scattered flower petals like scars on your skin (nsfw) (raf x mc)
wc: 5.3k rating: E warnings: NSFW content, hand jobs, dom!mc sub!raf, (very sub raf), body paint, also known as 'MC molests Rafayel for one night' the fic, MC explores Rafayel's body that's it, and then Rafayel cums and we cheered, dacryphilia (i.e. crying kink), some asphyxiation, teasing, orgasm denial, he's obsessed with you the way you are with him brief: without really knowing what he's agreeing to, Rafayel agrees to be your model for a night. you take advantage of it.
It dawns on you, slowly but surely, like the sunrise cresting over the horizon at a pace that you’re helpless to do anything with but watch. The sight before you is just as surprising as the first sunrise you ever saw, the golds and reds bleeding into one another, a mesmerizing sea of fire across the ocean.
Rafayel sits in a neutral position. His legs are crossed, palms flat on the ground behind him as he leans back. The pose forces his shoulders back, throwing the jut of his collarbones into stark clarity. The moonlight filtering in through the floor to ceiling windows falls on his pale skin. The patches of silver falling across his skin makes him look ethereal, like he’s a mythical sea creature you stumbled across on a bright, moonlit night, that you fished up and snuck back to your apartment.
Or his apartment, rather. In this messy room, paint cans strewn across the floor, each of vastly different sizes, surrounding you in all directions, brushes in such easy reach—it’s difficult to forget that this isn’t your room.
For his part, Rafayel just stays there, head tilted to the side as he watches you. Hands on the floor. Bare chest pushed out towards you. His ribcage expands lightly as he breathes, in and out through slightly parted lips,and you don’t know where to look.
You can’t quite place the feeling that unfurls in your chest. The closest description, perhaps, is that it feels like Rafayel in this moment is a very finely crafted, very fragile gem, resting in the palms of your hands. So fragile that you’re even afraid to properly hold it, to put pressure on it, for fear of you cracking the surface.
“Go on,” Rafayel says, raising an eyebrow at you. “Don’t keep me waiting.”
There’s this natural laziness to his movements as he shifts his weight around, but the heaviness in his voice betrays the anticipation he must feel. He clears his throat, seemingly insistent on keeping up the pretense of calmness.
Your hands curl into fists in your lap. You’re seated before him, also on the ground so you’re both at eye level.
Quietly, so softly that you almost don’t even hear yourself, you whisper, “I don’t know where to start.”
From where he’s pretending to look at the waves crashing on the shoreline, Rafayel immediately turns to face you. He drops the unaffected air he was pretending to keep up, eyes raking over your face as he takes you in. He must see something in your gaze, or your posture, or something else entirely, but it makes his throat bob as he swallows.
“Start with the face.” His voice is hoarse. It might be the way the light catches on his face, but you think you can see the beginnings of a blush take root at his cheeks. “You should be more than familiar with that.”
It’s as good of a direction as any. There’s a sliver of uneasiness as you get on your knees, leaning forward into his space. Like this, you tower over him.
Rafayel uncrosses his legs. He spreads them, feet planted firmly on the ground as he brackets your hips with his knees. When he looks up at you, his eyes are dilated and there’s something expectant in his gaze.
You lift your palms up, hand curved on instinct to fit the roundness of his cheek, but you don’t cup it fully. Your hand hovers there, not meeting his skin.
It’s… a little awkward, you think, face slightly flushed even though you’ve barely started. You’re starting to feel self-conscious. It’s easy to crook your fingers at him and demand Rafayel to come over and act cute by putting his chin in your palm—it’s another thing entirely to reach out and cup his cheek while he stares at you so intently.
He’s watching you. You know this, because you’re watching him just the same.
When his tongue darts out to lick his lips, your eyes drop unconsciously to his mouth.
“You’re not touching me.” Rafayel’s throat sounds dry, you think distantly. “I’m getting impatient.”
This is the easiest part, you tell yourself. Rafayel may be teasing, but you asked him for this, in bits and pieces, and he squeezed the truth out of you until you felt like a hollowed out husk of your former self.
You lean forward a little more, and you feel the heat of Rafayel’s skin against your palm. The moment your hand gently frames the curve of his cheek, Rafayel sighs, chest heaving like a load’s been lifted off his shoulders. His entire body sways, leaning into your touch like a creature seeking warmth. His eyes flutter shut, tension seeping from his muscles as he just… falls into your hand.
You can feel heat creep up your cheeks. You must be bright red, like a glowing ball of fire in this dark room, and you’re almost relieved his eyes are closed.
Your hand lingers for a moment. Your thumb strokes across the apple of his cheek, right next to the fragile skin under his eyes. Your other hand hesitantly touches his forehead, fingertips skating down his smooth skin to the bridge of his nose.
Rafayel hums, eyes still closed. You’re not even sure if he knows he’s making that noise. Those small, pleased sounds, almost like a purr, radiating straight from the center of his chest. Rafayel would scowl and slap your hand away if you even insinuated that he resembled a cat, but what he doesn’t know won’t hurt his pride.
The hand at his eye moves up. You brace your thumb against his forehead, pushing back slightly—the other hand travels down to his jawline, the long, sharp cut of bone. You take his chin between your thumb and index finger and you pull up.
As if strung along by marionette strings attached to your fingers, Rafayel lets you tilt his head up. He’s so malleable like this, like fire hot metal being annealed, sparks flying along his glowing, red surface as you pull his chin up and expose his throat.
Like a prey animal caught in the jaws of a predator. Rafayel’s no pushover, but he lets you manhandle him like he is. He lies limp in the teeth of your grip, loose and pliant and at your mercy.
Eyes still closed, he swallows. Like this, chin up, shoulders put back, the inverse T of his throat and collarbones exposed to such a degree—some part of you wants to lean in and take a bite. To leave a stinging bruise there, right at his Adam’s Apple, right at his jugular vein, so everyone knows who he belongs to.
But the saner, more mature side of you resists it. The urge is tamped down, not as prominent as before, but you know it’s still there, bubbling under your skin.
So you settle for taking your hand off his forehead. That hand falls down right to the curve of Rafayel’s left shoulder. The hard muscle beneath, skin barely giving way as you press insistently on it.
“Mmph,” Rafayel grunts, the sound muffled at the back of his throat, like he was attempting to swallow it. His reaction makes you press even harder, wanting to elicit something stronger.
You’re rewarded with a strangled sigh, his throat working furiously as he attempts to get his lungs back in working order, or that’s what you envision is going on in his mind. Maybe he’s distracted by your other thumb, stroking gently at the sensitive underside of his jaw, right above his throat. You can feel the way his breath hitches—the stutter in his breathing, the constriction in his throat.
A sound rumbles in your chest. As if on instinct, you hush him, the hand on his shoulder sliding down to the curve of his clavicle to pause at the space between his collarbones. Above his sternum, right below his throat. That little divot of space that makes him gasp when you press at it, throat working in a way that makes you think this might be uncomfortable.
But uncomfortable or not, Rafayel doesn’t say a word. His eyes do not open. There’s a moment where his lips part and they tremble, half-moon lips quivering as he steadies the heaviness in his breathing, and then the moment is over, as quickly as it came, like dust blown away by the wind.
His skin is fully flushed now. It’s hot to the touch, like there’s fire instead of blood flowing through his veins, scalding your fingertips from beneath the surface.
The hand at his chest splays out. You drag your palm down, feeling the bumps and grooves of the planes of his muscles. The way his heart kicks in his chest when you linger over it. The flurried beat it taps out, like a secret written in morse code.
The skin over his chest is tight. You know this means he’s tensed up. Muscles are soft when relaxed, like sinking one’s fingers into freshly risen dough, pliable and bouncy. But the stretch of flesh beneath your fingers is hard and unforgivable like a brick wall.
The hand you have on his neck tightens ever so slightly, Your thumb digs gently into his throat.
“Easy,” you hush when he makes a sudden sound, like you’re soothing a startled wild animal. The same way hunters soothe a rabbit in a trap, clicking their tongue and making gentle sounds until they can get a good angle at the rabbit’s neck.
You don’t know if that sound triggers something in Rafayel, or if it was the word, or the tone of your voice, or the all-encompassing pressure from your hand folded around his neck—whatever the reason, Rafayel’s body bends, doubling over as he practically folds in two. His abdomen tenses sharply, exhaling quickly as if he’d been punched in the gut.
He holds himself there, a sharp, throbbing livewire of tension, his back curved like a strung bow. Rafayel breathes heavily, his throat fluttering in your grip.
You look down, almost absentmindedly. His legs have fallen apart, the inside of his knees and thighs facing up to the tall ceiling. He looks debauched. The flush in his cheekbones, the way it travels all the way down to his chest, the way his eyes are still closed.
And nestled at the center of his legs is his length, the bulge already swelling and straining at the front of his pants.
The light gray of his pants makes his hard on look more prominent than you suspect it actually is. You can see it, the outline as it curves to the right.
When you push against his Adam’s Apple, Rafayel flinches. His abdomen tenses again, shoulders shivering as his hips jerk. The full body reaction extends all the way down to his length, and you can see it twitch below the fabric.
Almost as if you’re a puppeteer, teasing out the involuntary reactions of his body with strings attached to a crossbrace.
The hand on his chest drags lower. Your fingernails skate lightly over his taut muscles—it draws out this weak, needy keen at the back of Rafayel’s throat. He pulls his shoulders back further, as if offering his exposed chest to you.
You take him up on his offer. You over the lines you fingers traced, digging your fingernails in until they leave thin red streaks across Rafayel’s pale skin. They look like thin lashes in the moonlight, faint enough that you know they won’t last. But they must sting, here and now, and you wonder how Rafayel feels. If he feels the same way you do, like you’re about to vibrate out of your skin, like you’re a devout worshipper tracing the features of your god embalmed in marble, like you’re a huntsman running your fingers over the shaky ribcage of your game as you figure out the best way to peel its skin back.
His nipples are stiff. You push the pad of your thumb against one bud, pressing it gently to see how Rafayel reacts. He jerks, lips pressed together in this harsh, stiff line as he grunts. It’s clear he’s trying to hold himself back.
As if possessed, you press harder. Rafayel’s mouth falls open, hips rocking up into thin air as you scrape your fingernails lightly over the sensitive skin. When you take it between your fingers and tug, Rafayel moans lowly through gritted teeth. His abdomen flexes over and over, muscles rolling visibly beneath his skin.
All that strength and he’s keeping it under wraps because you asked him to, you marvel. Rafayel could easily surge up and tackle you. He could push you off and call it quits. He could lock his legs around your waist and flip your positions, until he’s long and lean over you, purple eyes bearing into yours as he stares you down.
But he doesn’t. He sits there, shoulders tight with tension as his hands are on the floor, fingers twitching urgently against the tiles like he’s desperate to grip something but he can’t decide what. He just makes these frustrated, impatient noises, like he wants more, and yet he doesn’t do anything else.
The ball is in your court, like he promised.
You go lower. Your fingernails continue to leave thin, spindly lines as you mark up his skin. His muscles clench when you pass over his abdomen, at his navel, and Rafayel audibly hisses out a breath at your touch.
Still, he doesn’t lean away. He doesn’t shy away from your touch. His eyelashes are trembling like a leaf caught in the current of the waves. His mouth is open like he’s a drowning man at sea, breathless and gasping for air.
It’s almost like petting a wild tiger. Rolling, sinewy muscle beneath your fingertips as you pet his abdomen. These little noises fall out of his throat, bitten-off noises like Rafayel only remembers right at the end to twist his lips shut.
You press into his waist, fingernails digging in as if you could claw under his skin if you were determined enough. Rafayel’s breath catches—an audible sound that lingers in the room like starlight, but you can feel the reverb in his throat, under your fingers.
His breathing is laboured. He heaves, each breath shakier than the last. It makes his shoulders shake, the tremble following his muscles all the way down his torso, his sides, his abdomen.
Throughout it all, his eyes remain closed. Like an invisible blindfold you draped over him, shutting out one of his main senses.
“Don’t look,” you’d told him, voice quiet as you both walked to his atelier. His footsteps were as sure as ever, so calm that you would’ve thought he was completely unaffected by your request, if not for the tension caught in his shoulders. The shoulders that were pulled back a little too far, his hands that were tucked a little too firmly into his pant pockets, head held a little too straight. The feigned casualness rolled off him in waves.
“I won’t look,” he promised, looking straight ahead. He hadn’t made fun of your request, or the little details you added on whenever they popped into your mind—his face had changed, slightly, as if confused, but he just agreed easily, without asking more.
You’re grateful for that. You didn’t know how much you were holding your breath until Rafayel drew it out of you, like a pinprick in an oxygen tank, draining you bit by bit.
And now, here you both are, your fingers inching further down until the nail of your middle finger catches on the button of his pants. Rafayel immediately stiffens, his entire body going still.
Your hand hovers over the prominent bulge in his pants. You can see the way the fabric stretches, pulled to its limits to accommodate his arousal. It’s a heady thing, seeing the physical proof of how affected you make him.
Your fingers curve, picking loosely at the button on Rafayel’s pants. You’re not looking to undo it just yet, but this simple movement is enough to make his muscles jump, abs clenching as he tries to roll his hips into your hand, chasing the ghost of your warmth.
It’s enough, you realise. You’re enough, just like this. He’s not even looking at you—all he has are your hands on his body, the heat of your palms branding handprints into every square inch of his body. You’ve barely spoken, and he’s already this far gone.
The flush is high on his cheeks. He looks drunk, on affection or arousal or the moonlight pooling in his collarbones; the gorgeous crimson staining his cheeks bleeds all the way to the tips of his ears and the back of his neck. You know this. His eyelashes flutter like a butterfly’s wings in the wind, eyes squeezed shut.
He’s not even looking at you, and your touch has brought him to his figurative knees.
As if he hasn’t had enough of surprising you, Rafayel huffs. The sound is low and full of irritation. He tilts his hips up, pushing his bulge impatiently into your palm.
When he says your name, it’s like scratching an itch in the most sensitive part of your body.
“Not yet,” you murmur, voice quiet in the back of your throat as you marvel at the sight before you. Your index finger drops down to hook around the zipper of his pants, letting the metal dig underneath your nail—you tug up, a brief pressure, and Rafayel’s hips immediately follow your hand, arching up like he’d chase you to the ends of the world just to get your hand on his cock.
Rafayel makes a petulant sound, the muscles in his body straining from his neck to his abs as he trembles before you. “When?” He demands, hips still rolling up to try and chase the curve of your palm.
Soon. You’re not sure you can wait much longer either, not when he’s all spread out and flushed and desperate for you. The hand on his bulge stays there, a featherlight touch ghosting over the hardness in his pants while your other hand reaches for the can you’d went to great pains to hide from Rafayel.
The paint is sticky. It’s cold and wet, the texture starkly different from the pulsing heat of Rafayel’s arousal. You dip the surface of your palm into the mouth of the can, holding it there until you’re certain your palm is coated in the viscous liquid.
“Stay still,” you say, and Rafayel stiffens under your hand. His lips part, mouth dropping open wider than it already was, and you can almost feel the hot breath from his lungs when you lift your stained palm up and position it over his clavicle.
You hesitate. “Chin up.”
Rafayel doesn’t even hesitate. He lifts his chin immediately, exhaling sharply when you inch closer, and the sound he makes when you press your palm against the base of his throat goes straight to your gut.
“Wet,” he pants weakly. His eyelashes flutter as he struggles to keep his eyes closed. “What’re you d’ing?”
“Shh.” You close your palm slightly, fingers reaching around to the side of his neck. You hold your palm there for a second, long enough to feel his breath stutter in his throat, and you watch the way he bites his lower lip when you lift your hand from his neck.
A pale purple handprint cups his throat, like a collar in the shape of your palm. Your thumb is imprinted on one side of the long column of his neck while your fingers decorate the other side.
You stare at his neck, the purple staining the skin right below the bulge of his Adam’s Apple, and you lean forward without thinking—Rafayel grunts, lips pressing tightly together to muffle the sound when you press against his length.
Your eyes are blown wide. Your breath is caught in your throat, barely conscious as you reach out for the can of paint by your side, palm dipping back in to refresh the coat sticking to your skin. You’re not as careful this time, soaking your hand briefly before pulling it back out to press it against Rafayel’s chest, right over his heart.
With your outstretched palm, fingers pulled apart so far that it starts to hurt; you press firmly against the jumping muscle, feeling the skip in his chest under your palm.
You’re close enough that your breath brushes across Rafayel’s face. His eyelashes tremble when you exhale and he tilts his head up, lips spreading open as if trying to blindly find your mouth.
“Wha’s this?” He slurs, voice slow as he reaches up to you, following the air slipping from your lips. “Mmph—’s sticky.”
“I won’t tell.” The words come out shaky. You feel strangely lightheaded. When you pull your hand back, you can’t drag your eyes away from the stark handprint marking his chest. Like you’ve branded him with your claim, so bold that you take even yourself by surprise.
Rafayel swipes his tongue across his lips. He looks parched, and his fingers twitch against the ground, scrabbling for purchase that he can’t find.
“You look good like this,” you say without much thought. “You look—”
He laughs, breathy and high. “Good enough to eat?”
You know he meant it as a joke, but it’s not entirely incorrect. The long line of his body, the curve of your palm pressed into his skin like an indelible mark, the persistent, leaking heat below you that begs for your attention; it’s a mouthwatering look.
“Yes,” you breathe, and his length jumps under your palm. You reach back for the paint again, fingers trembling slightly when you dip your hand in. With each pass, you’re messier, more careless about the way you flick the excess paint from the space in between your fingers. You press your palm to his abdomen, to the shaking, tense muscles there, and something hot rushes down your spine at the sudden sharp intake of breath from him.
You can feel it. His stomach, contracting as he inhales. The muscles quiver under your touch.
The fingers of your other hand suddenly tug at his zipper. Not to pull the metal up, but to yank it down. The button is quickly undone as well, dancing between the pads of your fingers as you force it out.
With the way he’s seated, there isn’t much room for you to pull his pants down. But undoing the zipper and the button is enough to expose his stiff length, the growing wet patch on the front of his briefs, dark and desperate.
He gasps, your name falling from his lips like a litany.
“Please”, he begs, hips tilting up to feed his clothed cock into your palm. “Please, please, please—”
You take your hand off him for a brief second and Rafayel immediately keens, rocking his hips up to chase the ghost of your touch.
“No, no, no—come back,” Rafayel pleads, eyelashes trembling like he’s this close to wrenching his eyes open, unable to hold himself back any further.
“Breathe.” You lick a stripe up your palm, making sure it’s wet with saliva before you bring it back down. It’s a bit of a weird angle, trying to pull his briefs down far enough to get your hand around his cock, but the whine Rafayel lets out the moment the heat of your palm cups his cock is incredible.
He sags, as if all the fight leaves his body. His abdomen undulates, twitching furiously with every shaky inhale he pulls into his chest, and you’re just as breathless.
The flush on his cheeks. The handprint around his neck, a choker marking him as yours. The handprint across his heart, a brand you want to tattoo into his skin. His stomach, slippery with wet paint, pulsing beneath your hand.
His cock, wet with precum and your spit, hard and throbbing in your grip. He moans, throwing his head back to expose his throat (handprint, you think wildly, eyes fixated on the purple marks around his neck, yours) when you twist your hand on the downstroke.
“Nngh—fuck. ‘m close,” he gasps, cock jerking in your hand. Precum drips from the tip, sticky and translucent, dripping all over your hand and his briefs and his pants. He’s making a mess.
You work him harder, pressing your thumb into the fat vein trailing the underside of his cock. It’s like you hold the secret to the world in your hand, a finger on his pulse point. Rafayel is so weak like this, so vulnerable, so obedient. You could ask him to heel and he would. You could ask him to crawl on his knees to feast between your legs and he would. All to get your hand on his cock like this.
The corner of his eyes are wet. Your breath hitches at the sight—if you had a free hand to wipe the salty tracks from his face, you could. But both hands are occupied, and so you lean in, mind blissfully empty except for the sight of Rafayel’s trembling body before you, and you lick at the corner of his eyes.
Salty. Exactly as you imagined.
Rafayel says your name on his next exhale, and it sounds like a sob. It sounds fragile. Like you have him dangling on a precipice and he’s about to topple off at the gentlest breath of air from you.
“Good boy,” you murmur, so soft that you’re not even sure if he hears. “Cum for me.”
“Aah, ‘m—’m close,” he tries, voice cracking halfway through his sentence. “Close, mmmph, please…”
Your paint streaked hand leaves his abdomen and flies up to his neck. You instinctively avoid the base of his neck, not wanting to ruin the stark handprint already there. You curve your hand instead, your thumb coming up to press right against his Adam’s Apple, right where it throbs, right where you can feel every vibration from his throat when he speaks, and your palm cups the back of his neck.
“Go on,” you croon, pressing down. You can hear the way his breath catches, catches—it cuts off, one last flurried, desperate inhale, before your name spills from his mouth with a hard jerk of his hips.
His cock pulses in your grip, cum spurting from the tip. It flies all the way up his abdomen, sticky white cum dripping across the messy handprint your left on his stomach. You stroke him through it, eyes greedily searching his face for every minute reaction as you work him through his orgasm, right over the edge and into overstimulation.
He doesn’t stop you. You hold him there, hand around his throat, hand around his cock, until you suddenly take your thumb off his Adam’s Apple. Rafayel’s entire body shudders violently, almost as if he’s experiencing a second orgasm as he sucks in a breath. His cock trembles, another weak rope of cum spilling onto your fingers.
And you rub your thumb over the weeping slit of his cock, rubbing the sensitive head until he’s making these tiny, fucked out sounds.
You work him until he’s shivering, and only then do you slowly slide your hand down to the base of his cock, holding him gently.
“Open your eyes for me, Rafayel,” you say quietly.
Rafayel exhales. He takes a while to catch his breath, chest heaving from exertion, and then he slowly, gradually, peels his eyes open.
He looks up at you with wet eyes, lips trembling as he pants, and you’re tempted to push him straight into another orgasm. You could, if you wanted to. You could push him back and suck his cock, work him back up into hardness and pull one more orgasm out of him.
Rafayel would let you. You know this like you know the back of your hand.
“Good boy,” you repeat, eyes soft as you absentmindedly sweep your thumb along the column of his neck. “You did very well.”
Rafayel doesn’t do anything except stare at you for a while. He licks his lips again, sucking at the insides of his cheeks.
“You…” Before he finishes his sentence, he takes a cursory glance down to your hand, eyes zeroing in on where you’re still holding the base of his cock.
He also notices the messy streak of paint in the vague shape of a handprint over his abdomen.
Rafayel squints. He tilts his head and catches sight of the handprint over his heart. The paint has slipped a little, mixing with the beads of sweat on his body to drip down his chest.
Eventually, he tilts his head back up, leaning into your hand cupping the back of his neck. He’s so loose-limbed that it feels like your hand is the only thing holding him upright—if you let go, he’ll go falling to the floor in a sprawl.
“Paint?” He asks, voice scratchy and hoarse. “This is the, ahem, big secret you didn’t want to tell me about?”
You blush, fingers constricting around his cock. It makes his breath hitch; Rafayel gives his cock a considering look, before reluctantly looking back up at you.
“Nice color,” he comments, raising an eyebrow. “Did you like marking me up?”
You grip the back of his neck, shaking him a little, like a wolf scruffing her cubs. “I did, but…” you shrug, nodding at the messy handprints on his skin. “They’re a little smudged.”
Under the moonlight, his eyes glitter. “I’ll teach you how to do it. Did you know there’s a certain kind of paint that tints the skin and lasts for around two weeks?”
You blink at him. “You want… the marks to last two weeks?”
Rafayel smirks up at you. His brash confidence is tempered by the blatant affection pooling in his gaze.
“I’d accept your marks even if they lasted forever,” he says casually, like your handprints aren’t drying on his skin and there isn’t cum streaked all over his abdomen. “Why shouldn’t the world know who I belong to?”
“You’re impossible,” you mutter, but Rafayel eyes the fond smile on your lips and laughs. “Come on, let’s get you cleaned up. And you may want to disinfect the floor. I told you doing it in your atelier was a bit of a hazard—”
Rafayel tilts his head up. He acts like he didn’t hear anything you just said, eyes bright as he smiles up at you. “Kiss.”
You huff. He’s so… so aggravating that you want to wring your hands.
But he looks up at you, expectant and waiting, and you can’t help but lean down to press your lips to his.
His lips are warm. Your mouth opens on instinct, sighing into the kiss as he licks into your mouth.
Then, there is a hand around your waist and a hand at the back of your head, winding into your hair. Rafayel leans back, abdomen tense and hard as he eases the both of you back onto the floor—not fast enough to hurt himself, but it takes you by surprise.
“Raf—you have paint and cum on you, don’t—!”
“Body paint, yes?” Rafayel interrupts you with a grin.
“Of course it’s body paint, we both know I can’t use your normal paints for this!”
Rafayel rolls the both of you over. “Then I think you’re a little overdressed, princess. I think it’s only fair if we both get to mark each other up, don’t you?” He sits up, glancing back briefly to locate the paint can before he hooks the handle with a finger and drags it over. “I’ll start with the back of your thighs.”
He slips one hand beneath the mouth of your sweatpants, fingers dancing lightly over your heated skin.
“Take it off,” Rafayel coaxes, his other hand already dipping into the paint can. “We’ll clean up after.”
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