I’d painted her eyes a thousand times, and tonight, I would paint them at least once more. Amber, honey, butterscotch, and dijon…a dozen shades of yellow and gold.
I wanted to paint them in flickering candlelight, like precious jewels glittering in darkness. I wanted to paint her body stretched out and sated after hours of love-making…alabaster, ecru, ivory, and blush.
I looked around the studio we shared with a half dozen other artists, blessedly empty in the hours before midnight. My colleagues were fond of the sun’s potent light, while I preferred the echoes of my own dreams heard loudest at night.
She preferred painting flowers and landscapes, and I focused my whole fucking life on nothing but her. I couldn’t stop drawing her. I couldn’t stop shaping her in clay. My sketchbooks were covered in charcoal curves and pastel lips. When canvases were scarce, I used ink on my skin. Even the margins of my notepads at my day job were filled with graphite curls of wild, flowing hair.
Day after day, I painted and sketched every inch of her, from those dark, spiraling curls to her long, pretty feet. Whatever I hadn’t seen in between, I crafted from the myriad daydreams floating around my mind.
The only part of her I never painted was on her left hand. The golden ring she wore didn’t exist in any world I created, nor did the pale strip of skin that lingered there whenever she took it off.
I started with long strokes, nearly the length of the canvas. My brushes knew the dip of her waist and the swell of her breasts. They knew the round curve of her soft, plump arse. They’d painted her so many times, they hardly needed my hands to direct them.
It was never easier to lose myself in a piece than when she was the subject. Hours passed before I came up for air. I’d painted her hands and arms, her feet and legs, her face and hair. All that was left was what she kept hidden beneath blue cotton dresses and blouses of silk.
She always wore blue, but I painted her with backdrops of yellow. It was the sunlight in her eyes that captured my heart.
I took a moment to step away to go take a piss. When I was done, I splashed cold water on my face, knowing it sharpened my senses and kept me grounded. It was so easy to get swept away in the grief that she was not mine.
As I walked back to my small corner of the large room, I stretched myself out, popping stiff joints and loosening my spine. My whole body started coming alive at the thought of the parts of her I was about to paint next.
“Jamie?” Her voice stopped me mid stride. “Did you leave this here for me?”
She was there in the flesh, standing at her desk and holding a single sunflower in a small vase meant for one bloom. Yes, I had left it there for her, though she was never meant to know it was from me. I knew how much she loved sunflowers. I had picked it up from a street vendor on my way to the studio. It reminded me of her, and I couldn’t resist.
“What are ye doing here? Ye never come at night.” It was a non-answer. I was buying time to form a coherent thought.
Her own thoughts seemed to have left her mind when her eyes found the canvas behind me.
Fuck. Fuck me. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!
All of my insides screamed, but none of my body could move. I was frozen still, unable to stop her when she stepped forward to get a better look. I couldn’t reach out to grab the canvas and toss it to the other side of the room. I just stood there like a fool and watched as my whole world came crashing down, burying me alive and squeezing the air from my lungs.
She traced over the line of her painted cheek, careful not to get any on her fingertips. A part of me worried she might think my talent unworthy, regardless of how obsessed and insane she thought me otherwise.
I couldn’t help but notice she was wearing blue again. It stood out bright against her dark hair. I wanted to see her in a dress of yellow instead.
“You did this?” she asked, her voice hardly above a whisper. “This is what you’ve been working on tonight?”
I didn’t answer. She already knew.
She turned to look at me, eyes wide with wonder, sunflower in hand. Then suddenly, she laughed. “I think you might’ve been a bit too generous here and there, but it’s not a bad likeness.”
“Too generous?” She wasn’t angry?
“Perhaps it’s because you’re not finished. You missed the bags under my eyes and my burgeoning crow’s feet.”
I snorted, seeing nothing of the sort on her perfect, delicate face. There were maybe a few laugh lines near her eyes, but I’d captured them well enough.
“You’re very talented,” she offered, looking back at the unfinished painting. “I haven’t seen any of your work in ages.”
I wanted to tell her everything I’d been working on was personal, but I could hardly say that when she was the subject.
“And I’d say you’ve made my complexion a little too pink. What do you think?”
She lifted her chin so I could see her all the more clearly. I inspected her thoroughly and compared her skin to that in my painting. “No. I dinna think I made ye too pink. This,” I gestured to the piece, “is meant to be after a bit of…exertion.”
“Oh!” She blushed to match the painting, then looked at it with a fresh pair of eyes. “Oh my.”
She faced me again, smiling mischievously. “How…um…How did you plan on finishing this?”
“What d’ye mean?”
“It appears to be a full body nude, does it not?”
“Do you need a model?”
“Yes. A model.”
I searched her face to confirm her meaning. “Are ye asking if I want ye to strip down and…and…”
“Model for your painting? Yes, I am.”
“I…” I had no fucking words. Not in a million years would I think she’d offer such a thing. Not in a million years did I ever think she'd stumble upon what I’d been painting religiously since the moment I met her. I’d been careful to remove every bit of my finished work from the studio.
She sucked in a deep breath and nodded toward an old, battered couch near the front of the building that had far too many miles on it to touch Claire’s perfect skin.
“Ye want me to bring that here for ye to…”
“Mmhm,” she nodded, grinning. “Only if you want. I could leave you be with your imagination, if you’d prefer.”
“No! No, I’ll just…” I turned quickly to retrieve the unworthy bit of furniture.
“Bolt the door…will you?”
“Aye,” I breathed. I not only bolted the door, but I put the fucking chain on it too.
I pushed the couch quickly over to my workspace, just on the other side of my easel. I looked around for a tarp or blanket or something to cover the filthy couch, so she wouldn’t have to touch it to her skin. I found nothing, so I took my long, black coat and laid it down. It was sure to be large enough to protect her body.
I backed up, sat down on my chair, and waited, not sure what the bloody hell to expect.
She was a bold wee thing, eyes never leaving mine, mouth quirked seductively. She lifted her blue dress up over her head and tossed it aside. Her undergarments were black, and I thought that just wouldn’t do. Blessedly, she reached behind without hesitation and unsnapped her bra, letting it slide down her arms to the floor.
My eyes took in every bit of skin they’d been denied for so long, every shape, every color.
“Well,” she said, smiling and batting her lashes, “are they like you thought they’d be?”
“No,” my words spilled out before I had a handle on them. “They’re rounder. Fuller. And yer nipples are larger.”
“Is that a good thing?”
I huffed a laugh…as if anything my pathetic mind could come up with would compare. “Ye’re lovely, Claire.”
Her smile warmed, and she slipped her fingers down the sides of her panties and shimmied them over her wide hips.
“Lovely,” I repeated in a shaky exhale.
She had a little triangle of hair just above her pussy, like a little martini glass luring me in. It took every ounce of self-control I had to keep my arse in place.
All she wore were her little heels, and she stood there with a hand on her hip, watching me take in the sight of her. It was too much all at once, and I didn’t know where the fuck to look first.
My balls ached like mad, and my cock strained against my jeans. I might’ve been embarrassed by it, but she’d already found out my infatuation—though blessedly not to the obsessive degree—and her response was to strip down naked right in front of me.
She turned around to step to the couch, giving me my first glimpse of her delicious, fat arse. It bounced pleasantly with each step she took, and it was obscured far too quickly by her turning to sit on my coat.
“So,” she said, “are you going to come position me?”
“Mmphm.” I stood slowly, taking my time to walk over to just fucking stare at her.
I took her by the arms and laid her down, her eyes looking up at me through her lashes the whole time. Her skin was soft and cool to the touch, reminding me my whole body was aflame.
She stretched her legs out to the other end and waited for further instruction. I placed one of her arms over her head, and the other on her belly, just beneath her breasts, still holding the sunflower. They lay perfectly atop her chest, nipples the size of cherries, staring me in his eyes like they were begging to be sucked.
“Are they in the proper position?” she asked, suddenly very breathy.
“Are you sure?”
I finally realized she was toying with me, though she thought I knew all along. Maybe if I wasn’t madly in love with her, I would have realized she was offering herself to me the moment she didn’t run screaming from the studio. My enamored brain seemed to hold doubts that she wanted me back and was modeling only for the sake of art.
The lust in her eyes was all too apparent now, as was the way she squeezed her legs together to soothe a throbbing ache. Her deep inhales lifted her chest, bringing her pretty, full tits closer to my face, and her slow exhales carried the faintest hint of a whimper.
My hands slid up her sides and grabbed handfuls of the swells of her breasts. She moaned and leaned into my grip, encouraging me to squeeze again, and this time fucking harder.
“Have you tried painting them before, Jamie? Or is this your first time?”
“I’ve painted them a hundred different ways, and none of them were half so bonnie.” I pinched her nipples to steal her breath, and the squeak she let out shot straight down my cock.
“Aye, that’s the color I want yer skin, lass. Nice and flush. Now let’s see if we can give it a shine.”
My hands dipped down to her little waist, then back out again at her hips. She watched me, unmoving, flesh as pliant as a fresh lump of clay. I massaged the soft bits just below her navel that were begging for a kiss.
“I would ha’ never kent the beauty of this bit here if ye didna come to me tonight.”
“Do you really think this is the only time I imagined taking my clothes off for you? That I wouldn’t have found another way, another time, if you hadn’t been here?”
“Ye came tonight for me?”
She lifted her hips and looked down at her pussy. “I come every night for you.”
“Do ye now?” I said, deep and low. “And what does yer husband think of that?”
“What bloody husband?”
I looked to her left hand and realized the ring was gone…and so was the pale tan line that went with it. “Ye left him?”
“Because I couldn’t stand it when he touched me.”
“Because he wasn’t you.”
She’d left her fucking husband for me—well, if not for me, then for whatever it was the thought of me inspired in her. Perhaps my obsessiveness wasn’t so bloody mad after all.
“Spread yer legs, woman,” I commanded, sliding back to watch them fall open. I removed her high heels, then placed one foot on the floor and the other on the top of the couch. Her scent hit my nose immediately, and the only thing stopping me from diving in was the agony I intended to put her through for all the bloody months of wanting she forced me to endure.
I bent forward, hands on her thighs, and breathed her in, letting my hot breath tickle her clit on the way out. “I can taste ye in the air. Ye’ve got some nerve smelling so bonnie, taunting a man a hair’s breadth from losing his mind over ye already.”
“I’m not teasing or taunting. I left my fucking husband for you, for God’s sake.”
I traced my fingers over the soft skin of her thighs to the little patch of hair on her cunt. I played with it lightly, down to where it disappeared between her lips. “When?”
“When did ye leave him?”
“Why did’ye no’ tell me?”
“Because you’ve been avoiding me. I thought you didn’t like me…not until I saw...” her voice trailed off, but her eyes darted to the painting.
“I wasna avoiding ye. Ye were always here.” I stood and retrieved my canister of paintbrushes, bringing them to where she lay. “Ye’re every-fucking-where. I’ve been drowning in ye since the moment I laid eyes on ye.”
There were pink marks on her skin where my hands had been rough. I committed them to memory, knowing I’d paint them as soon as we were done.
I selected a liner brush and wet the long slim head over my tongue. “How many times I’ve painted this wee curve here,” I traced the soft, moist bristles around the edge of her nose. “I would know every little shape of you in my sleep.”
“Every shape?” Her eyes dropped down to the parts of her body more unfamiliar to me.
“What I don’t know. I’ll learn.”
I slid the paintbrush across the delicate lines of her face, pleased to see I had captured each and every one. She bit her bottom lip, and I brushed over that too. Her tongue slipped out and licked the filaments, still moist from my own mouth.
She watched me, golden eyes captivated by whatever she saw in my reaction. Perhaps she glimpsed the madness within.
I traded the precise liner for a fan brush to tease the skin down her neck. The bristles bounced a little when she swallowed at my touch. “Ye’ve got a gorgeous neck. So long and unmarked.” I smirked to let her know it wouldn’t remain so for long.
She breathed deep, and the brush rose up on her chest, then back down with a shuddering exhale. Gooseflesh followed its line, tightening her skin up nicely. She whimpered as I teased her nipple, flicking the soft bristles over the rising tips.
“Jamie…” she moaned, lifting her chest up for something more. The sound vibrated through my bones. How many nights alone had I called her name in just the same way, agonizing that she’d never want me like I wanted her?
“I left my fucking husband for you, for God’s sake,” she’d said.
“I’ve thought so often of the first time we met,” I whispered, moving the brush slowly down her navel. “Ye were covered nearly all in yellow.”
“I was painting a sunflower.”
“And I bumped into you, getting paint on your shirt.”
“Ye were stunning.”
She shivered as the brush moved low over her abdomen.
“Yer eyes are like starlight, and I’ve craved seeing them shine in a sea of their own color ever since…yet ye always wear blue. Ye paint wi’ it too.”
“Forget-me-nots, hyacinth, hydrangeas, and bluebells. Always under a pale blue sky or near a sapphire sea.”
She moved, finally, and traced a finger beneath my lower lashes, my body quivering at the gentle touch. “They’re a thousand shades of the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen.”
I felt like I was struck in the wame, all the air stolen from me with a soft look and tender words that reflected the all-consuming, maniacal obsession that comprised my entire existence since the first fucking day we met.
“Ye’re nearly as mad as I am.”
“You think you come close?”
“I ken I do.” I tossed the fan brush aside and grabbed her by the thighs, pulling her up on my legs. I took a large, thick filbert brush, slightly rounded at the tip, and brought it down to her sweet, wet pussy, dipping it inside.
She moaned my name and gripped the fabric of my coat she lay on, sunflower falling forgotten on the floor. I painted her inner lips with her arousal, holding her squirming hips still while I learned the blessed shape of her. Her clit very much liked the way my paintbrush teased it back and forth from base to tip.
“I thought for months of how yer pussy would look, my Sassenach. Whether the lips would stick out a bit or be tucked inside. Whether your clit would be showing or hidden away. I thought of licking it so often, wi’ yer thighs squeezing my head while ye came on my face. I thought of fucking it so bloody hard and learning how it felt when it milked my cock for every drop of cum my balls could make.”
I flipped the paintbrush over and slid the handle in her cunt, teasing her with the slick, unforgiving wood. The scent of her hung thick in the air, and I was beginning to lose my patience.
“Ye’ve never misused yer tools before?”
“The bloody thought never crossed my mind.”
“Then I suppose ye’ll never have thought of this then.” I slid the handle out and brought it back to her arsehole—tight, puckered, and so goddamn bonnie. I watched her eyes as I pushed it in slowly. They rolled back, and a deep, low groan sounded from her chest.
Suffering from her own impatience, she reached down and shoved her fingers in her cunt with one hand and played with her clit with the other.
“Ye’re a filthy, wicked wench, aren’t ye?” I laughed darkly, pushing the handle in deeper. “I kent ye would be.”
“If you only knew, James Fraser.”
“Oh?” I slipped a finger in her pussy, wanting to feel her clamp down when she came. She didn’t stop fingering herself either, and she kept her gaze locked on mine as conditions in her cunt became all the more crowded.
“Do you know how many times I’ve come in this room, thinking of you?”
A smirk stole over my mouth, thinking of her doing just that any chance she got. “Was it here? On this couch.”
“A few times. But what I love most is humping your chair, imagining you in it, hoping you’ll smell me there the next day.”
“Fucking Christ.” I pulled out the handle and tossed the damn thing aside. In one quick motion—efficiency the work of a desperately horny man—my pants were down and my cock was stuffed her cunt.
“Bloody hell! Oh God!” she yelled, face screwed up in a pleasure-pain expression that made my dick throb.
I unleashed on her. Months of anger at that fucking ugly gold ring drove my hips to pound down with all my might. I wanted her to ache as I did, to feel me lingering in her body days after even the slightest touch—though I would not be so slight about anything.
Her hips rose to meet mine, as though the thrashing I was giving her still wasn’t enough. “Kiss me, you fucking brute,” she demanded.
I had thought of kissing her so many times, so bloody often…of tenderly holding her face and pressing our lips together, tongues meeting sweetly, gently, the way one should when they loved another so dearly. But I couldn’t fucking do it. My mouth was hard on hers, teeth clattering, trying to suck her up inside me as I battered her hot, needy cunt. She tasted of vodka and espresso, and I wondered if she drank for the courage to get fucked.
I had to be crushing her. My chest had her pinned down. One hand gripped her wrists above her head, and the other groped her arse, squeezing so hard, she’d not be left unbruised for long.
How was it that an hour ago, I was a hopeless, pathetic prick, all joy stripped from my life save the brief glimpses of a pair of golden eyes, and now, my balls were slapping against her arse, and she was moaning my name with every other breath.
“More!” she mumbled against my mouth. “Fucking harder, you bastard!”
If more was what she wanted, more was what she’d get.
I rose up and flipped her over, lifting her arse in the air. I gripped her hair with one hand, pinning her head to the couch, and I gripped the fat of her hip with the other. I fucked the breath from her lungs, her screams broken and ragged, cut off all too soon by more breathless shrieks.
She fingered her clit until she came, my name whispered on her lips over and over. I fucked her through orgasm, her cunt so damn tight it was trying to kick me out.
I sped my hips, ready to blow my load, until she stopped me with five of the most glorious words I’d ever heard in my life. “Come in my fucking mouth.”
“Oh God.” I pulled out and released her, letting her flip over quickly and sit up. Her mouth hung open, and her tongue stuck out, eagerly waiting. I grabbed her hair and jerked off hard. My gut squeezed tight, and I spilled on her tongue. A second stream hit the back of her throat, making her choke and sputter to swallow down. The last little bit dripped on her cheek, viscous and messy on her hot, flushed skin.
I kissed her again, the taste of espresso gone, replaced with cum, sweat, and exquisite delirium.
“I knew you’d taste bloody marvelous,” she said, smiling into my kiss.
It was my turn to learn her flavor.
Her body was hot and sweaty when I lifted her up and brought her to my desk. I sat her there and pulled up a seat—the one she had an affinity to ride. I spread her legs open, resting her feet on the arms of the chair, then buried my face in her pretty little cunt.
I licked her to climax more times than either of us could later recall. By the time I was done, she was limp, exhausted, and flush from head to toe—exactly how I wanted her.
I laid her on the couch and positioned her just so to finish my painting, stopping only two more times before dawn to fuck the consciousness out of her anytime she showed signs of life…and I looked forward to doing it again the next day.
When the sunlight streamed through the windows and we risked losing our privacy, I woke her up. The sweetest, most satisfied smile spread wide across her face before her eyes even opened.
“Did you finish?” she asked, yawning preciously.
Her eyes danced with humor, and my spirit soared at her smile.
“Look.” I turned my easel for her to see the finished product.
“Oh, Jamie!” She sat up and leaned in, eyes lit with wonder. “It’s beautiful. And I love the blue you added all around.”
“Aye, lass.” I’d softened to the color since she revealed herself to me.
She turned and kissed me tenderly, in a way we hadn’t done in the fury of the night.
“Ye ken, I thought if ye ever saw how mad I was for ye, that ye’d hate me forever.”
A part of me still worried what she’d think when she discovered the true depth of my obsession. When she saw all the paintings in my house and the sketches on every surface of nearly all I owned.
After we dressed and cleaned up, we stopped by her desk on the way out to pick up her things. As she packed her stuff away, I flipped open a sketchbook lying on her desk and was shocked by what I found.
Sketch after sketch, page after page, of me. Blue eyes, red hair, long limbs.
When she noticed what I was doing, she pulled the book away and blushed a bright shade of red. “I don’t think I’m ready for you to catch a glimpse of my madness. Not quite yet.”
I kissed her softly, lingering, reassuring, no longer quite so fearful. “Come,” I said. “I’m craving a bloody espresso.”