“You seemed to like painting my skin, Willow.” I bite my lip, shrugging. “Now, you’ll always have a place to color in. As many times as you’d like. Any shade you want. A piece of me to make your own.”
Her eyes flicker between my face and my leg, rapidly blinking away the emotion misting over them. Willow’s chin quivers, head shaking rapidly, as if trying to make sense of the gesture. Trepidation plucks at the strings of my heart like I’m an instrument waiting to see how Willow’s going to play me.
“This is the most beautiful thing anyone has ever done for me. I think . . . the most beautiful thing any person has done for any other person ever,” she whispers, voice breaking. “Weston, I . . .” She inhales swiftly, raising her gaze, pinning it to me as a tear drips over her cheek.
“I know,” I breathe. “Me too.”
I don’t need to make her say the words—I can taste them on her lips. I don’t need to make her tell me how she feels—I can hear them with every soft breath exhaled into my mouth. It’s happened, we’ve fallen. Bared ourselves to each other—skin and soul.
We jumped together, hand in hand—though each of us still holds pieces of our past untold. It’s almost as if we can’t voice the love we’re feeling until we find the courage to voice our darkness too.
Though, when Willow pushes against my chest, laying me down and crawling over me again, I feel blanketed in understanding. Acceptance. When she places a hand behind my head, softening the landing as I fall back against the canvas, and brushes her lips over mine—it feels like being caught.
We jumped, and even tangled in our trauma, this moment is like crash-landing among the clouds together.
Her breasts scrape against my chest, and I’m aching as she grinds down, only the fabric of our underwear separating our flesh. The paint she spilled across the canvas seeps beneath my body. Willow pulls away, sitting up on me—half-lidded eyes radiating with need. The commanding goddess I’m worshipping.
“Can I have you like this?” she asks, a sultry silk to her tone that drips along my skin like heated honey. “Right here?”
“Yes, love,” I hiss as she palms my cock. My hands slide through the paint beneath me as I search for something to grip—coming away in shades of blush and lavender, they land on her hips, smearing prints across her skin as I drown in her touch.
She lifts, pulling my underwear down just enough to free my length before reaching between her legs and pulling her panties aside. Rocking her hips forward, Willow notches me at her entrance, gaze anchoring to mine as she slowly sinks down.
We let out a simultaneous moan at the mind-altering feel of our connection. That familiar sensation of no end and no beginning, only the cord that tethers our souls, humming fierce and glowing bright when we’re joined this way.
Willow collapses over me, and I grasp the back of her head, smearing paint through her blond hair, weaving the strands with an array of color as my other hand slides down her spine. Sheseals her lips to mine, breathing life into my being with her whimper of pleasure as she rolls her hips.
Bracing her hands on either side of my head, she forces us closer, not a breath of space between our bodies as we writhe in color, relying on the other for oxygen, descending into the depths of ecstasy wrapped together.
It’s more than sex. It’s love we’re making. Art we’re creating.
Willow rises, arching her back as her palms drag down my chest, leaving streaks of indigo. I slide mine up her stomach, taking her breasts in each hand and grazing my thumb over each nipple, leaving her painted pink.
She rotates, lifting before dropping down, weaving her body over mine in a stunning display of colorful intimacy, ushering me deeper inside her.
“You feel so good, love,” I rasp. “So beautiful.”
I raise myself into a sitting position, spreading my thighs. Willow begins to fall back, but I catch her ass, holding her steady as her hands clasp behind my neck. I press her into me, flushing our chests together, my hips bracketing hers to set a new pace.
We morph into a mess of entwined limbs and fractured whispers, our rhythm chaotic and wild as our bodies slip and glide through the paint beneath us. When we come, we unravel together—a shared moment that expands beyond comprehension, into something all-consuming and uniquely ours.
Seconds, years, maybe even eons later, Willow and I lie side by side atop her canvas, staring at the ceiling, still searching for our breath.
“Didn’t realize that’s what you meant by art therapy, Wills,” I murmur. “Now that I understand it better, I’d like to book another session as soon as possible.”
She snorts. “You have a terrible habit of making bad jokes after sex.”
“I do that a lot?” I ask, turning my face to hers.
She matches the movement, looking at me with a bemused smile. “Almost every time.”
“Fuck.” I sigh. “That’s embarrassing. Maybe I should talk about it in therapy.”
“God, Wes.” She bursts with laughter, smiling so bright I almost wonder if the sky outside turned from night to day. “You need to shut up.”
I return the laughter, and when we’ve both calmed, I reach for her hand. “I have a session next week, by the way. Penelope helped me find someone, and I’m going to meet with him virtually until I return to Santa Monica next month.”
She squeezes my hand, whispering, “You make me proud, Wes.” Her tender blue eyes melting through me. “You think you’re ready to open up about it all?”
