charge and render him helpless.
Tonight, Charles is dying to unearth the secrets Loris’ body still holds. Wary that their mutual knowledge might drive him over the edge before he makes it to uncharted territory, he props himself up on his forearms to bring their preliminary caresses to a halt.
Loris brushes Charles’ cheek with his fingertips. ‘Seriously, who sketched you? I demand private lessons.’
Charles crashes their lips together, shaken by too many emotions to find the words to express any.
When their kiss deepens again, he falls on his side. Loris rummages through the drawer of his bedside table and takes out a tube of lube. He squeezes some into Charles’ palm and coats his fingers with an inciting smile.
Charles quivers, his pulse about to break a new record of speed. He presses the back of Loris’ thigh and slides his hand up. Loris groans softly and Charles’ vision goes whiter.
To think he could have gone on without wanting to experience this. He’s so grateful to the chain of events that gave him the chance to meet and trust Loris while it was possible. He’s so relieved he didn’t let it slip through his scared fingers. He’s so loved-up with this man, he would fight whirlwinds with his bare hands for his pleasure.
Loris searches the drawer again and moves back against Charles holding a condom. His eyes are glistening with such impatience and want as he tears off the wrapper, it lights a prick of apprehension in Charland. A flickering one, because Charles is half out of his mind with arousal while Loris puts the condom on him, but it’s here.
In theory he would fight whirlwinds to guarantee Loris’ pleasure, but what is he supposed to do? Is Loris expecting him to improvise? Or to ask and—
Charles lets out a moan that covers several octaves. Loris is rubbing him with lube and with the clear intent to get his full attention back.
‘What are you Ledwelling?’
‘I’m just… I’m a bit worried about… hurting you.’
Loris pulls Charles on top of him, trapping him between his legs. ‘You will, but it won’t, because you should.’
‘That clears it up...’
‘I’ll talk to you, don’t worry.’ Loris raises his knees around Charles’ hips. ‘Also, just in case my point got lost in all the yelling… I’m done falling. I’m face-down, bones-shattered, internally-bleeding in love with you. Dimwit.’
Charles’ heart bursts and blows his concern to smithereens.
He slowly thrusts into Loris, who scars his waist in ten different places as he rides out the pain he’s familiar with.
Charles has been wrong on many occasions lately. He was wrong every time he imagined the evening that would lead them to take their relationship to the next level. He was wrong the day he told himself itwouldn’t be earthshaking – in order to silence the apprehension that sometimes seeped into his fantasies. He was wrong a few weeks ago, when he believed he could never feel as alive as he did while on his knees in theSofiaroom. Charles has been wrong a lot, but he was right to believe he had yet to meet the most devastatingly beautiful version of Loris.
His eyelids fall every time Charles pushes in a bit deeper, only to reveal new shades of blue when he looks at him again. His gleaming lips are enhanced by his panting breath, broken by irrepressible grunts. Beads of sweat highlight the painting that morphs on his face with the twitches and tremors of his body. And his voice has never sounded as ethereal as it does when he reassures Charles, prompts him or begs him to carry on, his head thrown back.
And so Charles carries on, consumed with feelings that seem too huge for this world, already close to collapsing between Loris’ thighs, sensing the stirrings of an unprecedented orgasm in every particle of matter he’s made of.
‘Did you know that your beauty spots here and those above your mouth are aligned the exact same way?’ Charles presses another kiss on Loris’ V-line, then looks up at his amused brow. ‘Why are you mocking me?’
‘I’m not. I love your eye for detail.’
‘Pavel wrote that the point of portraiture is to bring out and share small treasures that the world hasn’t noticed before.’
‘And five pages later, he implied he was too possessive of Matthew’s face to paint it.’
