9. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

Finley

C yrus and I have spent the last few days skirting around each other. We're friendly, occasionally flirty, but mostly, I try to avoid him. And I think he's avoiding me, too. He spends most of his time in Midas's office, dealing with whatever it is Midas does. I spend most of mine searching for jobs until I get overwhelmed and then waste countless hours scrolling social media watching paint mixing videos and people making Japanese pottery.

But today is going to be different. Because, today, all of my things arrive from Prague. My sculptures. My paintings. My art supplies. My books. All the big, heavy things I had to leave behind.

Sora is coming over for brunch, and then we're going to unpack everything together. Midas let me pick out a room for my studio and said I can use it as long as I'm here. I picked the small sitting room next to his office.

It's got massive windows that open to a rooftop patio and lots of natural light. He used to use it as a sort of greenhouse space. Or, I guess, Yeva used it because she didn't have as much light in her apartment downstairs. But she said she wasn't growing things as much anymore and didn't mind moving to another smaller room.

It's gonna be incredible to paint again, to have a space that's my own. I've been going stir crazy without something to do with my hands.

Bounding down the stairs earlier than normal, I check my phone for when the boxes should arrive. One more hour. Perfect. That gives me plenty of time to make the French toast casserole I saw a video for on social media last night. Sora will get here just before the boxes, and by the time they arrive, we'll be a mimosa in and ready to go.

I can't wait to show her the revenge portraits I painted of Tim. And that abstract replica of the David I made in Sculpting 102. She's gonna get a kick out of that one. I sent her pics after I made it, but it's not the same as seeing it in real life.

Looking up just as I come into the kitchen, I skid to a stop so quickly my socked feet nearly slide out from under me, and I have to grab the counter for balance.

Cyrus is standing in front of the stove, wearing only grey sweat pants that hang low on his hips, revealing gold tattoos that swirl up from his waistline over his muscular back. A piece of pure art. The urge to trace each of those swirls with my tongue almost has me stepping forward.

His hair is a little messy, like he just woke up and hasn't showered yet. His back muscles gleam with a light layer of sweat like he just finished working out.

Effortlessly, he lifts the frying pan and flips an omelet with just a flick of his wrist. Why is that hot?

When he turns to plate it, I'm met with the full force of his beauty. Those golden swirls dip over his shoulders, down his firm pecs, dancing around hard abs, and dropping below the waistband of his sweatpants. Where do they stop? Do they go all the way down his legs?

His pants are thin and fitted enough that they leave little to the imagination. The bulge between his thighs is massive, drawing all my attention. And it moves. Twitching, stretching, growing right before my eyes, until he's tenting the cotton.

My phone slips out of my hands and clatters to the floor, startling me enough to snap me out of my staring contest with his dick. Shit!

There's no way to hide where I was just looking, and his smirk says he didn't miss the way I was eyeballing him .

"Would you like a better view?" His smile is down right smug.

I draw back my shoulders and meet his gaze head on. There's nothing to be ashamed of here. I'm a grown woman who appreciates sex and admires the outline of a remarkably colossal cock. Nothing wrong with that.

"Absolutely," I reply without batting an eye. "You'd make a great model for my sculpting. Assuming you aren't hiding some kind of deformity under those pants."

His smile vanishes. "There's nothing deformed about my cock."

"Prove it." I cross my arms over my chest. "Drop trou, pretty boy."

He closes his eyes and scrubs his palm over his face. "I'm not going to show you my cock, Finley."

"You're the one who offered."

"It was… a joke. In poor taste."

"Fine." I shrug one shoulder. "But I'm definitely thinking you're deformed now. There goes your modeling career."

"I'm not deformed," he snarls as he steps closer.

"Then show me. It's just a cock. I sketched nude models every week in my art classes. It's not like I haven't seen one before. "

He growls. Full on growls, through gritted teeth.

"Do you have a scar? Is that it? An STI?" I ask. "Is it covered in hair? Hm, actually that might not be a bad thing, though it wouldn't look very appealing, and getting a girl to go down on you…"

In one smooth sequence of movements, he drops the omelet on the waiting plate, sets the pan back on the stove, and pushes his pants to his ankles. My eyes follow the movement for only a second before focusing on the real show.

I gasp when I catch sight of it. His cock is even bigger than I'd guessed from the outline. It's long and thick and weeping pre-cum. But what shocks me is that his cock is tattooed! Those beautiful gold spirals swirl the hard length of him all the way to the tip.

"I need to paint you." The words come out in a rush, replacing the ones I really want to say, what I really want to do.

"That isn't a good idea."

"Why not? You're fucking gorgeous! It's a crime to hide that from the world."

"You're the only one I want to see me naked, Finley."

I'm not sure how to take that, and I'm still trying to figure it out when he pulls his pants back up. A little whine slips past my lips.

"None of that." He tightens the drawstring at his waist. "If I stand here another second with you looking at me like that, I'll do something I shouldn't."

"Like what?" I'm not sure when I moved closer, but we're standing only a foot apart now. His back is against the counter, and I'm right in front of him. It would be so easy to lean in and kiss him, or lick those tattoos on his chest like I want to, or sink to my knees and lavish that cock in the devotion it deserves.

"I'll tell you everything I want to do to you… but not until your birthday."

"That's two weeks from now!"

"One weeks and five days," he corrects.

"Not helpful."

He sighs and rubs his palm back and forth across his mouth. "You're not old enough for me to do the things I want to do to you, Finley."

"Yeah. Right."

Midas said something like that about me not being of age in his culture, but I did a little internet sleuthing after my sister left and couldn't find a single place in the world where the age of maturity is twenty-three. Sure, Ancient Rome didn't consider men adults until thirty, and there's some evidence that the Dutch age of majority used to be twenty-three, but that was back in the fucking 1800s!

"You're such a fucking tease. I don't know why I keep falling for it." I shove his chest before stepping back. "Take your omelet and get out of the kitchen. My friend's coming over for brunch, and I don't want to deal with your wishy-washy teasing."

He grabs my wrist, spinning me around with such force that I slam into his chest. "It's not teasing if I have every intention of making good on my promises. You'll see, little flame." His tongue skims the shell of my ear. "In twelve days, you'll see."

He lets go and walks off with his breakfast while I'm still shivering from that faint touch of his tongue.