Roomie Roulette — Bonus Chapter

A scene too hot for Amazon. Set between Chapters 23 and 24.

⚠️ Content Warning: This bonus chapter contains graphic sexual content including restraints, blindfolding, multiple orgasms, toy use, and explicit language. Intended for adult readers 18+ only.

The Gallery After Dark

Jordan

The gallery was mine until midnight.

Petra had handed me the keys after the solo show’s closing reception with her usual economy of words: “Lock up when you’re done. Don’t spill wine on the floor.” She hadn’t asked why I wanted the space after hours. Petra never asked questions she didn’t need the answers to, which was one of approximately seven hundred reasons I adored her.

The reason was Kylie. The reason was always Kylie.

She didn’t know yet. I’d told her we were going out—”wear something you don’t mind ruining”—and she’d appeared from the bedroom in paint-splattered jeans and one of my t-shirts and said “how’s this?” and I’d almost scrapped the entire plan in favor of the kitchen counter because the sight of her in my clothes still, still, made my hands shake.

But I had a plan. And the plan required the gallery.

We arrived at ten. The street was quiet. I unlocked the door, guided her inside with my hand on the small of her back, and hit the lights—not the full track system, just the accent spots I’d pre-programmed that afternoon. A warm wash over the center of the room, where I’d set up a nest of blankets and pillows on the gallery floor, surrounded by candles in glass jars.

Kylie stopped in the doorway. “Jordan. What is this?”

“This is our gallery. After hours. With no one watching.” I stepped behind her. Wrapped my arms around her waist. Pressed my mouth to the spot below her ear that made her shiver every single time. “I want to paint you.”

“You’ve painted me a hundred times.”

“Not like this.” I reached into the bag I’d stashed behind the reception desk. Pulled out two items: a silk blindfold—black, the same material as the wrist restraints she’d asked me to use on anniversary night—and a set of body-safe art paints. Six colors. Warm tones. Designed for skin.

Her eyes went wide. Then dark. The pupil expansion that I’d learned to read as the precise moment Kylie Bennett’s brain handed the keys to her body.

“You want to paint on me,” she said.

“I want to paint on you. And I want you blindfolded so you can’t see what I’m painting. You’ll only feel it.” I held up the blindfold. “You’ll feel every brushstroke. Every line. And you won’t know what the image is until I’m done.”

“And if I can’t hold still?”

“Then the painting gets messy.” I kissed her neck. “I like messy.”

She pulled her shirt over her head. “Blindfold me.”

• • •

She lay on the blankets in the center of the gallery, naked, blindfolded, the candlelight turning her skin to warm gold. The paintings watched from the walls—our paintings, the queer love series, the anonymous bodies and obscured faces that were all her. And here she was. The real version. Unobscured.

I knelt beside her. Dipped the brush into the first color—a deep amber, the same shade I’d used for the kitchen floor painting. The bristles were soft. Designed for this. I’d tested them on my own forearm to make sure the sensation was right: not ticklish. Sensual.

I touched the brush to her collarbone.

She gasped. Not from cold—the paint was room temperature. From the specificity of the contact. A single point of soft bristle on bare skin, moving with intention, and she couldn’t see where it was going.

“Stay still,” I murmured.

“I’m trying.”

I painted. Slow, deliberate strokes—following the line of her collarbone to the hollow of her throat, then down. Between her breasts. The brush gliding over the soft skin of her sternum, leaving a trail of amber that caught the candlelight like liquid gold. Her breathing changed—shallow, rapid, the air moving through parted lips.

I painted a line from her sternum to her navel. Her stomach muscles tightened under the brush. I circled her navel—a slow, spiraling pattern that mimicked the mandala on my own thigh—and she moaned. Soft. Involuntary. The sound of a woman whose body was interpreting every brushstroke as a touch, because it was a touch. The most deliberate, controlled, agonizingly precise touch I’d ever given her.

“What are you painting?” she whispered.

“You’ll find out when I’m done.”

“Jordan—”

“Patience.”

I switched colors. A deep rose—warm, flushed, the color of her skin when she was aroused. I painted her breasts. Not over the nipples—around them. Spiraling inward with decreasing radius, the brush circling closer and closer to the peaked center without making contact, and her back arched off the blanket and her hands fisted in the fabric and she made a sound that was closer to begging than anything I’d heard from her before.

“Please—”

I painted directly over her nipple. One stroke. The soft bristles dragging across the sensitive peak, and she cried out—sharp, electric—her whole body jerking.

“God—that’s—I didn’t know that would—”

“The blindfold amplifies everything. Your brain can’t predict where the next touch is coming, so every nerve fires at maximum.” I painted the other nipple. Same single, devastating stroke. Same cry. Same full-body spasm. “And you can’t brace for it because you can’t see.”

“I’m so wet, Jordan. I’m—I haven’t been touched and I’m already—”

“I know.” I could see it—the glistening between her thighs, the evidence of an arousal built entirely from anticipation and the ghost-light pressure of a paintbrush. “We’re not done painting yet.”

I worked lower. Down her hips—the curve I’d painted a hundred times on canvas, now painting on the original. Along her thigh—the inner thigh, where the skin was thin and sensitive and my brush made her legs tremble. She spread them wider without being asked, an unconscious offering, and the sight of her—blindfolded, painted, open, trusting—made my own arousal pulse so hard I had to press my thighs together to stay focused.

I painted between her legs.

Not inside. Not on her clit. On the crease of her inner thigh, centimeters from where she needed contact, the brush trailing through the wetness that had spread to her thighs. She sobbed—an actual sob, not from pain but from the sustained, excruciating denial of the touch her body was screaming for.

“Jordan, please—I need you to touch me—really touch me—I can’t—”

I set down the brush.

Replaced it with my mouth.

The first contact of my tongue on her clit—after twenty minutes of brush-only stimulation, twenty minutes of building arousal with no release, twenty minutes of her body wound so tight a single touch could break her—produced a reaction that I felt through the floor. Her hips surged up. Her hands flew to my braids. A scream tore from her throat that echoed off the gallery walls and bounced between the paintings and filled the entire space with the raw, unfiltered sound of a woman coming apart.

She came in under thirty seconds. Fast and brutal, her body clenching and releasing in waves that I rode with my mouth, tongue flat against her clit, hands gripping her painted thighs. The orgasm went on longer than usual—the extended buildup producing a proportionally extended release, aftershocks rippling through her for what felt like minutes.

I didn’t stop.

I slid two fingers inside her while my mouth stayed sealed over her clit, and the penetration on top of the still-cresting orgasm pushed her directly into a second one—sharper, harder, her body jackknifing off the blanket, the blindfold damp with sweat, paint smeared across both of us in abstract streaks that turned our skin into a shared canvas.

“Off—” she gasped, reaching for the blindfold. “I need to see you—I need—”

I pulled the silk away. Her eyes—dilated, wild, adjusting to the candlelight—found mine. I was kneeling between her legs, my chin wet, my hands painted amber and rose, my braids half-undone from her grip.

“Hi,” I said.

“Get up here.” She grabbed the front of my shirt and hauled me up her body and kissed me with the desperation of a woman who’d been sensory-deprived and over-stimulated simultaneously and needed to ground herself through mouth-to-mouth contact. I tasted paint and salt and her and the combination was so specific, so us, that I groaned into her mouth.

“Your turn,” she said against my lips. “Take your clothes off.”

“Ky—”

“Now. On the blanket. I’m painting you.”

• • •

She didn’t use the blindfold on me. She used her eyes.

I lay on the blanket—naked, painted in the smeared remnants of her colors, the candles guttering around us—and watched her pick up the brush with the focused determination that I recognized from every sexual encounter we’d had. The face of a woman who was learning and intended to get an A.

She chose a new color—a deep violet, almost black—and started at my wrist. Traced the edge of the forget-me-nots tattooed there, painting over the ink with the new color, layering art on art. The sensation of the brush following the path of my tattoo—a path she’d traced with her fingers a hundred times—was staggeringly intimate. Not new territory, but the same territory experienced through a different medium.

“These are for me,” she said, painting over the tiny blue flowers. Not a question. She’d known since I told her. “You got these because you lost me.”

“I got these because I wanted to remember what wanting felt like.”

“And now?”

“Now I don’t need a tattoo to remember. I have the real thing.”

She leaned down and kissed the painted forget-me-nots. Then continued painting—up my arm, over the botanical sleeve, adding violet accents to the florals like she was collaborating with the original artist. Across my shoulder. Down my chest. She painted around my nipple piercings with the same spiraling technique I’d used on her, and the payback was devastating—the brush circling tighter, tighter, until the bristles brushed the metal and I hissed through my teeth.

“Sensitive?” she asked innocently. She was not innocent. She was a woman who had discovered power and was wielding it with the enthusiasm of a recent convert.

“You know it is.”

“I do.” She flicked the piercing with the tip of the brush. My entire body jolted. “I really do.”

She painted down my stomach. Along the ridge of muscle that she liked to trace with her tongue. Over my hip—the crescent moon tattoo she kissed every morning. And then lower. Following the V of muscle that pointed like an arrow to where I needed her, the brush trailing through the short hair, the bristles soft against skin that was screaming for firmer contact.

“Kylie—”

“Patience.” My word, returned to me. “That’s what you said, right?”

“I’m regretting that.”

“You should.” She set down the brush. Replaced it with her mouth.

She kissed up my inner thigh. The mandala—painting over it with her lips the way she’d painted over my forget-me-nots with the brush. I could feel paint transferring between us—her body to mine, mine to hers—our colors mixing on our skin until neither of us could tell where one ended and the other began.

She put her mouth on me, and everything I’d been holding collapsed.

I came fast—embarrassingly fast, the twenty minutes of painting her having wound me tighter than I’d realized. Her tongue on my clit, her fingers inside me, the visual of her body painted in amber and rose kneeling between my legs in the center of an art gallery surrounded by paintings of us—it was too much stimulus, too much beauty, too much her. I came with my hands in her paint-streaked hair and my back arched off the gallery floor and a sound that would have horrified me in any context except this one, where it was exactly right.

She didn’t stop either. She worked me through the first orgasm and into a second—slower this time, building with the patience she’d learned from me, the patience that was now being weaponized against me with devastating effect. Her fingers curled against my G-spot and her tongue circled my clit and I came again with her name on my lips and paint on both of our bodies and the gallery holding us like a cathedral of everything we’d made together.

• • •

Afterward, we lay on the blanket. Side by side. The candles were down to stubs. The gallery was quiet. Paint was everywhere—on the blankets, on our skin, on the floor that Petra had specifically told me not to spill on.

“We’re going to have to clean this up,” Kylie said.

“We’re going to have to clean ourselves up. You look like a Jackson Pollock.”

“You look like a Monet. If Monet was extremely hot and had nipple piercings.”

“That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

She rolled onto her side. Looked at me. The paint on her body had smeared into abstract patterns—amber and rose and violet mixing across her skin in streaks and swirls that were, genuinely, beautiful. The accidental art of two bodies in motion. The collaboration of love and paint and the complete absence of inhibition.

“Jordan.”

“Mm.”

“What were you painting on me? Before. When I was blindfolded. What was the design?”

I smiled. “Forget-me-nots.”

Her face crumpled. The beautiful, devastating crumple of a woman who’d been loved in a language she was still learning to read.

“Because I never will,” I said. “Forget you. Not in this life or any other.”

She kissed me. Paint-smeared and tear-streaked and perfect.

“Take me home,” she whispered.

“You’re already home.”

“I know. But our shower is there. And I have paint in places paint should not be.”

I laughed. She laughed. The gallery held the sound like it held the paintings—with care, with warmth, with the understanding that some things were too important to let go of.

We cleaned up. Mostly. Locked the door. Walked home through the city at midnight, paint still visible on our necks and arms, two women who looked like they’d either committed a crime or created a masterpiece.

Both, probably.

Both.

Thank you for reading this exclusive bonus chapter from Roomie Roulette by Aurora North.

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