by Cara Dee
"What exactly is it you have planned?" he wondered.
"Aha!" She held up a bottle of black paint. "Nontoxic. Okay, so here's what I was thinking, and please hear me out before you make up your mind." She waited for his nod before continuing. "It's kind of a trend. You can buy a kit with specific paint for this, and the idea is for a couple to cover themselves in paint and…and, um, have sex on a canvas." Tennyson's brows shot up as shock washed over him. "We won't do that—obviously," she rushed to explain. "But we could simulate it. Like, lie down on the canvas, place our hands here and there, shift around a bit… We could even take turns. We don’t have to touch."
All right, Tennyson got the gist, and this would certainly go well with the theme, but Christ. Hearing Sophie Pierce mention sex, even simulating it, did things to Tennyson. It was almost unimaginable, and he was highly uncomfortable with the fact that a part of him even entertained the thought of what it would be like.
What it would be like to fuck her.
Tennyson couldn’t help but feel slightly irritated with Sophie for bringing up that word. Sex. Because it opened doors in his head he wanted to keep shut and deadbolted. Yeah, it was fucking ridiculous. Tennyson was attracted to women his own age. Women with experience. Women he had something in common with.
"I can't tell if you're mad or stunned behind those Ray-Bans," Sophie told him quietly. "Look, it was only an idea. I thought it'd be harmless—we roll around a bit and then call it a day." She looked helplessly at the supply table again, clearly trying to come up with something new. "I'm sorry if it sucked. I guess we can always do our best and paint an animal in the wild or something."
Then she did that. And something tugged at Tennyson. He remembered when he'd called her in Denver and told her they would reshoot her scene outside of the university. She'd sounded so incredibly defeated, like now, and he'd have to be both blind and deaf to miss that she was trying. She was trying very hard, and she was improving, too.
"Your idea doesn’t…suck, Sophie." It was the truth, too. Now that the shock had settled. "It just caught me off guard." She didn’t look like she believed him, and Tennyson wanted to reassure her. "I mean it. It doesn’t suck. Your idea's bold and creative."
Had she been anyone else, he would've shrugged it off by now. If someone chose not to believe what he was saying, that was their problem. Not his. Yet, he was willing to go further to make Sophie understand.
"Now, I assume underwear stays on?" His mouth tugged up, and he was glad when Sophie's expression brightened.
It meant something.
"Of course." She let out a short giggle and covered her mouth. "So, we need a roll of canvas—here." She ignored the ones that had already been prepared on wooden frames and grabbed a large roll. "Can you see if there are other colors that aren't toxic?" She handed him the bottle so he could compare labels.
While he did that, Sophie rolled out a big piece of canvas on the floor.
"Tennyson, can I ask what the deal is with you and your sunglasses? I mean, they're hot and all, but you never seem to take them off."
He wasn’t too surprised she didn’t know, despite that most people who'd worked with him knew. He was pretty sure it was listed on his Wikipedia page, as well.
"I suffer from photophobia," he answered absently, going through the colors.
"What's that? Are you like, camera shy?"
"No, you brat," he chuckled. "Light sensitivity. I get headaches if it's too bright."
"Oh…" She stopped whatever she was doing, and her feet padded away. Then the spotlights overhead dimmed. "Better?"
He turned around and saw her standing by a light switch near the door. "Yeah. Thank you, Sophie." He smiled and slid off his shades.
She beamed back at him then returned to straighten the canvas. "Did you find any other colors?"
"Two." He brought over the three bottles they'd have to work with. Black, white, dark purple. "You seem to know what you're doing, so what's next?"
"Depends on who goes first." She stood up and kicked off her shoes, wiggling her toes a bit. It was…cute. She also removed a rubber band from her wrist and gathered her hair in a twist at the top of her head. "If you go first, that means you gotta take off your shirt and dress pants. Then I help you put paint on."
Tennyson eyed the blank canvas on the floor. It was approximately five feet long, so at six foot three, he wouldn’t exactly fit. But he supposed it didn’t matter.
"Might as well." Get it over with. He didn’t add that last part in case Sophie would be offended. But as he unbuttoned his shirt and watched Sophie pour paint in a plastic bowl, he began to dread this as much as he'd dreaded their first dinner together.
This was Tennyson's first PR relationship, but he'd witnessed actors going through them, so he knew the so-called showmances involved surprisingly little affection. Because it didn’t take more than a discreet touch, the occasional hand-holding, or hell, even going grocery shopping together before Hollywood went crazy with rumors and speculation.
Having Sophie's hands all over him hadn't been the plan.
Stepping out of his shoes and pants, Tennyson ended up in only a pair of gray boxer briefs—certainly not how he'd thought this evening would go. He placed his shades and his personal belongings on the supply table, then waited for Sophie.
He'd seen countless actors naked throughout his career, and he would even see Sophie mostly nude tomorrow for a scene, but no one ever saw the director shed his clothes, goddammit.
"Are you ready?" Sophie kept her gaze firmly on the bowl in her hands as she walked around Tennyson. If he wasn’t imagining things, she appeared uncomfortable. Her cheeks were pink, anyway.
"As ready as I'll ever be." He stiffened when he felt Sophie's hand on his shoulder blade. Wet, cold, sticky paint slithered down his muscles, and he grimaced. "It's going to be lovely getting dressed later with paint stuck to my skin."
Sophie laughed quietly. "Yeah, I don’t think they have showers here. But at least it'll be over fast. We don’t need two hours to make a mess." More paint was applied, until Tennyson felt it all over his back. "Um, I hope you don’t have a strong attachment to your underwear."
"I don’t, no." Tennyson chuckled at the situation he was in. Part of him still couldn’t believe it.
Wanting to get it over with for several reasons, he twisted his body a bit so he could reach the bowl in Sophie's hand. He scooped up some of the black paint and applied it to his underarms and palms.
Next, he froze as Sophie continued with the backs of his thighs. It was too much, too intimate.
Up and down in firm strokes, Sophie painted him with her small hand. And it felt good. Jesus Christ. He closed his eyes briefly, desire coursing through him. It rattled him to admit it. It felt way too good, and he didn’t manage to convince all of him that it was just his lack of a sex life talking.
When was the last time he'd had sex? He'd dated someone casually a year ago, and before that…Trisha? It had to be.
"Okay, just your feet left," Sophie murmured, clearing her throat. "Um. I think you can lie down on the canvas."
Tennyson nodded once and walked over to the canvas. The polished concrete floor was already stained with dried paint from previous artwork that had been created here, so he didn’t care about getting more paint on the floor.
He lay down unceremoniously and shifted, his skin sticking to the canvas. At the same time, Sophie slathered paint on the soles of his feet.
"Glad you're not ticklish." She shot him a tiny smirk.
"Are you?" He couldn’t stop himself from asking. "Ticklish, I mean."
"Not under my feet," she quipped and stood up. "I'll get started while you press that director butt on the canvas."
Tennyson pushed himself up on his elbows and tried to focus on the footprints he was making. But as Sophie turned around and carefully pulled her dress over her head, revealing skimpy lace panties and a matching white bra, it wasn’t easy.
"My poor dress. I hop
e the stains will come out." She…she fucking bent over. Her hands slid up the backs of her legs, covered in purple paint, and Tennyson dragged his gaze away with a scowl.
What was wrong with him? Was he so deprived of sex that he felt the need to ogle a young girl? He was going mad. And his concern was morphing into the urge to protect and nurture. Sophie was very thin, and Tennyson didn’t like it.
He was a red-blooded male; he saw every inch of her tight body, enjoyed the sight of her pert ass too much, and was too quick to notice what amazing curves she could have if she only gained a few pounds. But the genuine worry disturbed him more than lust. Lust was shallower—purely physical. Worry meant he cared.
He didn’t want to care.
Shaking his head, Tennyson sighed internally and got on his feet. He squatted down for a beat to leave his handprints and smear out a bit more paint, and then he declared himself done.
"Do you need my help?" he asked quietly, praying she didn’t.
"Only on my back," she answered softly over her shoulder. "The rest is covered."
As if Tennyson couldn’t see that for himself.
He walked up behind her and she handed him the white paint to mix with the purple. In the meantime, Sophie exposed her neck so he could pour the paint there. Tennyson watched the thick liquid trickle down her back. His hands followed, and he traced her spine with the paint.
He was so close that he felt her body heat.
Goose bumps prickled wherever he touched her.
"Cold," she chuckled breathily.
Tennyson swallowed and clenched his jaw, his cock hardening. He switched colors and swept a hand down her back, skipping her ass and continuing along her legs. His thumb brushed over the crease where her knee bent. Then up again, stopping an inch below the smooth, soft-looking cheek of her ass.
"I think you're ready." His voice came out rough and husky, and he stepped back to clear his mind and adjust himself.
Sophie tiptoed over to the canvas and lay down next to the spot where Tennyson had been. He could tell she wasn’t moving around in any way to get his attention, but that only made it more sensual. Sophie was focused on the task, getting on all fours to place her hands on each side of the black print from his shoulders.
Without a word, she got up and retrieved the bowls of paint. She drizzled some right onto the canvas and then got down on hands and knees to smear it out.
"Could you just put your hands a bit more here?" she asked, never facing him.
Tennyson really didn’t want to get any closer, but he had no excuse. None he wanted to voice out loud, anyway. So he joined her on the canvas and followed her lead. He brushed his hand over the subtle heart-shaped print of her ass, catching Sophie's blush out of the corner of his eye.
"Breast man or ass man?" She grinned as the color on her cheeks intensified.
Tennyson tilted his head at her and smirked at the small spot of purple paint on her chin, but what really caught his attention were her eyes. Up close, he saw just how big and expressive they were. They held every shade between green and blue.
Goddamn.
And her mouth. Her lips looked soft, almost pouty.
"I, uh…" Snap out of it. He met her gaze, hoping she couldn’t see the lust in his. "Yes. To both."
"Heh." Sophie giggled shakily and ducked her head.
It was time to stop. He stood up and wrenched away his gaze when the desire became unbearable. There was a sink in the corner, as well as a stand with a thick roll of paper towels—no doubt to use after cleaning brushes—so he occupied himself by wiping off as much paint as possible.
The paint was already drying in places, and he finished his legs first so he could put on his pants. It was uncomfortable as hell, but it was either this or showing Sophie too much of himself.
He was disturbed, wasn’t he?
His reaction couldn’t possibly be related to only Sophie. There had to be something else, too.
"All done," Sophie declared lightly.
Good, Tennyson thought. She could get dressed now.
By the time he had finished putting on his clothes, Sophie was thankfully back in her dress. They were both stained with paint, and Sophie wore the silliest grin Tennyson had ever seen. Silly cute, silly sexy. Carefree.
"This was fun." She grabbed a prepared frame to tighten the canvas in front of. "I honestly don’t think I've gotten my hands dirty since, like, junior high."
Which wasn’t all that long ago—not from Tennyson's perspective. But he understood what Sophie was saying, and he was glad she'd ignored the inner voices of her friends. They were most likely there in many decisions she made in her everyday life.
"Let me help you." Tennyson forced a casual expression on his face and got to work. The paint was drying quickly, and together they managed to staple the canvas onto the frame. "I have to say it's not bad to look at." It was a complete mess, but it was creative.
If he didn’t know any better, he'd say the two people who'd made it had had a great time creating it. It was erotic in a chaotic, fun way. It held not-so-subtle hints of passion. Prints from hands, feet, and body shapes.
"Let's see what the charity lady thinks, shall we?" Sophie looked a bit nervous now. "I have a feeling it'll either be a hit, or we'll be laughed at."
As it turned out, neither was the case; there were mixed reviews.
When the charity's spokesperson, the café owner, and the reporters rejoined Tennyson and Sophie in the studio, they showed different stages of surprise and confusion. The spotlights came on brighter. The café owner was the first one who smiled widely upon connecting the dots. Her gaze flicked between Tennyson, Sophie, and the painting. The stains said it all, and the spokesperson found it very interesting and unique.
Tennyson and Sophie exchanged wry smirks at that because they didn’t believe the spokesperson for shit. A few of the reporters worked at various art magazines, and they seemed to like it very much.
Countless flashes of the cameras made Tennyson slide on his shades again, and he idly wondered what the publicists would say about this. His and Sophie's supposed relationship could only be more obvious if they confirmed they were together, which they'd been instructed not to speak a word of. Tennyson and Sophie were supposed to show, not tell.
"Mr. Wright, can we get a photo of you and Sophie by the painting together?" One journalist gestured for Sophie to move away from the spokesperson and get closer to Tennyson, who was holding the upper corner of the painting to keep it from falling.
With all the people in the room, Tennyson's libido had thankfully calmed down, and he had no issue pulling Sophie close. He could say it was only for the reporter's sake, but he'd never been good at lying to himself.
Sophie let out a soft laugh as he yanked her in for a hug. He felt her fingers over his so they both supported the painting. It was almost as sweet as feeling Sophie's forehead against his chest and her free hand settling on his side.
Right at that moment, Tennyson realized he had been too busy worrying and fretting tonight that he had completely forgotten to acknowledge that he'd actually had fun.
When had he become such a dud?
Tennyson lowered his head and, unable to help himself, pressed a brief kiss to Sophie's temple. "Thank you for tonight," he murmured for only her to hear.
Sophie grinned up at him, carefree and so full of youth. "Right back at'cha."
Her eyes were…really out-of-this-world beautiful.
"Ms. Pierce, whose idea was this?" the café owner asked.
The panic that flashed in Sophie's eyes made Tennyson think fast.
"It was mine," he said smoothly. "And can you blame me?" He pressed a kiss to Sophie's forehead, his smirk at the café owner never fading.
"Thank you," Sophie whispered against the collar of his shirt. "The media would only cheapen it if it came from me."
Ah. Tennyson got it now, and he could see the gossip rags playing this off as another scandal from the party princess.
&
nbsp; "No worries. Let's get out of here." He touched her cheek and then began to wrap it up with the reporters.
They answered a few more questions, and then they signed the painting before thanking everyone for tonight.
As they reached the café, Tennyson was quietly warned by the spokesperson's assistant that a bunch of paparazzi were waiting outside, but Tennyson had already seen them.
"You don’t happen to have another way out, do you?" he asked under his breath.
The assistant shook his head. "I'm sorry. I already asked, and the back alley is blocked at night."
"All right." Tennyson could see their driver waiting for them, and as he gathered Sophie close and walked over to the door, the driver got out of the SUV to assist. "You ready?"
Sophie nodded. "Yeah, we'll be quick."
The sheer volume of the questions that were being thrown at them as soon as they left the café was almost as bad as the flashes from their cameras.
"Are you really together, Tennyson?"
"Sophie! Over here!"
"Pierce, what about Lachlan?"
Tennyson glared at a reporter for getting too fucking close. Tucking Sophie even closer to his body, he led with his shoulder until their driver met up with them.
"Is it just a publicity stunt?"
"Tennyson! Aren't you afraid her reputation will ruin your career?"
"Back off!" the driver growled.
By the time Tennyson ushered Sophie into the car and dove in himself, he was fucking furious with the paps.
"Are you hiding another man somewhere?" He meant for it to come out teasingly, but he wasn’t sure he pulled it off.
Really, though. He was only curious.
"What?" Sophie was breathing heavily, and it was only now Tennyson realized he was lying right on top of her. "You mean Lachlan? That was just for show—like us."
Right. Like us. Tennyson's fingers flexed in his grip on Sophie's waist. It didn’t feel like a show right now. But as the driver got in behind the wheel, Tennyson knew it was time to get his ass back to reality. His gaze betrayed him and flicked to her pouty lips, and then he forced himself to move.
