He gave a low laugh.
“Point taken. You win. Happy now?”
Yes. Yes I was.
“Thanks,” I said, smiling widely. Then I lost the smile as he scowled at me.
“Don’t move your face—I’m working.”
“Yes, sir,” I said, trying to relax. I didn’t know what he was painting on me and I didn’t care. Every stroke was like a finger running over my skin, sending chills through me while sparking a slow-burning need deep inside. He leaned in closer, eyes searching across my features, then darting back down toward the colors, utterly absorbed in his work.
This seemed a little unfair, because ten minutes later he’d covered most of my face (which I didn’t have a problem with) and I’d seriously soaked my panties (big problem). So far as I could tell, Painter hadn’t even noticed that I wasn’t just another mural board.
“Lift your chin,” he said, his voice soft. I lifted, shivering as the cool brush stroked down the length of my neck.
“What are you doing?”
“Expanding the picture,” he said, sounding almost detached. “This is fun and I’m not ready to stop yet. In fact, why don’t you unbutton your shirt and take it off? Gives me more room to work.”
I pulled back, staring him down.
“That sounds like a pick-up line from a bad porno,” I said, torn between laughter and frustration, because deep down inside I wanted nothing more than to strip down in front of him.
Well, actually what I wanted was him stripped in front of me, but you know what I mean.
“You wanted me to show you how to paint,” he said, frowning. “I’m doing that. And you’ve got a bra on—trust me, I’d know if you didn’t—so it’s not like you’ll be naked. And you should stop watching bad porn. The good stuff is harder to find, but it’s worth it.”
I opened my mouth to reply, then snapped it shut because no way in hell did I want to discuss the varying quality of porn across the spectrum. But he made a good point about the bra . . . I had no issues with wearing a bikini top down at the beach during the summer.
(And yes, I knew I was rationalizing—I was in heat, not stupid.)
I started unbuttoning my shirt, pretending his eyes weren’t following my fingers like his life depended on it, because if I had to suffer, it seemed only fair that he should, too.
Painter’s breath caught when I pulled my shirt apart, then slowly pushed it back and off my shoulders. I had a decent body—I knew that. It wasn’t as great as Jessica’s, but when I made the effort I could definitely hold my own. Even so, I wasn’t used to the kind of appreciation I saw in his eyes.
The shirt dropped back down behind me, and I found myself sitting up straight. Thankfully, I’d put on a decent bra that morning. Black and lacy, dipping low between my breasts. It wasn’t a sexy push-up, but it wasn’t plain white cotton, either.
Painter reached out, running the brush down my neck and along my collarbone, sending shivers through me. When he did the other side, I felt the first goose bumps breaking out, all along my arms.
“Are you cold?” he asked, his voice a husky whisper.
“No.”
His eyes burned through me, and I thought I saw the same aching need in his that had to be in mine.
“Okay.”
Things sort of blurred together after that. He kept my head up, refusing to let me watch as he traced patterns across my chest and down along my stomach. Aside from the occasional finger on my chin, he never touched my skin once . . . Just that soft, cold brush passing across my flesh, over and over, deep and strong.
After what felt like hours, he had me turn away from him, straddling the chair so he could start on my back. By this point my entire body was humming with need, but also a strange sense of calm. Like we’d transitioned into some separate reality, where there was only me, him, and the cool slide of the paint against my skin.
He started down my shoulder blade, pausing to slide my bra strap to the side. I heard a sound of frustration, then he was dabbing at my skin with a damp paper towel.
“Do you want me to take it off?” I asked, the words hardly more than a whisper.
CHAPTER TEN
PAINTER
I stared at Mel’s back, wondering if I’d actually heard her right. Hell yeah, I wanted her to take it off.
For the painting, of course.
This was about art, not about being a perverted horndog who wanted to get laid. Not even a little bit.
“Yeah, that would be good,” I said casually, reaching out with my left hand to unhook it before she could change her mind. Shit. Should’ve set the brush down and used two hands—no need to advertise how many times I’d done this. She didn’t say anything, just sitting there quietly while I lowered each of the straps, reaching up to catch the front against her chest.
Her back lay open in front of me, the perfect canvas. It was lightly muscled, tapering in at her waist before flaring out to her hips. She wore jean shorts that were stretched out and loose, gaping ever so slightly at the small of her back, giving me a glimpse of black satin below. God, I hoped they matched the bra she’d taken off. That thing was fucking perfect—sexy, but also sort of sweet and almost virginal compared to what most of the women I knew wore. Not that Mel was a virgin . . . I’d done enough checking up to know she had some experience.
Shouldn’t matter to me—I had zero intention of sleeping with her—but knowing she’d been with other guys was a relief, in a way. Less pressure not to fuck things up, which was a nonissue because we absolutely weren’t going to do a damned thing together.