My Faire Lady (The Extra Series Book 6)

by Megan Walker

  He grins, and then I all but tackle him, and we’re kissing and kissing, our hands roaming over each other’s bodies. The blobs of paint smear underneath him as his back hits the canvas, and he swears at the sudden cold of the paint, and I laugh. Then he grabs a tube of blue and squeezes it straight on me, and I do the same to him with a tube of green, and we’re play-fighting with the paint, and giggling as the tubes make little farting noises—the opposite of sexy, maybe, but it’s somehow even better than sexy, because it’s us, funny and real and oh-so-happy together.

  And it’s not long before that play-fighting and dousing each other in paint turns into us spreading it over each other with our hands, and then pressing our bodies together, smearing colors together, kissing and gasping and rolling over the canvas, desperate for each other.

  And I know it’s not just me feeling that desperate need, that delicious ache. As he enters me, we both groan with the wonderful, perfect sensation of joining together. I wrap my legs tight around him, one paint-soaked hand gripping the blond curls of his hair and the other grabbing his ass, feeling the muscles bunch as he moves against me, as the heat builds and builds.

  It’s sunlight, bright and happy and beautiful, when I’m with Will. It’s sunlight that takes me over as I come, as we come together, crying out and shuddering against each other.

  Always sunlight, and I want to bask in him forever.

  Ten

  Gabby

  Afterward, we lie on the canvas, still covered in paint, some of which I’m pretty sure has migrated onto the carpet and will need a thorough scrubbing later. But for now we’re kissing and giggling and generally hovering in a bubble of happiness.

  I guess this painting was a good idea, after all.

  “You’re amazing,” Will says as he kisses my neck. His hair has a big streak of green in it, and I wonder if that’s going to totally come out.

  “Mmm,” I say. “You’re the one with mad brush skills. If you were looking for a second job, you could find work as a body artist.”

  Will laughs. “I think I’ll reserve those skills especially for you.”

  “Probably for the best. I don’t think I could handle the jealousy.” Which, really, is true. I like having these hands and these skills all to myself. I guess it’s a good thing Will wants to be a writer and not an . . . artistic sex worker?

  “So,” Will says, rolling over on his side and running his hand over my hip. “You’ve really been feeling bad about your body again lately?”

  Oh, no. I know we should talk about that, but I don’t want the bubble to burst. “I feel pretty good about my body now.”

  “Okay,” Will says. “But you didn’t before?”

  Pop. There it goes. I feel a bit like finding something to cover myself with, but I’m currently covered in paint, so I try to shrug it off. “I don’t know. You know I get insecure sometimes.”

  “Right,” Will says. “But is there anything I did to make you feel that way?”

  I don’t want to admit to him the things I’ve been worried about, but it’s a lot harder not to when he asks directly like that. I let out a little breath. “Do you feel like things have been kind of . . . off with us lately?”

  Will’s brow furrows. He has blue paint smeared over his nose and down the side of his face in a pattern that resembles William Wallace. “Are you happy?” he asks. Then he winces. “I didn’t mean for that to come out as a loaded question. Let me try that again.” He clears his throat. “Are you happy?”

  “Yes,” I say, though I’m not sure the asking again made the question less loaded. But I mean it. For the most part. “Ideally I’d like to be working less, I guess. I mean, I do love my job, but—”

  Will sighs. “I really should get a job and take some of the pressure off you.”

  “No!” I say. “That’s not what I meant. You just asked if I was happy and I wanted to be honest.”

  “In the interest of honesty,” Will says, “I’m not particularly thrilled with the direction of my career at this moment, either. I feel like I’m stuck in place, floundering and not making any progress.”

  “I know. This part is really hard. But we can’t deprive the world of your genius. It’ll happen. It just takes time.”

  He threads his fingers through mine. “But I don’t want you to have to bear the entire financial burden of our lives until that happens.”

  “And I appreciate that,” I tell him. “But I spent years of my life doing jobs I hated and sucked at, so I know how awful that is. You have this thing you love, and it’s really important that you get to do it.”

  “But I don’t want you picking up more shifts. We’ll never see each other. It’s bad enough with you working both at the hospital and the Ren faire. Maybe we should look into that meth palace, after all.” He says this last part with a smile, and I know he’s joking, but I really would be willing to move to a worse neighborhood if it means Will doesn’t have to give up on his dream.

  I run my thumb over his knuckles. “You know, Felix has offered before to help us.”

  “Create a meth palace?” Will asks.

  I laugh, though the idea of my brother and drugs isn’t really funny. “No. Financially.”

  Will groans. “I don’t like that idea. It would be one thing if one of us was sick or disabled, or otherwise unable to work. But just because I can’t sell a book . . .” He trails off, his eyes downcast.

  I know Felix wouldn’t mind. They’re doing really well—even if it’s no longer AJ money—and he knows what it’s like to have a passion you need to pursue. But I can’t make Will feel okay about it, and I don’t want to put him under any more stress than he already feels.

  “Yeah, okay,” I say. “Maybe I’ll ask Felix to pick up our slack at Fong’s so we can cut back without worrying about them going out of business.”

  Will smiles, though it still looks a little sad. “That I could handle.”

  “I have to finish out my commitment to the Ren faire,” I say. “Though maybe I shouldn’t, in case word gets out that I’m giving pelvic exams.”

  “Wait, what?” Will says. He pulls his body up close to mine, paint sticky between us. “Who are you giving pelvic exams to?”

  “Don’t worry. It was a wench.”

  “Okay,” Will says, though he didn’t sound that worried to begin with. “Was there some sort of pelvic first aid situation?”

  “No. But she was itching, and she didn’t have insurance. And it turned out she had crabs. All the crabs. It was basically crab-a-palooza.”

  “Ugh.” Will wrinkles his nose. “I’ve never had crabs, and I know other STDs are more dangerous, but that one is definitely the most disgusting.”

  “You might not say that if you’d sat in on enough pelvic exams,” I say. “But I’ve never had them either.”

  Will elbows me. “I would hope not.”

  “You can get them other ways besides having sex. So even though I was a virgin when we got together, it was still possible.” Not likely, granted, but . . .

  “Really?” he says. “Like how?”

  “Like wearing other people’s underwear.”

  Will pauses. “I have so many questions.”

  “What?” I say. “I’ve had female roommates. I couldn’t fit into any of their underwear, though.”

  “Why were you trying to wear their underwear?”

  I laugh. “I wasn’t. I’m just saying I could have, and you wouldn’t know it.”

  “Okay,” Will says. “Noted.” He’s smiling, but then that smile slips. “Bringing this back to my question about you feeling bad about your body—”

  I had really hoped we had gotten off that subject. “I know it’s stupid. But being at the sex shop made me realize how not adventurous I am. And you’ve had so much more experience than me.”

  Will stiffens, and no
t in a sexy way. “And you wish you had more experience. Like, that’s something you want.”

  I can tell he’s carefully trying not to accuse me of wanting to sleep with other people, which is not at all what I meant. I roll into him, wrapping my arms around his neck. “No,” I say. “I mean, I don’t mind experiencing this.”

  He looks incredibly relieved, his smile back. Clearly, he didn’t mind experiencing this, either. “At some point we need to get up and look at our masterpiece.”

  “Do we have to?” I ask. “I feel super sexy right now, and I’m pretty sure as soon as I look at the thing, I will know how not-sexy it looks. Like watching your own sex tape. Or an amateur strip tease.”

  Will appears to consider this.

  “What?” I say. “Is that what you’re into? A strip tease?”

  Will shakes his head, but it’s too late. I saw the intrigued look on his face.

  “It is! You want a strip tease.”

  “No,” Will says, but his tone isn’t very convincing.

  I arch an eyebrow at him.

  “I mean, it’s not like I would hate it,” he says slowly. “If that was something you actually wanted to do. While you’re wanting to be more adventurous.”

  I stand by my original statement. There’s no way a strip tease actually looks good unless you’re a professional dancer with a body like Anna-Marie’s. I remember that time she took a pole dancing class, so I’m sure Josh gets his share of strip teases, but I’d be more likely to hit my head on the pole and end up with a concussion.

  But if that’s something Will wants, if that would make him excited about our sex life again . . .

  “I’ll think about it,” I tell him.

  “Really, Gabby, you don’t have to,” Will says. “I’m fine with our sex life as it is.”

  My stomach sinks. Maybe I should feel better about that, but it has the opposite effect. Is he really fine with the way it’s been? Has he not been bothered at all by the general lack of its existence? “Really?” I ask.

  Will gives me a sharp look, like he can see right through me. “Yeah. Are you?”

  Damn these direct questions. “Yeah,” I say, but find my paint-covered fingers fidgeting with his. “I mean, I feel a little bit like we’ve been in a slump lately.”

  “You think so?” Will looks up at the ceiling like he’s trying to avoid looking at me.

  Like he doesn’t want to tell me the truth, whatever that is.

  “Yeah,” I say. “I mean, I feel like we’re not making time for each other as much anymore. And not just for sex—” Though there’s that. “—But, like, in general. Just finding reasons to touch each other, you know?”

  Will rubs his forehead, and the paint smears even more. “God, Gabby. I’m so sorry.”

  I steel myself for what he’s sorry for. Is it that he’s lost interest in me? Isn’t attracted to me anymore? It seemed like he was when we were—

  “I think I’ve just been distracted, you know?” Will says. “But that’s not an excuse.”

  I wait a moment, but he doesn’t continue. “Distracted with what?”

  “With how badly my career is going,” Will says. “I just—I feel like you have so much faith in me, and I’m failing you.”

  Oh, god. Is that really what he thinks? That I’m disappointed in him for not selling his book yet?

  I squeeze his hand. “You’re not. You’re not failing me at all.”

  Will smiles sadly. “If you feel like you need to buy a sex painting to get my attention, I think I am.” He sighs. “Do you really want to be more adventurous? Or is this all because of this slump?”

  I look down at the canvas, or the little green strip of it I can see between us. “It might be both,” I say quietly. “I just thought, I don’t know, that maybe you were getting bored. I mean, you were with Sarah for a long time, and she seems like the kind of person who would be open to trying new things.”

  Will stares at me. “Really? Sarah? When I was with her, I wanted to be with you, remember?”

  I do remember, and that thought makes me smile. Will looks slightly horrified, though, and I lean over and kiss his cheek. “I know. I do. It’s just . . . good to be reminded of, I guess.”

  His expression softens again. “Okay. And I’m always happy to remind you how much I want you—both then and now.” He presses his forehead to mine, and warmth floods through me again. “And as for the being more adventurous thing,” he continues, “that’s not something I feel like I desperately need, but if you want to branch out a little, I’m open to it.” He rubs some paint off my nose. Or maybe onto it, given the state of his finger. “This was fun.”

  I smile, but despite how good it feels to hear him say all that, I can’t stop thinking about how he didn’t even notice there was a problem, how he was okay with us not being physical as much. I’m not sure what that means, but I can’t imagine it’s good.

  “Are you sure you’re not bored?” I ask.

  “I’m definitely not bored. Just frustrated with my writing progress, or lack thereof. I’m sorry I let that bleed into the rest of our life.”

  “If there’s anything I can do to help, you know I will.”

  “Thanks,” Will says. “But I think you’re doing more than enough. Though if you can figure out how to get me a publishing contract, that would be fantastic.”

  “I wish I could.” And I do. He’s so talented, and he’s worked so hard, and I want so much for him to have the success he deserves. I just have to do what I can to support him while he gets there—and that, I’m happy to do for him. For us. Even if it involves Ren faires or extra hours at the hospital or moving into an even smaller apartment.

  He leans in and kisses me softly, and it takes my breath away. “I love you so much,” he tells me.

  “I love you, too,” I say, hoping he can feel how very much I mean it.

  “And we really need to get up and look at this painting,” he says, smiling. “Waiting isn’t going to change how it looks.”

  “All right, fine.” I get in one last snuggle before he stands and offers me his hands to pull me to my feet. We’re both covered in paint, and it’s starting to dry and crinkle uncomfortably as I move. Will stretches out the canvas and I turn around to look.

  And stare at the enormous blue ass print in the direct center.

  “Huh,” Will says. “I think we may have folded it wrong.”

  I gape. “It was supposed to be a big-ass print, not a big ass-print!”

  “It might be my ass,” Will says, looking regretfully at my obviously blue behind.

  “No,” I say. “That is definitely mine.”

  “I think we may have smudged it when we were—”

  “Oh my god,” I say. “We are not hanging it on our wall.”

  Will smiles at me. “We could call it post-modern art and try to sell it to the Pompidou.”

  “Maybe we should,” I say. “That could pay for a lot of Fong’s.”

  Will wraps his arm around my waist. “Want to join me in the shower?”

  “To clean off?” I ask. “Or to have sex again? Because last time we did that in the shower, I was afraid for my life. I really do not want to get dropped.”

  Will laughs. “Yeah, okay. But there are other things we could do in there that wouldn’t be as dangerous.”

  My body heats up again as I think of a few of those things. I lean up and kiss him. “That sounds amazing.”

  And we leave the huge ass-print right there in the middle of the floor.

  Eleven

  Gabby

  I’m in a better mood when I walk into the Renaissance faire the next day, though I’m kind of exhausted. I suppose a good artistic romp will do that to you. It still bothers me a little that our slump wasn’t something Will had even noticed, and I can feel the worries in the back of
my mind about whether that means something deeper is going on. But I’m determined to ignore those worries and just enjoy the memories of last night—after all, the painting may have been my idea, but the sexy stuff we did in the shower (and the more we did later, out of that slippery potential death-trap) was all his.

  Before I even arrive at the infirmary, though, I’m called over to observe the extraction of a knight’s head from his helmet. Apparently, the knight fell off his horse during this morning’s joust practice and hit his head, which bent the metal helmet just enough that it has to be removed with care by the local blacksmith. Mama Mags asks me if this is okay, or if they ought to be sending him to the emergency room, though frankly, I’m not sure the doctors there will have more of a clue how to remove a bent metal knight helmet than the blacksmith does.

  When I’m done observing the extraction—and checking the knight for signs of a concussion—I’m hoping that was the big excitement for the day, and I have lots of time to sit around and daydream about my paint-covered boyfriend. The minute I arrive at my infirmary and see the small group of women in Renaissance garb gathered out front, all looking embarrassed or uncomfortable, I have a feeling that won’t be the case.

  One of the four women standing there is Delia. “Hey, Gabby,” she says. “We, um. We heard you checked out April—thanks for that, by the way, she’s really grateful—and, um. We might need you check us, too.”

  Two of the other women, both in corsets and puffy cotton blouses with drab-colored skirts, look at the ground, their cheeks pink. The fourth woman, whose embroidered, gold-threaded gown marks her as a higher medieval social status than the Beer Wenches, folds her arms and glares at me, as if daring me to judge her.

  I sigh. “That’s really not what I’m supposed to be doing here. Like I told April, it would be better if you got checked out at a clinic, where they have actual sanitary equipment, and . . .” I trail off, because I can see by Delia’s pleading eyes that my arguments aren’t having any more effect with her than they did with April.