The door opens and closes behind me, but I keep my eyes trained forward, to keep his surprise a secret a little while longer. Metal clinks. The plastic under our feet shuffles with him. My heart races. My fingers curl. I need him . . . I hate admitting it, but I do.
He presses his cold hand to the top of my spine, slowly trailing a finger down until he hits the edge of my panties. “Ready for your surprise?”
I nod.
“Turn,” he commands, letting his hand fall away from me.
After taking one last deep, cleansing breath, I pivot to get a better look at the man who’s putting my senses into overdrive. His shoes and socks are gone, as is his shirt. He’s every sexual fantasy I’ve ever had wrapped in one.
“I don’t do well with surprises,” I announce quietly. His eyes burn, and words are the only way I can extinguish it.
He bends to pick up a paint palette from the floor, then closes all but a few inches of space between us. “Close your eyes.”
I do, parting my lips to remind myself to breathe. When I was younger, I’d shut my eyes on the fair rides because I didn’t want to see the world go by. I’d pretend it was just me on an epic adventure. It was my way of being anywhere besides where I actually was.
Tonight is different. I want to hear, see, and touch Blake. I want to press my nose to his skin and breathe him in. I need his lips on mine, to taste him.
When something cold makes contact with the skin between my breasts, I flinch. It shocks me . . . then it just feels right. The contrast. The wetness. “Keep your eyes closed while I paint this gorgeous body of yours. Can you do that?”
I swallow hard, because that’s all I can do. This is different—challenging me, exposing inhibitions I didn’t realize I had.
“I want you to listen and feel. Nothing else.”
Rolling my shoulders back, I try to relax, to sink into the moment as if it were a soft place to fall. His paint-covered fingers trace the underside of my breast. I know he’s probably watching me, waiting for a reaction—a moan, a buckle, anything.
“I used to think these were the best part of a woman’s body,” he breathes, continuing to circle my breasts. “But they’re not . . . not even close.”
The pads of his fingers trace a line down my stomach, past my belly button, before gliding across the top of my panties. Warmth builds between my legs. I need him to touch me there, to feel the pressure of his fingers against me. To make me climb the stairway until I’m calling out his name and nothing else matters.
His feet shuffle against the plastic-covered floors. His fingers curve around my hip, traveling around to the small of my back. It’s sensual—a mere caress—and if it weren’t for the paint he trails with him, it would be difficult to make out.
The more he paints, the more desperate I become.
Desperate for him, and the way he makes me feel.
Desperate for us, and how everything else fades away when we’re fitted together.
One stroke, and I’d be done. I’d be his.
The cold paint he leaves in his wake makes me shiver, the coolness contrasting with the warmth I feel inside.
“And I think . . . no, I know I could slide right into this sweet little body. I can practically smell how wet you are. Am I right?” He brushes across my other hip, completing the perfect circle.
I nod, biting down on my lower lip to hold back a moan. I’m dripping for him . . . in need of him.
When he’s standing in front of me again, the heat of his body warms mine. His hand falls away long enough to be coated in more paint. I wonder what color it is. If it has anything to do with me, how he feels, or how he sees me.
When we reconnect, his whole hand is splayed across my stomach, covering almost the entire width of it. He keeps it there long enough to warm the liquid pigment between us. It’s sticky, causing friction as he slides back up between my breasts.
“Is your heart beating for me?” His fingers curl around my wrist, bringing my hand to his bare chest. His heart pounds against my palm. “Feel that? Do you feel what happens to me when I’m touching you?”
I’m hanging onto every word, inhaling and letting every one hit me with more sexual potency than the last. He’s wound me up so tight . . . he just needs to let me go. “Touch me, Blake.” My voice is desperate. There’s no hiding it.
“Where, baby? Show me where.” His voice is strained, husky, making me want him even more.
I remove his palm from my chest, utilizing the wet paint to slide it down between my legs. “Here,” I murmur.
He curls his fingers into me through the lacy material. It’s exactly what I wanted . . . what I needed. Then he suddenly pulls away, and I can’t help but open my eyes. Plastic crinkles under his feet as he picks up a white cloth to wipe his colorful fingers with. I fight the urge to scream out, to beg and plead for the feel of his skin on mine.
I hold back, rubbing my thighs together to sooth the ache.
As his eyes drink me in, the cloth falls from his hand. He steps closer, his shoulder brushing against me. My heart hammers, waiting. His soft lips tickle my ear, warm breath hitting me before words ever do. “Like this?” he asks, circling my swollen flesh with his fingertips. “Or did you want something more like this?” he adds, pushing my panties aside and inserting one of his long fingers inside of me.
The moans I’ve been holding in refuse to stay caged any longer. I close my eyes so all I can do is feel. He has me—inside and outside—I’m his. He adds another long finger, moving in and out of me while his thumb circles my clit. I just feel—the friction, the tension. Touch blacks out every other sense, and I come hard around his fingers.
He groans then kisses me hard, pulling me against him. His tongue presses between the seam of my lips, tangling with mine. It’s different than the ones we’ve shared in the past—full of its usual passion but also wrapped in undeniable want. He punctuates it by lightly kissing each corner of my mouth, even the tip of my nose.
As he pulls away, I dare to open my eyes, wanting to see him and what he’s created on my skin. He’s only inches from me, watching me adjust to the light.
“And those are my new favorite part . . . your eyes. If you could see them right now . . . the sated, content look of them, you’d never doubt how sexy you are.”
I stare, slowly believing every word because the same look he described is mirrored in his eyes. Somewhere along the way, I let him crawl into my heart. That was the easy part . . . letting him out, that’s not going to be so easy.
MY ALARM SOUNDS TOO SOON. If I count the time I spent tossing and turning in my bed after Blake and I finally got home this morning, I maybe had five hours of sleep. Every lost minute was worth it when I replay the events of last night. What he made me feel. What he made me see without even looking. Being with Blake is like dreaming while awake. I want to stay locked in those moments—the ones where his touch makes me forget everything else—forever.
I want more than what he’s given me. I want to know his history . . . all of it. I want so badly to know what goes through that head of his. I want everything . . . everything I know he’s not ready to give. Or, maybe it’s everything I’m too afraid to ask for.
After Blake took time to wipe the paint from my skin, he’d shown me a few of his favorite paintings. I saw them differently—more vibrant, full of color. Maybe it was because of the new way I viewed paint or the rasp in his voice while he spoke.
Behind the walls, he’s thoughtful, intelligent and kind-hearted. I want to know what made him construct them in the first place. Why does he guard himself? Why does he push people away?
I thought about it a lot while he drove us home. The sun was rising on the horizon—a perfect cap to a perfect night. I pictured us, what we could be like if it was always like that. If he always made me feel that way. But like most good things, it couldn’t last forever. We were both quiet when we entered the apartment, our eyes saying a silent good night. Maybe that’s how it had to be. Things went too far. I’d felt too much.