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the art she made

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Kneeling over Matt, Claire pauses and says, "Maybe sight is a distraction. But it's an awfully nice one."

His lips twitch in a hint of a smile. "You like what you see?"

"You know I always like seeing you with your shirt off."

"Tell me." His hands settle on her hips, a reminder that she has something she's supposed to be doing.

Claire takes up her rhythm once more, keeping it slow and easy. "You want to know what I see?"

"Well, I was nine the last time I saw myself in the mirror. I've got to admit I'm curious."

"You just want me to tell you that you're hot."

"Wait, I'm hot? That's good news."

She laughs. "All right, narcissist. Your hair is dark, and you're pale--might try going out in daylight someday, or somebody will mistake you for a vampire."

His head tips back a little when she shifts position, settling herself better atop him. "Vampires drink blood. I mostly just leak it."

The reminder makes her bite her lip. He slides one hand down her thigh. "Go ahead. Say it."

"The bruises," she says. "They're pretty stark, because you're so pale. In this light, I can't really see red in the scabs--a little in the scars, because they're lighter. It's like a tapestry." The story of Daredevil, written on his body.

This time the twitch in his lips isn't a smile.

She tightens around him, determined to bring this back to pleasure. "I like watching you beneath me. The light's all coming from one side, so you look like one of those paintings that's all darkness and light."


"It outlines your muscles. Your abs especially. Every time you thrust up into me, I can see them flex and release, rippling all the way up you." He's moving faster now, as if the image she's painting in his mind is doing something. As if it turns him on, hearing how she sees him. Turning him into a voyeur of himself. Claire trails her fingers down his chest. "I like watching you clutch the sheets, because I know it means you're thinking about what your cock feels, and you don't want to distract yourself by touching me. I like watching your head arch back, because it exposes the whole line of your throat to the light." And it looks vulnerable ... but she doesn't say that.

His breath is coming ragged, his hips threatening to lose the rhythm. "And I like watching your face. I know you're close because your lips are trembling, because you've closed your eyes. Then the instant it crests, when you let go and there's no mask, only you, only you."

He shudders beneath her, gasping, mouth open and slack. In that moment, he is her creation, the art that she has made: the strength of his body and the weakness of his wounds, the beauty of control cast aside. She watches him, unblinking and smiling, and fixes the image in her memory to keep.