Michael’s POV
The light in the studio had dimmed. It wasn’t bright anymore, just faint, and I felt the tension in the room as I kept painting.
We’d been at it for hours. I’d painted, paused, studied, and painted again. He’d hardly spoken, but he didn’t need to. Every small movement, every breath, told me enough.
“Still,” I said softly, my brush hovering near the canvas.
He gave the smallest nod. “You’ve been saying that for three hours.”
“Because you keep moving.”
“Or because you keep looking,” he countered.
That made me stop. The corner of his mouth lifted, just slightly. He wasn’t mocking me, but there was a subtle challenge in the way he said it. The first hint that he’d found some footing again.
I returned to my strokes, slower now. “Observation isn’t the same as staring.”
“It feels like it,” he said. “You look at people like you’re taking them apart.”
“Maybe I am.”
“Then who puts them back together?”
I didn’t answer. He’d caught me off guard, and I hated that. My hand trembled just enough that the brush left a faint streak where it shouldn’t have.
He noticed. Of course he did.
“Your hand’s shaking,” he said quietly.
“It’s the light,” I lied.
He didn’t believe me. He tilted his head, eyes narrowing. “No. You’re losing your calm.”
The way he said it wasn’t cruel, it was careful, curious. He wanted to see what would happen if the roles were reversed.
“Do you want to take over?” I asked.
“No,” he said, smiling faintly. “I just want to see how far you’ll let this go.”
He seemed to be getting the hang of all of these and I hated it, so I turned back to the painting, forcing myself to focus. But every time I looked up, he was already watching me.
So I stepped closer, needing to reassert my control. “Tilt your head,” I said.
But he didn’t move. Instead, he said, “You sound nervous, Michael.”
I exhaled through my nose. “You think too much.”
“And you feel too much,” he said softly.
That stopped me. It caught me completely unaware. My pulse stuttered in my throat. I didn’t know if he meant the painting or what was happening beneath it.
The brush in my hand felt heavier. So I set it down.
“Stand,” I said quietly.
He hesitated, then rose from the stool. I got up too and went to him; we were close now… too close. The lamp behind him threw half his face into shadow, half into light. The color of his eyes shifted in that space, unreadable.
“This is the part,” I murmured, “where people usually step back.”
“I’m not most people.”
His voice was steady, but I heard the faint catch at the end. The same kind of control I’d seen in myself a hundred times, fragile, and ready to break.
I took a slow step forward. He didn’t move.
“This isn’t about power,” I said.
“Then what is it about?”
I didn’t know how to answer.
He looked down at the half-finished painting. “That’s not me,” he said.
“Not yet,” I replied.
He looked back up. “Then show me.”
My breath caught. The room was silent except for the faint hum of the light above us. I could feel the distance closing again, inch by inch.
I raised a hand, meaning to adjust the collar of his shirt, but my fingers brushed the side of his neck instead. His skin was warm, his pulse quick under my touch.
He didn’t pull away.
“Michael,” he said quietly, my name half a question, half a warning.
Everything in me wanted to step back, to remind him, remind myself, what this was supposed to be. But I didn’t move. The world outside the studio didn’t exist anymore. There was just the space between us, filled with breath, heat, and the sound of our hearts trying not to be heard.
He looked at me, really looked, and the silence that followed said more than anything else could.
The brush slipped from the table and rolled to the floor, a soft, hollow sound. Neither of us bent to pick it up.
“You know what?” I said, tired of all the pretending I had been doing all day. “I have been beating around the bush all day.”
He looked a little bit confused but he did not say anything.
“I cannot paint you the way you are,”
“What do you mean by that?” He said, “I thought you started already,”
I circle him slowly, letting my gaze linger on the bulge of his thighs under those fitted pants. 'To paint you, you must surrender completely. Strip for me. Now.'
His eyes widen, but there's a bit of curiosity in them. He hesitates, but then unbuttons his shirt, revealing a chest with dark hair. I step closer, my fingers brushing his belt.
“All of it,” I command softly, my submissive facade hiding the little control I wield. He complies, pants dropping, his cock springing free, thick, half-hard already. I kneel before him, not to serve yet, but to inspect.
“On the stool,” I ordered, pointing to the low wooden seat in the center. He sits, legs spread, and I tie his wrists behind his back with a silk cord from my palette, loose enough to tease but firm enough to bind.
My heart races; this is my art, my dominance veiled in submission.
I move around him, running my hands over his bare skin, tracing the lines of his muscles. His breath quickens as I brush over his nipples, making them harden into peaks. I press a kiss to his neck, tasting the salt of his skin. He shivers, but holds still, letting me explore.
Kane's cock juts up, flushed and thickening. I trail a finger down his shaft, feeling it pulse. He groans, a sound that sends heat rushing between my own thighs. I want him desperate, aching for my touch. I lean in, blowing softly over the head of his cock, watching it jump. "Shh," I whisper, laying a gentle hand on his chest. "Be still for me."
I pick up a brush, dipping it in paint. The canvas waits, an expanse of white inviting my first stroke. But I don't touch it. Instead, I draw back, studying Kane. Where to start? His shoulders, broad and strong? The line of his jaw? No, the focal point is clear.
I paint a single stroke along the underside of his shaft. Kane gasps at the cool touch, hips bucking involuntarily. I task softly, holding him in place with my other hand. I take my time, each brushstroke precise and deliberate - long strokes down his shaft, spiraling around the head. The paint is a deep red, almost black in the dim light of the studio.
I work methodically, painting him from base to tip, leaving no inch untouched. By the time I'm done, his cock is fully hard, an angry red from the paint and his own arousal. I step back to admire my handiwork. Kane is flushed, panting softly, his cock throbbing against his stomach. The sight sends a thrill through me.
I set down my brushes and climb onto his lap, straddling his thighs. I can feel the heat of his skin through the thin fabric of my pants. "Beautiful," I murmur, running my fingers through the paint on his shaft. Kane groans, thrusting up into my hand. "Please..."
I lean in, brushing my lips over his ear. "Patience," I breathe. "I'm not done with you yet."