The Painter and the Prince Who Cannot Be Painted novel · Chapter 5 of 24

Chapter 5: Ink

"Take it all off," Do-yun said, "and lie on your back."

Gyeol did as he was told, and the robe slid off his shoulders and pooled on the floor.

He lay on the quilts in the lamplight, bare and huge and flushed, with his long hair spread out under his head.

Do-yun had carried in the small stone slab and a jar of water.

He knelt beside him and began to grind a stick of black.

"What's that for?" Gyeol asked.

"I can't paint your face."

"No."

"So I'll paint the rest of you, and you can tell me if I get it right."

He chose his finest brush, the one made of weasel hair, thin as a barley awn.

He dipped it in clear water first and touched it to the hollow of Gyeol's throat.

Gyeol shivered.

The tip was cool and wet, and Do-yun dragged it slowly along the collarbone, out to the shoulder, and left a dark shining line.

"It tickles," Gyeol whispered.

"Hold still."

"Yes, Master."

Do-yun dipped the brush in ink this time.

He drew a long curve over the swell of the chest, around one dark nipple.

He watched it tighten under the wet hair of the brush.

Gyeol swallowed hard.

He kept his arms flat on the quilts, and every muscle in his body was trembling with the effort of obeying.

"Beautiful," Do-yun said softly.

He painted a line down the center of Gyeol's breastbone.

Then he curved it out over the ribs, following a long white scar.

"This one," he said, and touched the long white scar. "How?"

"A fall from a horse when I was twelve."

"And this?"

"Archery. A string snapped."

"And this one?"

"Do-yun." Gyeol laughed unsteadily. "You're asking about my scars to make me stop thinking about the brush."

"Is it working?"

"No."

"Good."

The brush slid lower, to the ridged muscle of his stomach.

Do-yun painted slow dark rings around his navel, then a trail of tiny strokes down the line of hair.

Gyeol's cock rose against his stomach, hard and flushed, thick at the root.

The head was wet.

Do-yun painted a single fine stroke along the underside of it, from the base to just under the head.

Gyeol made a cracked sound and his hips lifted from the quilts.

"Did I say move?"

"Sorry, sorry, I..."

"Hips down."

The hips came down, shaking.

Do-yun set the brush aside.

He was breathing fast himself, and his own cock was straining at his trousers, but he liked this slow part too much to hurry.

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