Of paint and passion

 At the party of a friend one night, Geraldine was wooed and seduced by a painter.

She was drawn to his muscular physique, his dark brown beard and sensitive eyes. She imagined the delicate brushes in his hands, the soft caress of squirrel hair on canvas, the thick urge of paint teased slowly across the creamy sea, swirling voluptuously under his control. 

In the darkness of the cab, her heart beat fast as he unbuttoned her blouse. His hands sculpted the soft clay of her breasts. 

She felt the caresses, the strong fingers, as his thumbs found her nipples. The blood rose in her veins. She became liquid.

On the bed in her apartment, she opened herself to him, contained him, devoured him, swallowed him. The brush of his hair, the salty savour of his skin, the stippled goose flesh, the long, washing strokes of his tongue.

In the morning, they walked to the bistro. He ordered a velvet Cappuccino for her, a double espresso for himself. She watched the crema cling to his upper lip as she lapped white foam from a teaspoon. She remembered him last night, hot and firm between her legs. As they sat, facing each other, she slipped her foot from her shoe, lifted it into his lap, and nudged him with her toes until he rested a secretive hand upon them. Held her there as he grew against her.

Afterwards, they walked into the square, found a bench beneath the plane trees. She felt the warm sunlight playing across the golden curve of her bosom. He had kissed her there.

She gripped his hand, and twisted herself into him.

'Would you like to paint me?' she said, 

'Paint you?' he said.

'Yes,' she said, 'naked?'

'I don't think I could,' he said.

'Why not?'

'I'm no good,' he said. 'I've no talent.'

'I'm sure that's not true!' she said. 'I'd love to see your work.'

'You would?' said he. 

'Of course.'

'Well then,' he said. 'Look over there. That house in the middle. I painted that. I've done lots round here, I'll point them out if you like, as we walk.'