Picasso's Promise

Episode 26| Right

⚠️ mature content ⚠️

Yawning with half shut eyes, I woke up with sweat tricking down my neck and sticking my hair to my skin. I felt unbelievably hot, and until I looked down, I didn't know why. Scoffing, I raised my chest, but felt a weight holding me in my place like an iron brick.

That was when I looked, slowly putting the pieces together with a sleepy mind as to why there was someone else sharing a bed with me. Picasso's head was nestled on my chest, snoring softly and lightly blowing my hair up with each breath. He was so peaceful that it felt wrong to shake him off my body, worried that it would ruin his sleep.

Bringing my hand to the back of his head, I stroked my fingers against his scalp back and forth. This was a first for me, staying the night at a boy's house. And another first-staying around long enough that I fell asleep, letting them fall asleep beside me. I would've gone for the door after our time together or asked the guy to leave, pushing their clothes on to their lap and tapping my finger to my wrist, at a watch that wasn't there. Cuddling seemed overrated in the past, but with Picasso, I was hooked on his touch and affection, curling up next to him with no interest of letting him go.

Brushing my lips to his temple, I thought about how I could get use to this; anticipating every morning for the sun to kiss his beautiful brown skin just so I could do the same.

I stared down at him a moment longer, making sure that his beauty wasn't entirely made up by lust. As I suspected, he appeared better than before without the hysteria of hormones not clouding my consciousness.

I wasn't corrupted with the impulse of pulling at his shirt, getting him naked before me, but rather appreciating the sharp curves of his face and admiring the plumpness of his full lips that made it hard not to kiss him awake.

As time passed, the light shining into his room became blinding, making me hit my face with my hand to block out the sun. I groaned, gently trying to shift into the opposite direction and get out of his reach but with little to no real success. He let out a grumble, waking up to the movement of my body underneath him.

Picasso arched a brow, hardly looking at me with one slightly opened eye. "What time is it? How long have you been up?"

"I just woke up," I lied, not wanting to give away how long I'd been staring at him in his sleep. "I think it's a little after nine."

He slipped a kiss across my collarbone, moving alarmingly low and building anticipating with each peck. "Your skin's so soft," he muttered over my exposed flesh above my neckline, dragging his hand into my shirt to my back and creating a path with his fingertips down to my hip-going even further into my waistband.

"It's too early for that." I knocked off his hand.

"Who made that rule?" he kissed my neck. "Morning sex exists."

I muffled a chuckle. "You've gotta be tired. We were up late last night."

He pressed his body into me more, informing me with the hardness of his member that he had energy to go at it again. "I'm hard for you at any hour."

"That's morning wood," I said, "You're not turned on by me. Fraud."

He popped his mouth open, faking a look of shock. Before I got a chance to laugh at him, he snaked his hand into the front of pajamas and went deep into my underwear, rubbing me fast. My eyes slammed shut, balling the fabric of his T-shirt with my fists as the pressure intensified. "Shit, why didn't you say you were soaking wet?" he lulled, nibbling on my earlobe and sucking it between his teeth softly. "When that happen? You woke up from a wet dream? It had better been about me."