"Truth or dare?" Nana asked, taking another sip of wine, her cheeks already flushed from the alcohol.
"Truth," Rafayel answered, swirling his own glass. He wore a purple shirt unbuttoned to show his chest and the silver chains around his neck, looking impossibly beautiful in the dim lighting of their living room.
"Have you ever drawn me without telling me?"
His dual-toned eyes—pink and blue—gleamed with mischief. "Yes. Many times."
"What?! Show me!"
"That wasn't part of the question." He smirked. "But fine. Since you asked so nicely."
He retrieved his sketchbook from the studio and flipped through pages, stopping on several. Nana's face turned bright red.
They were all her. Naked. In various poses—sleeping, stretching, bathing. Each one was beautifully rendered, artistic yet intimate.
"You... you drew me like this?!"
"You're my muse. My masterpiece. Of course I draw you." He took another drink. "Your turn. Truth or dare?"
"Truth," she said, still flustered.
"Have you ever wanted something from me but been too afraid to ask?"
She bit her lip, the wine loosening her tongue. "I... I always want your kiss before bed. But sometimes you look like you're in a bad mood when you're painting, and I'm afraid to interrupt. Afraid you might get angry."
His expression softened immediately. "Angry? At you? Never, cutie. I could never be angry at you for wanting my affection." He set down his glass and pulled her close. "From now on, interrupt me anytime. I'll always have time for you."
They continued playing, both getting progressively more drunk. Rafayel, who normally avoided alcohol, was definitely feeling it by the third round.
"Truth or dare?" he asked, his words slightly slurred.
"Dare."
"I dare you to sit on my lap."
"That's easy—" She moved toward him, but he grabbed her hands and pulled her roughly into his lap, his mouth crashing against hers in a deep, desperate kiss.
This wasn't the poetic, romantic Rafayel she knew. This was something wilder, more primal. His tongue swept into her mouth with hunger, tasting every inch, and his hands roamed her body possessively.
"Rafayel—" she gasped when he released her lips.
"Unzip my pants," he commanded, his voice rough. "Now."
"Husband! You're so bold when you're drunk!"
"And you love it." He kissed down her neck, biting marks into her skin. "Now do it. Unzip me."
Her hands trembled as she obeyed, freeing him. He was already hard, hot and heavy in her palm.
"Stroke me," he groaned. "Show me how much you want me."
She did, her small hand wrapping around his length, and he cursed—actually cursed—something he never did.
"Fuck—yes—just like that—" His hands were already pulling at her clothes, desperate to feel her skin. When he finally got her shirt off, his mouth latched onto her breast, sucking and biting while his hands squeezed her waist.
"I have so many fantasies about you," he mumbled against her skin, his words tumbling out uninhibited by alcohol. "Want to paint you in every position. Want to see you come apart for me in every way possible."
"What... what kind of fantasies?" she breathed.
"Sitting on my face." He looked up at her with those intense dual-colored eyes. "Want you to sit on my face while I eat you. Let me drown in you. Please, cutie. Let me taste you."
Her face flushed, but the wine and his desperation made her brave. "Okay."
He groaned like she'd given him the greatest gift. He lay back on the couch and guided her to straddle his face.
"Wait—what if I'm too heavy—"
"You're perfect. Now sit." He pulled her down onto his mouth, and the sensation made her cry out.
His tongue was everywhere—licking, sucking, exploring. He ate her like a man starving, like she was his favorite meal and he'd been denied for years. His hands gripped her thighs, keeping her in place when she tried to squirm away from the overwhelming pleasure.
"Rafayel—oh god—it's too much—"
He just groaned against her, the vibration sending her higher. His tongue did things that made her see stars, and when he sucked on her clit, she shattered with a scream.
But he didn't stop. He kept licking, tasting, prolonging her orgasm until she was shaking and begging for mercy.
Finally, he released her, his face glistening with her essence, a satisfied smirk on his lips.
"So beautiful when you come for me," he said, pulling her back into his lap. This time, he positioned her over his length. "Now take me. All of me."
He lowered her slowly onto him, both of them groaning at the sensation. She was so tight, and he was so deep, and it felt impossibly good.
"You're so small," he breathed, his hands on her hips guiding her movements. "Like a doll. My perfect little doll."
He bounced her on him effortlessly, using his strength to control the pace. She could only hold onto his shoulders and whimper his name, helpless to do anything but take what he gave her.
"Rafayel—Rafayel—please—"
"Please what?" He thrust up particularly hard. "Please go faster? Please go deeper? Please never stop?"
"Yes—all of it—everything—"
He brought his thumb to her mouth. "Suck."
She did, her tongue swirling around it, and he groaned. "Fuck—you're going to kill me—"
The combination of sensations—him inside her, his thumb in her mouth, his other hand playing with her breast—sent her over the edge again. She came with a muffled cry, clenching around him rhythmically.
But the drunk, wild version of Rafayel had stamina. He kept going, moving them from the couch to the floor, taking her in different positions until the room spun.
They made love through the night. Against the wall. Over the arm of the couch. On his art table, scattering paintbrushes everywhere. Each position brought new pleasure, new connection, new declarations of love mixed with filthy words she'd never heard from him before.
By the time dawn broke, painting the room in golden light, they were both exhausted. The living room was a disaster—clothes scattered, furniture displaced, wine glasses knocked over.
Nana was barely conscious when Rafayel came for the last time. Instead of finishing inside her—she was already overflowing—he pulled out and released on her stomach.
"I wanted to see," he panted, staring at the evidence of their night together. "Wanted to see how much. It's... it's more than I thought."
There was so much. Her belly was painted white with him, and she was too tired to even be embarrassed.
"Come on, cutie." He lifted her gently. "Let's get cleaned up."
He carried her to the shower, turning on the hot water and washing her carefully. His hands were tender now, no longer desperate, just loving.
"Are you sore?" he asked, his fingers ghosting over her sensitive areas.
She pouted. "I can't feel my legs. I'm flying right now."
He chuckled, pressing a kiss to her shoulder. "I'm a bit tired too. But worth it. I finally got to live out one of my fantasies."
"Which one? You did a lot tonight."
"All of them." He turned her around to face him, his eyes softer now, more like his usual self. "But mostly, I got to show you how much I love you. How much I desire you. How you're the only thing I think about when I'm painting, working, breathing."
Despite her exhaustion, she smiled. "I love you too. Even drunk, wild you."
"Especially drunk, wild me," he corrected with a grin. "You were very enthusiastic about it."
"Rafayel!"
He laughed, that beautiful sound she loved. "What? It's true. You were begging me to—"
She covered his mouth with her hand. "Don't say it!"
He kissed her palm instead, his expression turning serious. "Thank you for trusting me. For letting me explore with you. For being brave enough to sit on my face even though you were nervous."
"It was..." she blushed, "really good."
"It was perfect. You're perfect." He finished washing her, then dried them both and carried her to bed—the couch being too messy for sleeping.
As he held her close, both of them drifting toward sleep, Rafayel whispered, "Never be afraid to ask me for anything. Kisses, affection, even my wild fantasies. I'm yours, cutie. Completely, utterly yours."
"And I'm yours," she murmured back.
"My bride. My muse. My everything."
They fell asleep tangled together, exhausted and satisfied and deeply in love.
And when they woke up later, Rafayel would paint this—not the explicit parts, but the feeling. The golden dawn light on her sleeping face. The contentment in the curve of her smile. The marks of love scattered across her skin like his personal signature.
Because she wasn't just his muse.
She was his masterpiece.
And he would spend every day of his life proving it to her.
🐚🐚🐚