To My First Love, With Regret - 29

—Honey, I’m home. What’s for dinner?

—The cook does the cooking.

There were only three of them, so who exactly was supposed to be the ‘cook’? And so Ethan played three roles on his own: father, cook, and nanny.

—The nanny looks after the kid.

—…….

Ethan gave a playful wink and poured the remaining wine into a glass, placing it in the hand of Eve, who was glaring at him.

Back then he was immature, but knowing the ways of the world now, he understood that it was normal for the woman to do the cooking. And hiring a cook was out of the question until they could secure his father’s financial support. Eve had to learn to cook.

—It’s my job now, isn’t it?

—It’s the cook’s job, isn’t it?

—You’re not the cook. You’re my husband.

Ethan bit down hard on his upward-curving lips. It was the exact expression he made when he was thrilled to hear something.

—Even so, no. This is my job.

He took the hand of the woman who was pouting at him and kissed her delicate palm.

He didn’t want the arduous marks of life to settle on this hand.

—Because this is a hand meant to paint masterpieces.

Eve decided to follow her husband’s advice. Which meant that while the chicken marinated in wine, she began painting a masterpiece.

—It’s great that you’re finally painting my portrait, but…

The model, leaning insolently on the long willow chair in the studio, complained with a whine.

—Does it have to be a nude?

It seemed to be true that Ethan had never posed nude before. He’d been flustered ever since she told him to strip completely.

—You strip just fine in bed, though.

A little gentle provocation was all it took for him to brazenly peel off his clothes and show her his naked body. But she noticed his discomfort once she finished the sketch. Without taking her eyes off the canvas, Eve retorted:

—You’re being awfully dramatic.

—Have you ever had a nude model?

—No.

—I’ll tell you what it feels like.

—Go on.

—I feel like a raw chicken.

Eve almost burst out laughing onto the canvas, which was now hard to acquire.

—But while the chicken enjoys the luxury of a wine bath, I have to exhibit my naked body. In broad daylight. I’m less than a chicken.

—If you were less than a chicken, would I paint you? You promised to be my nude model.

—Can’t you at least make my first portrait magnificent?

—Your body is magnificent.

Eve’s eyes traced the sculpted work of a god, a body more beautiful than any genius sculptor could create.

The platinum blond hair that seemed to carry the sweet-bitter scent of champagne. A face where boy and man coexisted. And muscles that were both so intimidating they made people tense up just by looking, yet simultaneously revealed his own tautness.

Elegance, masculinity, decadence, and raw wildness. It was a body that offered every aesthetic pleasure Eve expected in a man. Therefore, there was no man more perfect than Ethan to model for this painting, the subject of which was the God of Debauchery.

—As a painter, I feel obligated to eternalize your beautiful body.

A little flattered by her words, Ethan stretched the corners of his mouth, using his eyes to point to his sharply defined abs.

—This body is all thanks to you.

Eve turned her gaze back to the canvas, then paused and tilted her head.

—I worked out whenever I thought of you.

He was telling her about his suffering while harboring a one-sided love for her, but why did it sound so delightful? Eve suppressed a smile by gently biting her lip, just as Ethan had done.

—I’m disappointed. That means you don’t need to work out anymore.

—What are you talking about? We were at it night and day just yesterday.

For a man who boldly cracked such a lewd joke, he seemed oddly shy. For a God of Debauchery, too.

—Could you try to make the atmosphere emanating from your body a bit more—debauched?

—The atmosphere of my body? What kind of vague nonsense is that? Even if it exists, can I just change it as I please? I can’t even control my own hair.

After a barrage of scathing remarks, he looked down between his legs and gave a wicked grin.

—If I grab my cock and start swinging it, will I project the debauched atmosphere you’re looking for?

—Yes, go ahead.

Ethan, who had only said it to tease, narrowed his eyes. Eve knew he had no intention of actually doing it, so she dared him to. After all, the penis that used to leap up just by catching her eye had been pitifully limp ever since he became her art model.

To evoke a feeling of debauchery, it seemed best to refine his pose a bit. Eve got up, a paintbrush tucked between her fingers, and approached Ethan.

—Straighten your shoulders slightly. Tilt your head back just a tiny bit. Look arrogant. Don’t move anything else.

—This is what debauchery is.

—I said don’t move! Ah!

A hand suddenly plunged beneath her skirt. The entirely debauched habit of his hand instantly drained the strength from Eve’s body.

Plop.

The paintbrush fell from Eve’s hand onto Ethan’s lower abdomen. Following the rolling brush, white paint mixed with oil spattered across his abs. The man looked down at his lower belly, now a mess of sticky liquid, and sneered, «A masterpiece.»

—Title: When I Couldn’t Stand Thinking of You.

Eve glared at him, then stopped while wiping the paint off him with her apron.

—I told you not to move.

Because the flesh that had been limp between his legs suddenly swelled up and raised its head.

—You’re the one who got it up. Didn’t you want to eternalize this straight, lofty grandeur?

—This is for my eyes only.

Despite being told not to move, Ethan threw his head back and burst into laughter.

—Hmm, there’s only one way to get it back to its original shape…

The tip of his thick member bobbed just at the level of Eve’s lips, almost touching them. There was no reason for Eve not to put her mouth to him, as Ethan’s penis no longer disgusted her, but she got up. She had just been picking up a brush from the floor and an idea had sparked.

Click.

She put down the paint-stained brush and took out a new one. As she approached him, holding it, the man sitting on the long willow chair stood up. His tension was clearly visible.

—What are you going to do?

—Sable fur.

—That’s not what I asked, ugh…

—Soft and delicate like a feather, isn’t it?

With the fine tip of the brush, she lightly stroked the swollen flesh at the tip of his penis. The man’s huge, powerful, bronze-statue-like body twitched greatly from the small friction. It was amusing.

—Tell me if it hurts.

Ethan was clenching his teeth so hard his jaw protruded, but he absolutely refused to say it hurt.

—Hah… wait, ugh…

—Hmm… does this feel the best?

She newly discovered that the area around the meatus and the ridge behind the glans were the most sensitive. Eve enjoyed this new stimulation as much as Ethan did.

She was painting on a new canvas. The body’s owner generously provided the clear, sticky ‘paint.’ If it seemed like she needed more, she just squeezed and rubbed the thick ‘paint tube’ with her hand, and it gushed out.

With the brush, she layered the ‘paint’ on the dark-red flesh, and layered it again…

—Ugh!

She wondered if the willow chair would break. Ethan, who was clutching the chair and trembling, squeezed his eyes shut. She was curious if he knew this wasn’t a brush, even without seeing it.

Eve slowly bent her head. The moment she pulled the brush away and carefully licked the tip of his penis, Ethan’s eyes snapped open.

He knew.

He stared down at Eve in surprise, inhaling sharply. Eve met his gaze, then lowered her head again. The instant she took the flesh into her mouth, as if kissing it, he yanked his penis away from her lips.

—Already?

Semen, like white paint carelessly mixed with oil, burst forth from the tip of his penis, gushing down.

—You have a talent for turning men into premature ejaculators. Haa…….

A woman who looks refined yet possesses a natural talent for vulgar things. The fire of desire still burned brightly, even after his climax, all because of Eve.

Just look at what she was doing now.

Lady Evelyn, who shone with an elegant smile above her neck, was using a brush to gather the semen Ethan had spilled on his stomach, applying it into the valley between his abs.

Why are you painting my own seed back onto me?

The man, staring at the brush thick with semen, suddenly flashed an ominous smile. He snatched the brush and rose from the chair. Having long forgotten about the painting, Eve said nothing when her model moved.

—Ah…

He reached under the skirt of Eve, who was standing awkwardly with one knee still on the chair, and swiftly yanked down her underwear.

—Your turn.

He made Eve sit where he had been and knelt down at her feet.

—Lift your skirt.

Her slow, deliberate lifting of the skirt was swearingly not a provocation meant to tease him. She instinctively tensed up, knowing exactly where that brush would be used for teasing next. When she pulled the skirt up to her waist, he commanded:

—Spread your legs.

She could only spread her legs as far as the underwear, which was still caught around her ankles, would allow. That was enough to fully expose the canvas he intended to paint on.