Bare Art Page 3

“Or look.” Peter set his bow aside. “You liked it when I looked.”

  “I did.”

  “Was it about art?”

  The honest answer was that it had been, at first. Pete had a wonderful instinct for art, even though he didn’t operate in the visual plane. His insight into the subject of her painting had moved her, and she’d wanted him to turn that power of imagination toward her physically. She’d wanted him to respond to her body, to expose her on a whole new level, so that she could paint with an intensity that she hadn’t been able to achieve alone.

  And if she continued to be honest, she enjoyed Peter’s touch for fleshly reasons too. She admired him as an artist, but the attraction was not entirely intellectual. Claire wouldn’t think twice about inviting Pete into her bed.

  “It was about the way you alter my art,” she said. “I paint differently when you look at me. I think you might play differently when I look at you.”

  Pete nodded ever so slightly. “It changes things when I feel your eyes on me.”

  “You gave me more than eyes,” Claire pointed out kindly. “Do you want me to look at you?”

  Pete turned and reached for his bow. “I want you to touch me.”

  *

  She stood behind him, as he had her, and started with the top of his head. Her fingers combed through his black curls, scratching the scalp lightly. She traced the soft skin behind his ears, the grooves at the back of his neck, and fanned her fingers out across his shoulders. She could see the individual muscles working beneath his skin as he pulled the bow back and forth. Her thumbs drew a line down either side of his spine, and she crouched with her hands on his hips.

  Pete shivered when she placed a kiss in the middle of his back.

  It didn’t feel right, she decided, to be clothed while he played in the nude. Her hands left his back to remove her sweater, her shirt, her skirt and tights. Pete listened to her clothes fall to the floor one piece at a time, and smiled at the telltale clicking of her bra being undone.

  Claire cast aside the last of her clothing, finally able to breathe. It felt natural, sharing in the exposure of body and soul with Pete. He laid everything bare to make his music. She bared herself and painted invisible lines on his flesh with her fingers.

  Claire’s hands made their way up his sides and around Pete’s front, across the thin line of hair on his belly and up toward his collarbone. While his arm was extended she admired the downy hair in his underarm, and then reached out to feel the coarse hairs on his thighs.

  Peter was losing his hold on an even tempo. His fingers sped up when her hands slid along his thighs, coaxing odd and uneven sounds out of his cello. As an artist he wasn’t prepared for Claire’s kind of different exposure, but he wasn’t going to tell her to stop. This didn’t have to be about art, he decided, and found he was okay with that.

  Claire’s hands went back to his chest. She traced the contours there, and then moved lower over his abs. Her hand brushed the part of his body that had risen to meet her, and Pete gasped.

  “You play beautifully,” Claire said.

  Peter dropped his bow. He reached for her arm instead, pulling her closer and leaning down for a kiss. Claire rose higher on her knees to meet him.

  Pete was a methodical kisser, even when he was impatient with lust. He and Claire each spared a hand to lay his cello down safely, and then their hands were only devoted to each other. Touching, grabbing, looking, seeing.

  Claire pulled them from the chair to Pete’s narrow twin bed. He laid on top of her, sacrificing grace for intimacy as he tangled his limbs with hers in every possible way.

  “Feels like art,” Claire murmured between kisses. There was a passion between them that she’d only ever found in paint. Pete made a throaty sound of agreement and moved his lips from her jaw to her neck, drinking in the scent of her intimate places. There were many places only a lover would touch, and he intended to lay his hands and mouth to all of them.

  “Play me,” Claire whispered. Peter moaned.

  “Are you a cello?” he asked, and planted a series of kisses across her breasts. “Maybe you’re a violin.”

  “I could be a drum,” she suggested coyly.

  “Too bold,” Pete said, taking her nipple into her mouth. “How about a bass? Basses take their time.” He intended to keep her in his bed for the rest of the day. Possibly longer, resources permitting.

  Claire moved her hands to the back of his head, holding him close while he suckled her nipples. Her legs did a languid dance with his, gathering and releasing each other in unhurried rhythm.

  “I’m not touching enough of you,” he whispered.

  Her fingers painted designs on his scalp, softly scratching swirls and lines. It sent shivers down his neck and back. Claire cooled Peter even as she warmed him.

  He felt her warmth pressed up against his lower abdomen, constant and impossible to ignore. Pete focused on the rest of her body, intent on delaying gratification as long as possible. He would warm her up slowly. He would give her satisfaction only once she begged for it.

  Claire wasn’t playing the same game. Every time her thigh moved, gripping him tighter about the hips or releasing him to trace his calf with her foot, that bit of skin—another lover’s part—brushed against his cock. You’re too eager by half, he wanted to tell it. There was no need to rush things.

  Peter shifted way from her thighs, moving lower so he could plant a trail of kisses down her belly. He got close enough to smell the intimate perfume of her body, truly reserved for lovers alone. He wanted to kiss her lips, to feel their warmth.

  Claire’s hand on his chin stopped him from moving lower. “You first,” she said.

  “No.”

  Claire insisted. “So you won’t worry about holding back.” She moved from under him, gently pushing his shoulders so that Pete rolled onto his back.

  “You just want foreplay?” he asked, trying to keep the disappointment out of his voice. He’d had plans for Claire…

  “No.” She straddled his thighs and leaned down for a kiss. “I want it all.”

  Pete flushed. His hands moved to her breasts, seeking out more skin that only he would get to touch.

  Claire kissed his collarbone. “And I intend to have it more than once.”

  Pete moaned. “Yes.”

  “Is this your first?” Her hand sought out his, weaving their fingers together. Pete nodded and turned his head to kiss her temple.

  “Is that okay?”

  “Don’t worry, you won’t bleed.”

  He laughed even as she moved lower, settling herself between his thighs.

  “When you like something, let me know.” She kissed the tip of his cock and he gasped.

  “More of that.”

  Claire chuckled. She kissed him with open mouth, trailing her tongue along the most sensitive part of him. He didn’t demand more right away, nor did he take hold of her head and give direction. It made Claire wonder if this was another first for him, and so she lingered over it, teasing him and applying soft, affectionate scratches to his thighs.

  Peter curled his calves around her back, holding her while she attended to him. “I can’t touch enough of you,” he said.

  “You will. When I’m through with you.” She smiled as his head fell back against the pillow with a thump and he gave himself over to pleasure.

  Claire lavished him with attention. She varied her depth, the pressure of her tongue, the motions of her hands in order to reduce him to a gasping, trembling mess. Peter encouraged her when she teased him, swirling her tongue around his tip and kissing it.

  “More,” he’d say. “Like that.”

  And when she took him deeper, he never failed to moan. “Harder,” he’d beg. “Faster.”

  He didn’t want it to end. Pete resisted the growing pressure in his groin, cautioning Claire, “Slow down, not yet.”

  She removed her mouth entirely and trailed kisses across his thighs while he took a moment to breathe. “I think you
’re having too much fun,” she teased.

  “Maybe.”

  “I probably won’t want you to stop either.”

  Pete inched his hips closer to Claire. “Please, more.” He wanted his turn to make her fall apart.

  *

  Pete’s hands shook as he grasped her thighs, parting them. Claire rested one on his shoulder, and he used it to pull her closer. “If you like something, tell me,” he echoed her.

  “I don’t think it’ll be an if.”

  He’d never touched a bare woman; only felt them through at least one layer of clothing. He explored Claire with his fingers first, making note of all the places that caused her to twitch or gasp softly. His fingers came away damp.

  “Give me a taste,” she whispered. Pete obligingly held his hand out to her, and moaned at the feel of her tongue against his fingers, licking her unique flavor off him.

  He kissed the tender flesh between her legs, heedless of everything but her warmth and the slick feel of her. He’d done that to her. She was aroused because of him.

  “Here.” She took his hand and pinpointed where she wanted to be kissed. Peter showed Claire the same attention she’d shown him, teasing, licking, sucking. He blew hot breath across her sensitive skin, relishing every time she twitched and shuddered.

  “Yes,” she encouraged him. “Play me.”

  Now, he knew what she meant by that. Pete gripped Claire tighter and abandoned gentleness. This piece demanded the intensity of a rising crescendo—fast, bold, unflinching. There could be no holding back, not if he was to do the piece justice. Pete suckled at her engorged flesh, moaning along with her when she lifted her hips to press closer to his tongue.

  “I’m there,” she panted. Peter felt the way her body, coiled like a spring, shuddered at her peak. He could feel her pulse against his lips and tasted the gentle gush of fluid. Bliss, he thought. This is bliss. Mine, his hands said, digging into her hip and thigh; she’s all mine.

  Claire had barely relaxed before she was pulling him closer, higher, and gathered him on top of her. She wanted to clean his face with soft licks and kisses.

  “I want to be inside you,” he said huskily.

  “Yes.” Her legs wrapped around his hips, pulling him closer.

  “Condom?”

  “Pill.”

  “You sure?”

  “You want one?”

  The only condoms he knew of were down the hall and buried in Matt’s messy nightstand. Under the circumstances, Pete really couldn’t be bothered to leave the bed to get one.

  “Next time.” He felt Claire grin when he bent down to kiss her. The idea of there being a next time thrilled her. “Ready?”

  In answer, Claire grasped him by the shaft and guided Pete into the cleft between her legs. The look on his face could have been one of pain, the way he gasped and shuddered. “Ooh,” he moaned, and buried his face in her hair. “Claire.”

  They shared a sense of homecoming, sliding together like that. They painted each other with touches, made rhythm with the first thrusts of their hips, composed a song in gasps and moans. Claire supplied the harmony with soft cries and whimpers as Pete pushed her ever closer to the edge.

  “You’re holding back,” Claire accused gently.

  Peter found her hands and twined their fingers together. “I don’t want it to end yet.”

  “Let yourself go.” She kissed him. “I’ll catch you.”

  He gave one forceful thrust, and her body responded. A second, and her muscles tightened around him. Pete picked up his pace, panting endearments into her ear as he filled her from without. This, he decided, was the feeling of euphoria and rightness that came from composing a masterpiece. Making love to her was his masterpiece.

  “Claire,” he said, and fell to pieces in her arms.

  *

  “How would you paint us?” Pete whispered. They held each other close, exchanging touches and kisses on skin still flushed from lovemaking.

  “I’d start here.” Claire set her finger on the skin at the small of Pete’s back, tracing imaginary brushstrokes up toward his shoulder blades. “Add a touch of black.” She sprung one of his damp curls. “And pink.” Her finger traced his lower lip. “Framing it would be the real challenge.”

  Pete smiled.

  “How would you compose us?”

  Pete gathered her closer with his arm and shrugged contentedly. “I’m not sure, but I’ll know it when I hear it.”

  It was past six. The perfect afternoon light had faded, bathing the room in a pale shade of purple. Matt would be home soon. Claire and Pete hadn’t shut the door before they went to bed together, and if they didn’t get up soon, Matt would come home to find them naked and tangled together.

  “We should make ourselves presentable before Matt gets home.”

  Pete grunted noncommittally and leaned up to kiss her ear.

  “What do you think Matt will say when he finds out?”

  “I won’t give him any details,” Pete assured her. His hand ran from the side of her head, down her neck and arm, and followed the immaculate curve of her hip. “We may need to be quieter in the future, though.”

  Claire laughed. They hadn’t given any thought to keeping their voices down. The neighbors on the other side of the wall must have gotten quite a show.

  “Come on,” she said. Claire stood up and tugged Pete’s hand to pull him up with her. “Watch the cello.” It was still on the floor where they’d abandoned it.

  Pete crouched down to put it away and Claire stood by, watching him. Seeing the way his joints moved, his back arched, his pale skin shone faintly in the dying light, she wanted desperately to paint him but knew she could never rival the perfection of the real thing.

  Pete set his cello back in its case and picked up his bow. He stood up and went to Claire, gathering her in a loose hug. She shivered as the hair of his bow drew a line across her back. “Next time,” Pete whispered in her ear.

  Claire nodded. “Definitely next time.”

  Bare Art Copyright © Maite Gannon 2012

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, settings, organizations, and events portrayed in this work are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.