I don’t have the experience to navigate this, and the kiss he then presses to my cheek is so gentle it leaves me voiceless.
“Ohhhh, that was so inspiring,” he says and moves his chair so it’s facing mine as he sits, spent and, judging by the speed with which he reaches for his own oatmeal, also hungry. “You really are a good boy, Victor.”
He… likes me?
“S-so you’re not mad about the break-in?” I ask, shifting in the chair and still unsure what to do with my raging erection. Just because it’s much shorted than his doesn’t mean my need is any less urgent.
He looks at me with his mouth full and speaks only once he swallows. “Mad? No, I deal with much worsecases of breaking and entering at least once a month,” he says, and my skin lights up when he rests one foot on the edge of my seat, inches away from my painfully hard dick.
Chapter 5
Sevastyan
Victorglancesdownatmy foot, still a flushed mess. “So… you’ll let me go? ‘Cause you have… blackmail material?”
It takes my oversexed mind several seconds to realize what he means, and when it happens I just shake my head. Can he not see himself in the mirror? Skin scattered with freckles like pigment sprayed over canvas. Long hair that’s fine as silk, even if frizzy. Eyes shining with utter abandon, and wet, swollen lips. He’s like the male Lizzie Siddal, and he will be my muse.
He’d make the perfect allegory of lust, and oh, I can’t remember when I was last this inspired! “Do you mean the pictures I took of you? I would never show them to anyone. They’re mine,” I say curtly and move my bare foot farther between his spread thighs, toward the pulsing heat of his cock and balls.
He acts all nervous, stutters a lot, but I’ve seen his notebook. He’s a kinky little freak.
He got hard from my taunts.
He isstillhard, and I won’t be discussing anything as silly asletting him go. This beautiful gay man, who is also a talented artist who likes being face-fucked is exactlywhat I need to light up my lone existence. I’ve been on my own for far too long. I can see that by how voracious he makes me.
“Oh,” Victor chokes out, staring at my foot.
Does he have any idea how adorable I find him? And his eyes, like a green mirror where I see myself in the most embellished detail. He literally told me part of his silly plan to break in was because he couldn’t believe anyone could lookthatgood. This whole lost exhibition business might be a thorn in his side, but he’ll get over it once he gorges on me.
Still, he was pretty naughty last night, when he pointed a gun at me.
“Why do you sketch with a green pencil? Why not sepia or graphite?” I ask and reach into a box where I left his phone last night, after unsuccessfully attempting to log in.
He stares up at me, then at my foot, then back up again. Oh, he is so deliciously flustered. I can’t wait to keep him that way every day.
“I… um… It gives pictures this sickly sheen. I like that. But it’s also not black, so doesn’t dull things down.”
“What’s the goal in making the picture look sickly?” I ask and switch on his phone, touching his rigid cock with the very tip of my toe. Even that makes him twitch with need.
I smirk when he shifts a bit closer in the chair to press it against my sole. I’ve not been this entertained in a long time.
He groans and rolls his head from side to side, all that luscious orange hair flowing over his shoulders. “Oh God. Why does it matter to you?”
“I’m a fellow artist. Indulge me,” I tell him, tempted to lean in and lap sweat off his beautiful throat. “Also, give me your phone’s PIN number.”
“What for?” Victor rolls his eyes. It seems he’s regaining his confidence. Maybe he needs a bit of a reminder that he’s a prisoner and will only live as long as I allow.
I move my foot back, until only my toes touch the edge of his seat. “Tell me.”
The indignant shock on his flushed face makes me snort. He’s so damn expressive.
“You know my hands are tied at the front, right? I could jerk off,” he says as though it’s supposed to be a threat. Also, does he assume I’d let him?
“Not if you want to keep them.” An empty threat, but he doesn’t need to know that. “PIN number.”
I’m loving the way he stills, attitude draining from his face. “Five-nine-seven-seven,” he grumbles, watching my foot as if it’s the only thing that can bring him solace.
Because it is, and I reward him by bringing it right where he wants it. Tension and relief battle on his angular features while I finally open his portfolio, looking for a folder that could tell me more about his inner world. And there it is, filled with hundreds of images.
