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Days and nights I spent working on you felt irrelevant. The only consistent thought in my mind was you.
You.
I find it unnerving that you haven't come to check up on me, you haven't even exchanged a word with me, you haven't come to bother me. I think it is because you know. You know that it breaks my concentration and I think that you want your portrait completed because you want to know how I see you.
You'll know.
It is ready, I tell my self as I step back to assess it. I surprise myself by not picking up my brush again because I've been doing that for a really long time.
Excitement bubbles in my chest as I move out of my room to call you.
I find you sitting on the couch, reading a book. My noisy footfalls alert you and you raise your head in my direction. You unfurl your legs and place the book on the coffee table to your left. "Is it done?" You ask.
A nod is all I can manage.
You get to your feet and I see a hint of hesitation in your eyes but you get over it, making me wonder if I had imagined it.
I guide you into my room.
I don't dare to step in front of the portrait. What you see in front of you is the replica of how I see you. Your lips part to make way for a gasp. You quiver as you stare at the painting. I can only hope that you are amazed.
I can only hope I have done justice to my muse.
It is a painting of you laying down. I replaced the dull sheets with roses red. You hold a blue rose in your hand. It is you. The way I see you. Unattainable. Naked to the world, lying on the bed of red roses of my passion, my frenzy, you are that, impossible. As bare as your eyes are, you are still an enigma, a beautiful one, albeit.
And I want every inch of it.
You look at me, suddenly and I see smouldering lust oozing from your eyes. It's like I'm walking on fire. You make me want to melt. Confidently, you stalk closer to me and attack my lips-like the wind, caress it with your tongue with an intensity that makes me want to crumble before you.
I was so wrong.
I can't rip you apart.
I am not strong enough.
Only you have the power to do that.
You were winning all along.
Breathing seemed unimportant and I can't move away. My chest tightens because of the lack of air but I don't want us to part. You kiss me gently then and it kills me inside. It is unfair, like water dripping slowly to a mouth that has travelled a desert.
Kiss me harder, I think.
I beg.
One short breath and we find ourselves staring at each other with rivalling intensity. Our chests rise and fall together as we catch our breaths.
It is my turn to surprise you.
I lunge at your lips like I had dreamed a thousand times. Those luscious, full lips under my command. I bite your lips so hard that I can feel the taste the metallic taste of your blood in my mouth but it doesn't matter. You flinch at the pain and try to move away but I wrap my hands around you and force you closer. You calm down as I lick it over and over again with my tongue. I like the taste of your wounded lips, the delicate pink that I've always wanted to be crusted with blood.
You reciprocate fiercely.
And we're both fighting for control. My hands fist your shirt while your hands are locked behind my back.
Suffocated, and out of breath, black spots dance in front of my eyes. I am not bothered because if I leave your lips, I feel like I might really die.
In the midst of the blazing desire, I unbutton your shirt and I feel your naked torso under my palms. It is blissful, to say the least, even better than I thought. Cool and smooth under my hands, I let it wander like I always have.
You tear away, leaving me hanging. I stare at you disappointed as a cold look rises in your eyes. You lick your lips, quivering you manage, "I don't want any clothes on you."
Before I can react, with your bare hands you rip my shirt. I can only tremble as you hands reach for the hem of my jeans. You plant a kiss under my ear and lick it before you whisper, "Do I have to take it off for you?" You didn't move as I unbuttoned my jeans and slid it off, leaving me only in my underwear.
I feel the heat radiate from your skin and believe that if you stay in my bed, I will never need a heater again.
A small voice behind my head, screams to back off and run away instead but it is short-lived because you chuckle, near my ear, and whisper, "I won't touch you till you are completely bare."
You know my weakness.
You.
If you don't touch me, I feel like I would die. So I threw my underwear away and left myself to you.
I am yours, my demeanour says.
You strip off your clothes too, again, there was no underwear under your jeans and yet again, I find myself fumbling for words where they weren't needed at all.
Your touch was gentle and slow. When I manage to ask you why, you grin and you say, "A piece of art must be savoured slow."
