Page 50 of The Freeuse Proposal
The guys lead me down the hallway to the room Leo mentioned as a possible art studio.
Leo turns the handle and pushes the door wide.
The windows are the same as I remember, stretching across the far wall with the backyard buried in snow beyond them. But the room has been transformed. A drop cloth covers the hardwood, and a wooden easel stands in the center, angled toward the light. The shelves along the far wall are stocked with supplies: oil paints, acrylics, watercolors, tubes, and pans, arranged by color. Jars of brushes in every size, from fine detail rounds to wide flats. Palette knives, charcoal pencils, a tin of graphite sticks, rolls of tape, bottles of linseed oil and turpentine.
A stack of canvases leans against the shelves in different sizes, and beside them, a pad of thick watercolor paper and a sketchbook with a leather cover. A wooden palette rests on a small worktable next to jars for water, rags, and a set of palette cups. In the corner near the windows, there’s a comfortable reading chair with a side table and a lamp, like he knew I’d wanta place to sit in the morning light with a poetry book and a cup of coffee.
Leo did this. When I was shopping at the mall with his credit card and walked past the art supply store and told myself I didn’t deserve to go in, he was planning to turn this empty room into a studio for me for Christmas.
I can’t move. Can barely breathe. The tears come before I can stop them. Not pretty tears. My face crumples, and I press both hands over my mouth. My shoulders shake because nobody has done anything like this for me since my parents died, and I didn’t think someone would ever want to again.
Leo wraps his arms around me from behind, tucking his chin on top of my head and holding me while I fall apart. His chest is solid against my spine, and oranges surround me. He lets me cry until I’m done.
“I’ve got you, lass,” he murmurs into my hair.
I turn in his arms and bury my face against his neck, breathing him in. I don’t know how long we stand there, but it’s long enough that the tears run dry and I’m left hiccupping against his chest.
“You built me a studio,” I say into his neck. “Thank you.”
“I converted a room,” he says, and I can hear the smile in his voice. “Dane helped me pick out the supplies over the phone. He has strong opinions about brushes.”
I look over Leo’s shoulder. Dane is leaning in the doorway, arms crossed, watching us. His eyes are soft. He’s glad. That undoes me almost as much as the studio.
“Thank you,” I say to him and smile.
“You’re welcome.”
Leo kisses my temple again. “Merry Christmas, Alice.”
I glance around in happiness. This is the first Christmas in years that’s felt like one.
We eat BLTs for lunch, and Leo puts on soft Christmas music. At some point, I pull on panties and a pair of shorts, which feels almost modest compared to how I spent last night. I curl up on the couch between them with Dane’s poetry book while Leo reads on his tablet and Dane watches the fire.
My legs are draped across Leo’s lap, his hand on my ankle. I’m leaning against Dane’s side, his arm behind me, and I can feel his breathing against my shoulder. I keep sneaking glances at both of them. Leo’s jaw, the firelight on the gray at his temples. Dane’s long fingers resting on the back of the couch. I want to draw those hands.
I read a poem about wild geese and not having to be good—no kneeling for forgiveness—and something loosens in my chest.I’m sitting between two men who gave me art supplies and poetry and a whole room just because I mentioned once that I used to paint. Now I want to be on my knees for them, not in penance, but just because it feels right and that’s enough.
“I want to thank you,” I say, closing the book. My voice is steady. “For this morning. For everything.”
I slide off the couch and onto my knees between them. Leo’s hazel eyes darken while Dane’s gaze sharpens. My heart hammers. The hunger in their eyes tells me they understand what I’m offering, and they want it as much as I do.
Leo’s jaw flexes. “You don’t have to thank us, lass.”
”I know I don’t have to.” I look up at him through my lashes. “I want to.”
He glances at Dane, and a silent conversation passes between them. Dane gives a single nod.
Leo slides his hand into my hair, tilting my head back. “Good girl. Now, show us how badly you want our cocks.”
My pussy pulses, and my nipples tighten. I’m kneeling on Christmas afternoon with two men looking down at me, and my whole body is buzzing with how badly I want this.
I turn to Leo first because he’s the one with his hand in my hair. I run my palms up his thighs, and the muscles tense under his pajama pants. He’s already hard, his cock straining against thecotton, and when I wrap my fingers around him through the fabric, he lets out a low hiss between his teeth. Good. I want to hear that sound again and again.
“Impatient,” he says, and his voice has gone rough, the Scottish burr thickening the way it does when he’s turned on.
“Then let me show you,” I say, tugging at the waistband of his pants. He lifts up so I can pull them down.
His cock springs free, and I wrap my hand around the thick length of him. He pulses against my palm. I stroke him once from base to tip, watching the way his abs clench, and my mouth waters.
