My brush sweeps across his chest in broad swathes of colour, painting thick lines of scarlet and sapphire and sea green.  I trace the rounded curve of his hip and the lean muscle of his thigh, marking my passage with stripes of grey and gold.   I daub lightly at his slender calf, smooth strokes of pastel hues, and linger at the arch of his foot.  I hear the whisper of bristles against firm, taut flesh.  The ticking of the clock.  The faint whistle of the wind.  Muted sighs from softly parted lips. 

Sometimes, Brian awakens to find me crouched on the end of the bed.  Maybe I’ve gone to the bathroom or to get a drink of water, still mostly asleep, half in a dream, stumbling over my own feet.  And when I return, the closest I can get to the comfort of soft mattress and down pillow and welcoming arms and tangled legs is the end of the bed, and I sit perched atop the duvet, lost in the image of the canvas. 

Sometimes he blinks at me, eyes wide and unfocused, and mutters under his breath before pulling the pillow over his head and going back to sleep.  Sometimes he curses and rants, arms flinging wide.  Sometimes he just pushes outward with his foot and I tumble from my roost, rudely pulled away from the bizarre wanderings of my mind when my body connects with the cold, hard floor. 

And sometimes -- like this time -- his eyes are hazy and dark as he reaches for me.  His hand clasps my wrist and he pulls me to lay against him, cool sheets and hot flesh, and I press my mouth to his neck and taste his throbbing pulse and lap at the silken sweetness of his skin. His lips skim my hair.  His warm, wet mouth closes around my earlobe, sucking gently.  His hands caress my skin, dancing lightly across my arms, circling across my back, sketching along my spine.   His skilful fingers paint my body with an electric current of silver and gold.

“I could turn you into the most beautiful canvas,” I murmur against Brian’s chest.  Or maybe I only think the words, because the air seems heavy, weighing down my limbs, numbing me, stealing thought until only emotion remains.  I breathe open-mouthed against his chest, revelling in the scent of him, my eyelids fluttering as I fight the pull of sleep. 

“You already have,” Brian whispers back.  Or maybe it is the wind, answering for him.