We were lying on his bed—crumpled sheets caressed out post-heated skins. Our parts were intertwined, trying to savor the best of the very moment. It was after midnight. Sleep still had not struck our nerves. We were too awake for a lonely night.
I circled my forefinger against his chest. Slow thrumming of beating met the veins of my finger. I felt it; I knew it. But I wished it would go away, again.
I held my forthcoming tears, not wanting to ruin the beautifully broken evening. I remove the covers. I felt him stiffen. I turned to him and said, “Paint me.”
He breathed painting—even since I met him, three years ago. Only a few months before his wedding, I did not want to tell him how I had come to breathe him into my lungs, but I wanted him to feel it.
I walked toward the center of the room. The pale illumination of the moon was embracing my chaffed skin—garnered from the physical abuse of my previous relationship. I stood before him, bare and half-filled, as I encouraged him to do what I wanted.
He bit his lower lip before he growled—the sound was enough to send me on the edge of ecstasy. He prepared his materials and, when he finished, he whispered my name—as if it was a burden. “Karina…”
“Don’t.” He looked at me—his eyes were pained—and I just let my tears flow to my body, this time. “Paint me before you leave.”
WORD COUNT: 255
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