Total pages in book: 43
Estimated words: 42185 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 211(@200wpm)___ 169(@250wpm)___ 141(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 42185 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 211(@200wpm)___ 169(@250wpm)___ 141(@300wpm)
I shrug a little, sipping my coffee again. “You don’t need a degree to be a painter, Hazel,” I say. “Do you think Banksy went and did an MFA program?”
“There’s a long tradition of painters learning their craft at a school,” she counters.
“Maybe, but we’re not living in the Middle Ages anymore.”
“You’re just an ass.”
“You’re not seeing the point.” I sit up straighter as she glares at me. “You can paint no matter what. You can go home and paint, you can look at millions of artworks online, you can read limitless articles about it, you can even watch YouTube videos on technique. You don’t need to learn any of that in school.”
“But none of that is a substitute for real community,” she says softly.
“True, although you could just as easily get community by meeting other artists in real life.”
“I think you’re being purposefully obtuse.”
“Probably.” I shrug again. “I just feel that an artist can learn so much on their own now, it waters down their art to go to school for it. Besides, if art doesn’t work out, you should have a degree to fall back on.”
She glares at me again. “I’m not falling back on anything.”
“Okay, okay.” I smile and pat the bed. “Come sit back down.”
She hesitates, but she does as I ask. She sips her coffee, looking annoyed, but she keeps glancing around at the art hanging on the walls.
I’m pleased that she likes it. I’ve never shown anyone this room. I’ve been buying these paintings and bringing them into my bedroom strictly for my own enjoyment. I have an amazing collection in there, and I’ve kept it from the world, hoarded it in this room.
That’s been part of the pleasure of it for me. I know I have a unique little collection here, a collection people would beg and plead to see for even a few minutes. It’s like my own little secret treasure trove.
I never expected to show Hazel. Of course, when she told me that she’s a painter, the idea did cross my mind. I never took it seriously, though. Nobody ever comes back into my room, not in five years.
I study her closely as she looks around again. I know she wants to get up and study it all, but she’s stopping herself.
“You know, you’re the first person to see all this,” I say to her casually.
She looks at me, surprised. “Really?”
“Really. Not even Rogers has been in here since I’ve collected it all.”
“Why?” she asks.
“When I decided to go private, I made a conscious decision not to bring people in here. The office, that’s my public space, even though that’s also pretty damn private. But this room…” I trail off and shrug. “I wanted something special, something unique in the world, just for myself.”
“So you collected all this.” She can’t help herself. She gets back up, looking closely at the works.
“Exactly. I told myself I’d never share it, not with anyone. It would be all mine.”
She looks back at me, frowning a little. “But I’m in here now.”
“You’re right. You’re in here now.”
She smiles softly. “You’re still an asshole.”
“I know.” I pick up the paper and sip my coffee. “Go ahead and look around.”
She turns away and I flip through the paper, reading a few headlines, but mostly watching her as she goes from priceless painting to priceless painting.
Very few people get to be so close to works of this magnitude. In a museum, you have to keep your distance, but in my bedroom she can get right up in front of it, staring at the brushstrokes. I’d let her touch one, if she wanted to, but she holds back. She’s a good little university-trained artist, after all.
Finally, she turns back to me. “Can I come back in here some time?” she asks.
“Okay,” I say, putting down the paper.
She nods and walks over to me. I watch as she kneels down next to the bed and pulls back the sheets, uncovering my lower half.
I raise an eyebrow at her. She smiles up at me and slowly starts to massage my cock.
“Is this because I let you see my paintings?” I ask her.
“No,” she says softly. “This is because you let me into your private space.”
I bite my lip and let her do what she wants. She pulls my pajama bottoms off, followed by my briefs. My cock’s half hard as she strokes me slowly. I get harder in her hands before she takes my tip between her lips.
This isn’t what I pictured when I called her in here, but it’s pretty fucking good. I groan as she sucks me, pretty mouth moving up and down my shaft.
I slip my fingers through her hair and hold it hard as she sucks me faster. I groan and love the feeling of her lips wrapped around my cock, her spit sliding down my shaft, her moans muffled with my dick in her mouth.