I nodded. It was actually pretty quiet, which I found surprising. My neighborhood was much noisier than this at eight-thirty on a Friday night. A gust of chilly October air made me shiver and then I was following Cade into a dark space that flooded with light just seconds later.

It was an absolutely huge loft. It ran the entire length of the building, which made it almost three times the size of my apartment. The entire space was open, with the exception of what I assumed was a bathroom. A bed was shoved against the far wall, the mattress lumpy-looking even from where I stood. The blankets piled on it must've been a necessity during the winter. It wasn't cold in here since the wind was blocked, but it wasn't exactly warm either. A small kitchenette was in the other far corner with the basics. Fridge, sink, stove, none of which looked like they'd been used recently.

All of that, however, was peripheral. The majority of the room was taken up with what I now realized was the purpose for our visit. Canvases stood on easels and leaned against walls. A half-finished sculpture of some kind sat on a table among tubes of paint. It looked more like something formed from clay rather than chiseled from rock, but I couldn't tell what it was supposed to be. Among the paintings hanging on the walls were photographs, some black and white, some in color. A few were of people, but distant shots. Most were of nature or architecture.

“This is yours.” I made it a statement instead of a question.

“You wanted to see my work.” Cade took off his tux jacket and laid it across the back of a chair that looked like it had come from a thrift store.

“You don't live here, do you?” Somehow, I couldn't mesh the image of Cade in a tux with living here.

He shook his head. “I have a condo in the city.” He smirked at me. “And much nicer furniture.”

“Then what's this?” I gestured around me.

He hesitated and I wondered if he was trying to decide whether or not he wanted to tell me. “This is where I used to live.”

My eyebrows went up, but I didn't say anything. If he wanted to tell me more, then he would.

“Once I began in my current occupation, I could afford a nicer place, but I kept this place for my... hobby.”

The way he said the last word made me think he didn't exactly like thinking of art as a hobby. Instead of pushing, I walked over to the closest painting. It was a portrait of a sad-looking woman with dark brown curls and dark gray eyes. I didn't need Cade to tell me she was his mother. In addition to her curls and eyes, he had her nose and cheekbones. She was young in the picture, not too much older than Cade was now.

“She's beautiful,” I said.

“She was.” His words were clipped.

I suddenly remembered his tattoo, the letters RIP above 'Mom.' I didn't know the story or how long she'd been gone, but I turned to offer my condolences all the same.

“I work with different mediums, as you can see.” Cade turned his back to me and walked toward a stack of canvases, the gesture telling me we were venturing into forbidden territory. “I'm never sure which one's my best, so I try them all. Experiment and see what I can do with each one.”

“Do you develop the photographs yourself?” I followed his lead away from emotionally personal things.

“There's a space downstairs I use for a darkroom,” he said. “It was easier to convert that than try to add one up here. Photography's a fairly new thing.”

“Well, they're really good.” I cringed at my words. Couldn't I come up with something better than 'really good'?

“Thank you.” Cade picked up something from a cluttered table. He moved several easels out from the center of the room and then opened up the cloth he'd picked up and laid it on the floor. “You know,” he said. “I never bring clients here.”

A thrill went through me at his words and I told myself to stop being silly. We just had a different arrangement than he had with other women. It was an on-going teaching relationship, nothing more.

“I appreciate the chance to see your work,” I said, unsure how I was supposed to respond to his statement.

“You’re the only one who ever asked,” he said simply. He didn't look at me as he picked up some paint and brushes and set them on the drop cloth. “But now, I think you need to do something for me in return.”

The atmosphere in the room shifted.

“Let me paint you.”

I swallowed hard, visions of every movie I'd ever seen where a woman reclined on a couch, nude, and allowed a man to paint her. It wasn't the idea of Cade seeing me that made me hesitate. Once it was done, it would be there, available, for anyone to see.

“Cade, I–”

“It's part of your lesson for the night,” he said. “I was going to conduct this in a slightly different manner, but now that I have you here, this is what I want to do.” He took a step toward me. “Everything off. You can put it on the chair over there.”

Since he hadn't given me specific instructions about how he wanted me to undress, I did it quickly and efficiently. I was surprised at how easy it was to take off my clothes in front of him now. It had taken me months to not want to turn out the lights or undress under the blankets when I'd been with Ronald. Now, I easily resisted the temptation to cover myself as I turned back to Cade. My heart thudded painfully against my chest as I saw he was stripping as well. The man was a work of art himself.

It wasn't until he walked over to put his clothes on the chair that I thought to wonder why he was naked as well. Before I could ask, he was giving me new instructions.

“Go stand in the center of the drop cloth.”

I did as I was told, but couldn't stop myself from flicking my eyes down to catch a glimpse of his cock. I licked my lips as I remembered how he tasted and I wondered what it would be like to take it now when it was still soft, feel it grow in my mouth until I couldn't take it all. My pussy grew wet at the thought.

When I turned to face Cade, he was walking toward me with a paintbrush in one hand and a palette of different colors in the other.

“My dry cleaner would kill me if I got paint on my tux,” he said. “And this is going to get messy.” He dipped the paintbrush into a dark red color.

I gasped as the cool paint spread across my breast. Definitely not what I had in mind when I agreed to let him paint me. But, as the soft bristles moved over my skin, spreading the paint in circles, I had to admit that I liked the sensation. It wasn't quite tickling, but close enough that I wanted to squirm as the brush started down between my breasts. Cade switched to a deep blue that mixed with the red to make purple, and that was the color he ran down my stomach to my belly button. The brush moved over my hips and around my back.

When it dipped into the top of my crack, my hands clenched. The brush began to zig-zag across my left cheek, then my right until most of my skin was covered. Then it was gone and I heard it drop to the floor. A moment later, Cade's hand was in the middle of my back, the paint slick between our skin.

He walked around me so that I could see him again. His eyes met mine for a moment and then he dropped to his knees and put his hands on my hips. The paint on his palms was black, but it only registered for a moment before he was kissing me.

I cried out as his mouth pressed against me, his tongue delving between my lips to find my clit. I'd never considered how waxing would change the way oral sex felt. It was like there were nerves I'd never known existed and Cade's mouth was finding every single one.

I reached out to put my hands on his shoulders to steady myself and he pulled back. I made a sound of protest, my fingers flexing.

“Get paint on your hands,” he said. “Touch your breasts.”

I cupped my breasts, covering them with my hands and squeezing to make sure my palms were covered with paint. My nipples were hard, aching for attention, and I obliged, rolling them between my fingers until Cade pushed my legs further apart and ran his tongue down to my core. My hands dropped to his shoulders, smearing color across his tanned skin.