He glances at me, face like marble that has magically come to life. “Even a God’s face gets boring after a while. It’s so steady. Unchanging. But you,” he says, grabbing my jaw with one hand. “You are so beautifully human.”
I stare back at him, once more embarrassed about my tears. Can anyone blame me for being emotionally dysregulated in the situation I’m in?
“Me?” I wouldn’t go as far as saying I’m unfuckable, but ‘beautiful’? “If it wasn’t for the orange hair, I’d be forgettable. Just like my art. I now see my whole grudge was fucking pointless.” Which is a whole other existential crisis.
Tears roll down my cheek, and despite my efforts, a sob erupts from my chest. The leash drops, but I’m too overcome by grief to think about running away from a man so perfect he might as well deserve to exact his revenge on this petty worm.
“Such nonsense,” Sevastyan rasps, and then we’re moving, my heels blindly hitting the floor as he pushes me back. When my shoulder-blades hit a column, relief evaporates the moment he starts wrapping my torso with a long piece of rope. “You are a fool if you think anyone could forget that tear-stained face.”
I stare at the rope, alarmed, but I’m resigned to my fate. “I am. I thought you were an impostor, a persona constructed to make more money on the art. That you weren’t really this beautiful recluse, but you’re the realdeal.” I sniff, but I can’t stop watery snot from dripping down my face.
He leans closer, pressing our foreheads together as he continues looping me with the rope. His breath is warm and fragrant on my face when he finally ties it, binding me to the column. “Of course I am. And now you get the honor of being my next model.”
I frown, once more looking around the studio filled with paintings and mirrors. “What? Why?”
He meets my gaze, toothy grin in place, and slides his fingers through my hair. Fuck, his touch feels good. It’s been so, so long since I’ve been touched, and now this embodiment of masculine perfection can’t keep his hands off my thin form...
I’m borderline embarrassed about not taking better care of myself before I came here. “Because just thinking about painting you is getting me hard,” he whispers, and when I follow his gaze down, my body heats up at the sight of his plumping cock. “The way you blush, how your lips tremble, how glossy your green eyes are… You’re thrumming with emotion that I want to—” He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. “No, Ineedto put it on canvas. There’s so much detail. From the freckles, to the way you’re now favoring the uninjured leg. I’ve got so much to work with.”
He’s serious. And I have no idea what to do with that. I’ve never been the object of desire. It takes one glance at another self-portrait mocking me from the wall with a raised eyebrow to make my decision. “I don’t want to.” I pull against the rope. “What is this supposed to be? Testing yourself if you can paint something ugly after years of perfection? Because you’re bored?” I hate how even now I accidentally gave him a compliment, but it’s not like I can take it back.
“Ugly?” He chuckles, pulling my head up and diving in for a nip of my unprotected throat. I try to wiggle away, or slither out of the rope, but it’s no use. He’s strapped it tight. “Perfection is boring, but you... you are so beautifully imperfect. I’ve never seen anyone like you. Your nose will look so interesting at varying angles, your freckles come in a whole palette of shades, and your hair... it’s like a cascade of copper.” He bends down, picking up a little box, and when he pops it open I see it’s full of fine white dust.
I hope it’s not drugs, because the last thing my obsessive nature needs is an addiction. I’m still processing what he said as he takes some of the powder into his hands, then rubs it into the roots of my hair.
“We will wash and condition it later, but I don’t want to wait any longer.” He arranges my refreshed waves into strands, one carefully placed across my face. “There. Gorgeous. You will be my Saint Sebastian.”
No one’s ever called me gorgeous.
I chuckle nervously. “Maybe you should put the bolt back in my leg then. Just kidding!” I add quickly when he seems to ponder that.
“Maybe not today,” he says eventually, and when his hands pinch both my nipples I freeze in confusion. But then he’s twisting them, making me squirm as my eyes water.
How am I supposed to cope with this rollercoaster of emotions?
“There. You’re so damn hot when you cry... give me more. I want you to look how you did after I came in your mouth—spacing out despite the discomfort.”
I meet his eyes, and this time the tension between us is like an electric current I can’t turn off. As if the paint fumes in the room have become denser and got me high.
"I really excite you? I thought I just happened to be a convenient outlet…"
He slides to one knee and gives my cock a long lick that charges every nerve in my body. But then he’s up, ready to taunt me again. “Well, it is certainlyvery convenientthat someone as fascinating as you decided to break into my home. I won’t waste such potential. Now be a good boy for me andsuffer. Remember, you’re a martyr now.”
It’s very hard to ‘suffer’ when I want to smile. He even likes my dick? Him calling me a ‘good boy’ might have unlocked a new kink, because I’m getting hot and bothered again.
But I know how to suffer. I’ve done it half my life. So I drift off to the dark recesses of my mind as he gathers his materials, looking back at me again and again.
Once he sits down, I find my voice. “For the record, I think you’re hot too.” Fuck. My lack of experience really is showing.
Sevastyan smirks. “I know.”
I shut up, because this moment feels fragile, and when I see this gorgeous man set up a canvas on an easel, being his muse becomes all that matters. He might get bored of my averageness by tomorrow, but for now, I am the center of his attention. He’s so focused. So very in the moment despite his cock clearly showing interest in diving back between my lips, but I now see he is an artist at heart, and no temptation could possibly rip him away from the surge of inspiration.
He uses charcoal first, then grabs a large ceramic palette and proceeds to paint in wild, rapid strokes, eyes wandering from me to the canvas and back. He comes over to twist my nipples again, to pinch my skin and squeeze my balls, but I don’t protest and let my tears flow for him, frozen in the abandon of beautiful suffering.
It becomes a meditative experience. Watching him watch me watching him.
Some of his hair is out of place, and he has a healthy flush I’ve never seen in his portraits. He’s the Sevastyan I know in painful detail, while also being someone new altogether. And I’m the only one who gets to discover that. For the first time, I see his face express emotion. He frowns, sticks his tongue out to his top lip, and sometimes his nostrils flare when he lets out a sigh of frustration with whatever isn’t going right on his canvas.
