Chapter 7

A short time later, Moses stood before Joy with an unguarded boldness that belied the closed-off exterior she'd seen so far. His breeches lay discarded at his feet, and for the moment he remained still, allowing her the full measure of his unveiled presence, flaccid though he was. He was curious what she had in mind, since it was clear she had little experience with the naked form.

Joy smiled at the sight of him, her eyes bright, and she turned on her heel towards the kitchen. She returned a moment later, a wooden chair in hand, which she placed with purpose beside the chaise where Moses had now seated himself.

Perched upon her chair, she cradled the sketchbook and toyed with a pencil as she studied the drawings he had made, her hair cascading over her shoulder in gentle waves, a crease between her brows.

With cheeks flushed a rose-tinted hue, Joy lifted her eyes to meet his gaze. "Moses, I need you...to look as passionate as I did in these." Her fingers traced the contours of her own sketched form on paper, the one caught in the throes of lovemaking.

Moses, a man of few words and even fewer outward emotions, regarded her with a steady gaze. The request was clear, to capture on paper the essence of desire, his desire, just as she had bared hers to his artful eye. A wisp of amusement curled the corners of his lips as he observed Joy's blush deepen, a reminder of how innocent she was. "My dear, might I enlist your assistance? My fervor requires a touch of your inspiration to be properly engaged," he said.

Joy glanced at the sketchbook before setting it aside with deliberate care. The pencil rolled slightly, coming to a rest a few inches away. She lifted her gaze to his but didn't rise from her seat. "And how shall I inspire you?"

"Your form is like the finest art. Disrobe. Let me witness the muse in her purest essence."

With a breath that was part sigh, part resolve, Joy stood and slipped her arms from the silken sleeves of the dressing gown, the fabric slipping down her body to pool at her feet. Unadorned now, she stood bathed in the golden hue of the fire.

Moses' groin tightened, taking in the sight of her once more. His artist's soul drank in the vision, while the man within him stirred, reawakened by the sight of her unspoken promises.

"Perfect," he said, almost to himself. He settled into the embrace of the chaise. He looked upon Joy, her auburn hair a cascade of autumnal splendor, her eyes reflecting both innocence and an ember of curiosity. If he spent a lifetime with her, he might never be sated of her.

"Watch," he instructed as he reached down, his hand grasping his flaccid member. With a languid stroke, he traced the length of himself, enacting a silent plea for vigor. He licked his lips as he waited for her reaction.

A delicate flush colored Joy's cheeks. Emboldened by the passion they had already shared, she knelt before him, her hand extended, hesitant yet eager, and mirrored his movements, the tips of her fingers whispering over his skin. "Like this?"

"Harder. And slower... there." His breath hitched as her fingers obeyed, encircling him with a firmer grasp, her rhythm measured and deliberate.

Joy's touch kindled a warmth within him, her strokes fanning the flames. Moses gasped, a sound torn from the depths of his chest, as sensation spiraled. "Your hands, are like the most exquisite brushes, painting pleasure with every motion."

Joy's eyes shimmered in response, her strokes growing more assured. A smile played at the corners of her mouth and he longed to kiss her.

Later, perhaps. He was her muse for now.

"Good, very good," he encouraged, the timbre of his voice deepening. "Now, vary the tempo, tease out the passion."

Moses watched her, enjoying the feel of her hand on him, but knowing he wanted more. "Joy, there's an element yet missing—one that could elevate this from mere touch to... something far more potent."

He paused, searching her eyes, which flickered with a curious blend of innocence and intrigue. "Moisture," he stated simply, as if imparting a sacred secret between artist and muse. "It is the essence that allows passion to glide smoothly, unfettered by the confines of the flesh."

Joy's gaze was steadfast, though a rosy hue kissed her cheeks again, betraying her demur exterior. "And how am I to provide this... moisture?"

"Your lips, and your tongue. Let them dance upon my skin, leaving a trail of warmth and wetness." He took her hand, guiding it to pause in its ministrations. "Here, watch me."

With deliberate slowness, he brought his fingers to his mouth, sucking two of them between his lips and stroking slowly. "Like this. Kiss it gently, then take your time... savor the taste, the texture. Your tongue will be the brush that strokes life into my cock."

The room was silent save for the crackling hearth and the whisper of their breaths mingling in the charged air. Joy's fingers resumed their exploration, now with a halting hesitancy that soon gave way to determination. She leaned forward, her hair cascading over her shoulders.

Her lips parted, and she bestowed upon him a tentative kiss, a whisper of contact that made Moses' heart thunder against his ribs. Emboldened, she allowed her tongue to trace the contours of his flesh, gently exploring his length.

"Ah," Moses exhaled, a sound torn from the very core of him. He watched as she enveloped him, her mouth warm and inviting, the softness of her lips contrasting with the earnestness of her touch.

"God above," he uttered, no more than a hoarse whisper as he watched the top of her head, the way her hair shimmered in the firelight, a halo around her face of focused concentration.

Joy paused for the briefest of moments, looking up at him through her lashes. The sight of her eyes, dark with burgeoning boldness, sent another jolt through his already quivering body. She seemed to draw strength from his undone state, her confidence blooming like a rose.

Her hands now commanded his flesh with a newfound assertiveness. They explored him, gentle yet firm, coaxing his passion to life with each stroke. "Like this?"

"Exactly like that." Each word was punctuated by a sharp intake of breath as she applied her lessons with increasing fervor. Her strokes were bolder now, a rhythm that had his body strumming.

His world narrowed to the sensation of Joy's mouth upon his flesh. He was adrift in an ocean of bliss, every wave of sensation crashing over him with more intensity than the last. A loner who found solace only in the silence of his craft, he now reveled in the sound of their interwoven breaths. His muscles tensed and relaxed in rhythm with Joy's movements, and he felt himself growing closer to release.

"Joy," he gasped.

She looked up at him, her eyes wide with wonder and a hint of concern. "Is this?—"

"Stop," he cut in, the effort to form coherent thoughts nearly beyond him. He summoned every ounce of self-control to still her hand, though every fiber of his being screamed for continuation. "Is this how you wish me to be... for your sketch?"

She blinked at him, frowning for a moment before understanding dawned. She rose, and with a delicate grace that belied the erotic scene, Joy picked up her sketchbook, her gaze flitting between his taut form and the blank page before her.

Moses watched her, chest heaving from exertion and restraint, as she began to draw. The soft pout of her lips as she sketched him into eternity was enough to wrench sighs from deep within his chest. It was a scene plucked from the most licentious of novels, yet here it unfolded in the quiet sanctum of his drawing room. He lay back against the cushions of the chaise, the residual heat of Joy's touch a lingering promise of what was yet to come.

His hand moved over himself languidly, a necessary rhythm to keep the flames of desire from extinguishing. The room seemed to shrink around them, filled with nothing but the sound of his ragged breaths and the faint whisper of pencil on paper. The intimacy of the act wrapped around him like a velvet cloak, heavy with the scent of anticipation and the softness of yearning.

But as the quiet moments lingered, doubt crept into the edges of his pleasure-soaked mind. The ghostly sensation of Joy's previous touches haunted him, the memory alone insufficient to maintain the vigor required for her artistic endeavor. His strokes grew more fervent, yet his body threatened to betray the very passion he sought to convey.

It was at this precipice of frustration, where the brink of release seemed both imminent and impossibly distant, that Joy laid aside her sketchbook. Her eyes, dark with blossoming curiosity and cloaked in the demure charm of widowhood, met his own.

"May I…we?" The words were a delicate wisp of sound, yet they crashed over him like a wave.

Without awaiting his nod, she rose from her chair and stood, unabashed and gloriously unadorned, then in one fluid movement, she closed the space between them, straddling Moses with an elegance that belied the carnality of their actions as she guided his cock inside her. The sensation of her warmth encasing him obliterated all coherent thought, a deluge of ecstasy that blotted out everything else.

Their union was frenzied, as if she too were on the edge of bursting. His hands found purchase upon the gentle swell of her buttocks, guiding her in their fervent dance toward oblivion. Together, they chased the mounting wave of climax, her name a silent litany on his lips.

The crescendo broke inside him, fast and fierce as he found sweet release. His world narrowed to the exquisite pressure and the intoxicating heat of Joy's body moving against his own. And as he surrendered to the quickening pulse of orgasm, there was a fleeting sense that they had captured something far more elusive than a mere climax. She had left a mark on his soul that no other woman had.