Mr. Beautiful

I froze when I saw them, not quite believing my eyes.

It had been building up for a while, my hate, building up in every tender look he sent her way, every laugh I heard him draw out of her.

Years' worth of the build.  Of wondering if I was crazy, debating whether it was my imagination, looking for signs, for evidence of it every time I saw him.

All of that hate came right to the surface, nearly spilling out of me as I observed what I was seeing then.

At least I wasn't crazy.  There was some relief in that, though not much.

Here he was, not seeing me, and looking right at her, his heart in his eyes, so much longing there that I had to restrain myself from physically attacking him where he stood.

She, for her part, wasn't looking at him.  Her head was down, her full concentration on the canvas.

My chest was moving with my heavy breaths.  I loosened my tie, trying to drag more air into my lungs, feeling like I had heavily exerted myself, because in a way I had.

It was quite an effort, this restraint I was holding onto by the thinnest margin.

He just kept doing it, his eyes devouring her downcast head, moving lovingly over each strand of her loose hair, hair that he wasn't allowed to so much as touch.

But those looks were worse than a touch.

She worked standing up, as she usually did, palette in one hand, brush in the other, absolutely absorbed in what she was doing.

She was at her most beautiful like this, with those dreams in her soulful eyes, and I knew I looked just as lovesick as Joseph did every time I glanced at her.

She was barefoot, wearing a thin little white tank top with paint splattered on it and loose beige shorts.  Nothing too indecent, but it showed off her legs, and hugged her curves.  Her soft round tits looked positively f**kable under that thin material.

I approached behind her, and so he saw me first.  Instantly and damningly, his expression became closed off, blank, neutral even, as he tried to hide it from me.

But I couldn't un-see what I'd just seen from him.

I fought not to curl my lip at him and moved my attention to her.

I studied her work in progress over her shoulder for a while before she noticed me.

It was a portrait of him from the shoulders up.  He was smiling in it, a glint in his eye, but not the one I'd witnessed, which was something, at least.

The painting was good, of course, but very far along, almost finished.

This hadn't been their first session.

I caught his eye, jaw clenched, nostrils flared, just staring him down for a long time, not bothering to hide what was in my eyes, like he was.

Finally, she noticed me.  She jumped a little, turning, the hand holding her paintbrush flying to her chest.

"I swear I really am going to get you that bell one of these days," she said, smiling at me, looking so happy to see me, no guilt or artifice in her eyes.

It loosened the awful grip around my heart a bit.

I didn't say a word, just moved close, pressing my body to hers, I gripped her head in both hands and started kissing.

I ran my tongue over her lips, then slid it deep into her mouth, moaning loudly at the taste of her.

She still held her palette and brush, arms out wide to try to keep from getting paint on my suit, body rigid against mine.

That was fine.  I took it as a personal challenge.

I drew her tongue into my mouth, stroking it with mine.

My arousal hung heavy and conspicuous between us, even through clothes, and I pushed it against her hip persistently.

I deepened the kiss, thrusting my tongue against hers, coaxing her to suck it.

She shifted and acquiesced tentatively.  She hadn't forgotten that we weren't alone.  She was still aware of him.

I bit her lip, one hand sliding down her body to cup her ass, gripping a fleshy handful to hold her in place while I ground my hardness into her softness, probing, moving it from her hip to her groin, bending my knees until I was making direct contact with her most sensitive nerves, grinding hard enough that I could feel the little bud of her piercing against my seeking cock.

I pulled her hair, grabbed her ass, sucked her tongue, and circled my hips.

Both palette and brush dropped to the floor, her hands reaching to grip the lapels of my jacket like she was holding on for dear life.

I smiled and pulled back, eyes unerringly seeking out Joseph.

He hadn't left, or turned his back, as he should have.

Instead he was staring right at us with his untarnished eyes.

I took a deep breath and set her away from me.

She was dazed, eyes unfocused, lips parted.

And best of all, she'd forgotten all about him.

"Go up to bed," I told her, voice low and rough, but loud enough to carry.  "Get yourself ready for me."

She nodded, breathing heavy, and obeyed.

I didn't follow her right away.

I tugged impatiently at my tie, loosening it, and then unfastening the first two buttons at my throat.

I shoved my hands in my pockets, shooting a malevolent glare in his direction.

He met my gaze squarely, still just standing there.  He looked like he wanted to say something, but he held his tongue.

I stared him down for a solid five minutes, daring him to say anything at all, neither of us uttering a word for that long, awkward stretch.

Finally, I smirked, running a hand through my hair, still not looking away from him.

I shrugged off my suit jacket, finished taking off my tie.  I started to unbutton my shirt, illustrating clearly what I was up to next.

"Don't wait up," I told him, my voice mocking, and turned away.