49. Paint My Body Red

49

PAINT MY BODY RED

Maeve

I set a drop cloth on the floor and pick out a few paintbrushes—slim ones, soft ones, but also a few bigger ones. I’ve never done this before, so I’m not sure what will feel right.

“More is more,” I say to Asher, offering them in a mason jar.

“With you, it is,” he replies, his voice rich with amusement as he takes the jar, then carefully studies the options before picking a slim one to go with the paint he’s selected—a tube I’ve never seen before. It isn’t one I bought.

This man . He’s ravenous, and also prepared. Which is very him . I don’t even need to ask if he researched body-safe paints—because of course he did.

He sets the brush next to the tube.

I hand him a palette as I nod to the tube. “Let me guess—you went to Risqué Business again? ”

With a glint in his eyes, he nods. “You know me so well.”

He’s right. I do. And I like that knowing. It’s comforting, but it also stirs something else inside me. “And you didn’t even have to ask them for the best paint for kinky painting night. You went straight to the shelves and found it.”

“I did all my homework in advance.” He steps closer, his smile fading into something deeper, darker—his green eyes glinting like gemstones, full of flickering want. He runs the back of his fingers along my cheek and murmurs, “It’s your studio, but you’re my canvas tonight.”

Chills erupt down my spine.

I hadn’t really thought about the mechanics of this—who’s painting whom—but of course, this makes sense. He’ll paint my body.

I sit down in the chair, the one I’d normally paint in, and fumble with the button of my blouse. “When the painter becomes the painted,” I say softly.

He stalks over, cups my chin, and raises my face. “Take off your shirt, wife. I want to paint your tits red.”

I shudder out a breath, my mind flashing back to a moment in time—back to when my friends and I were at the diner for lunch, and I was musing about the ideal man for me—someone who’d want to paint my body.

And now that someone is…my best friend.

My brother’s best friend.

My husband.

My breath quickens as I undo the buttons, slip the shirt off my shoulders, and let it fall.

“Now the bra,” he says, his voice low and steady.

I unhook it, my pulse racing. He looms over me, holding the brand-new paintbrush. As he steps closer, he curls a hand around the back of my chair, leaning in, his breath warm against my skin. “I’m not an artist. I just know what I like. And I like…” He pauses, as if choosing his words carefully. He licks his lips, maybe gathering his thoughts before he says, “I like this .”

It’s said like he’s holding something back, like he’s adjusting what he really meant to say. But I think I know what he’s saying—he likes me. And I think like wasn’t the verb he originally wanted to use either.

Or maybe I’m just hoping another four-letter word was forming on his tongue. Maybe I’m feeling far too much. Maybe all these emotions bubbling up inside me are making me want something I probably can’t have.

He lifts the brush but doesn’t touch me with it. Instead, he runs it across the back of his hand, as if he’s testing its softness. Then, in a low, smoky voice, he says, “Lift your chin.”

I do, and he drags the brush from the bottom of my chin, along my throat to the hollow at its base, then continues down, down, down my chest, between my breasts, all the way to my belly button. I’m trembling everywhere. The hair on my arms stands on end. I feel electric in my own skin—just from that one stroke.

He travels back up with the brush, stopping at my right breast, tracing the bristles around my nipple and I’m gasping, hoping, wanting—until the peak tightens into a little diamond.

“There,” he says, his voice low and satisfied. “I think my wife is going to enjoy being my canvas.”

“I think I am too,” I say softly, breathless.

He turns away, so he can spread some of the paint onto the palette. Then he dips the brush, and adds with a teasing smile, “If you have any tips on how to paint this canvas, I trust you’ll let me know.”

My breath hitches again. “I will,” I whisper. But I already know I probably won’t say a word—because this man knows exactly what to do to me.

He dips the brush in the red paint and then slowly, dizzyingly, glides it around my right breast. The moment the brush touches my skin, it’s like a spark ignites in my veins. The paint is cool and smooth, but the friction of the bristles sends heat rushing through me.

He’s measured and deliberate as he paints circles around my breast, turning it the color of a summer cherry as my skin wakes up with each stroke.

When he reaches the nipple, I’m shivering as he paints that red too. Then he steps back, looking cocky, and also incredibly aroused.

He doesn’t say a word, but he returns to me, only this time instead of dipping the paintbrush, he slides his finger into the paint and then drags the color onto me.

With each touch, I grow hotter, wetter, more aroused from the slow, sensual way this man who uses his body to play a rough, brutal sport is using me as art.

He looks at me like an artist who worships his subject. With adoration. With reverence. And with a desire that I recognize completely—not only the kind I feel when I’m creating, but the kind I feel for him . It’s something rich and potent, something that comes from deep inside. Something that fills me up, when I felt empty before.

He squeezes more paint onto the palette, dips his fingers into it, and takes his time, painting my other breast with slow, deliberate strokes. When he finishes, he steps back, glances at his stained hand, and says, “I guess my hands are all red now. ”

It’s said as an invitation.

“Then mark me,” I whisper. I stand, sliding off my jeans and panties, leaving myself bare before him. “Mark me with your hands.”

Without hesitation, he dips both hands into the cool paint, pressing them against my stomach. I shiver from the cold of the paint and the heat of his hands. He pulls back. We both look down. His ruby-red handprints are stamped on my body, vivid and bold. He moves lower, leaving prints on my thighs and calves before coming back up, his hands tracing my arms, wrapping gently around my throat. His voice drops to a growl as he says, “I think I’ll call this one ‘My Scarlet Work of Art.’”

And here in my brand-new studio, where I can paint and sketch and create to my heart’s content, I feel like a work of art. Because I see myself through his eyes.

I reach for him. “Want to get messy with me?”

“I really fucking do,” he says.

His clothes vanish, and soon, we’re breaking in the studio. He sets me on the workbench, and he fucks me with paint all over my body. And soon, it’s all over him as the handprints he left on me turn into smudges on his chest, his arms, his thighs. My legs wrap around him, and he drives deeper, filling me completely, taking me apart, like we’re creating something entirely new together.

Maybe that’s what we’ve been doing since we said I do.

“Well, this blouse is toast,” I say, sliding my arms back into it. I grab my panties and jeans, figuring we only have to cross the yard to get back to the house, and this shirt covers enough. Asher’s back in his slacks, shirt in hand, as we slide open the door, glancing down at the drop cloths scattered with our handprints.

“I’ll clean it up tomorrow,” he says, flashing me a grin. “We should probably…shower.”

“You think?” I tease, eyeing the red mess all over us. I love it. I love his shower, spending time with him, and—most of all—I love his big, generous heart for giving me this studio. The thought and care behind it touches me more than I can say.

But I swallow those feelings as we leave the studio, ready to hustle across the yard when a faint whimper catches my ear.

“What was that?” I ask, stopping mid-step. “Did you hear that?”

“Yeah,” Asher replies, his brow furrowing.

I tilt my head, listening. Another soft whine comes from the bushes nearby. My senses go on high alert. “Is it a baby deer? A raccoon?” I wonder aloud as we move closer to the sound.

The grass rustles, and I jump as an animal emerges from the bushes—a black-and-white dog, with cool blue eyes, trembling slightly.

“Oh my god, baby, are you okay?” I crouch down instantly, reaching for her. But, of course, I’m still covered in red paint, and now her black and white fur is too, as I pull her close. She lets me hold her, the scared sweetheart. I gently run my hands over her thin frame, checking for a collar and tag. She’s shaking but doesn’t pull away, her tail tucked between her legs.

“No tag,” I say, glancing up at Asher, who’s now kneeling beside me, frowning. “She wasn’t here when we went into the studio.”

“Or maybe she was,” he says thoughtfully. “I bet she slipped in when the contractors were here earlier and hid.” His hand rests on her head, fingers gentle as he scratches behind her ears. “Let’s get her inside, clean her up.”

“And take her to the vet tomorrow to see if she’s chipped,” I add, standing and carefully lifting the dog into my arms. She’s way too light. “Come on, cutie-pie. Let’s get you cleaned and fed.”

The dog whimpers softly, pressing her head against my chest. All at once, I’m in love—it’s instant and irrepressible. We walk to the terrace and Asher opens the door. Once inside, we head upstairs to the bedroom, both of us still covered in paint.

“Group shower?” I suggest with a grin.

He laughs. “Obviously.”

A few minutes later, the three of us are in the rainfall shower, rinsing off paint and dirt.

Once I’m clean, I step out, wrap a towel around myself, and grab one for the dog. Asher hands the wet critter to me. She’s thirty pounds, maybe forty, a cross between a Border Collie and probably a Husky based on her pointy ears, her silky collie fur, and her ice-blue eyes that are somehow big and hopeful.

Asher finishes up and wraps a towel around his waist, grinning as he kneels beside her. “Look at you,” he says, drying her off some more. “You’re a whole new dog.”

“It’s okay, sweet girl,” I say softly. “No more paint; no more dirt. But do you have a home?”

She licks my face, and my heart melts. I glance up at Asher, my eyes silently asking— can we keep her?

He strokes her head, noticing her slight shiver. “We’ll check Petfinder and call the rescues, get her scanned… ”

“And then?” I ask, hopeful but nervous. I just want her to be okay.

“We’ll see what we find out,” he says, though I can tell from the way he rubs the towel over her head that he’s hoping we find out she needs us.

Me too.

We pull on clothes and head to the kitchen, where we find some rice for her. She gobbles it down, tail wagging. I get it. I like it here too. And I’m starting to think it feels possible to be friends and lovers.