by Jenna Elliot
I’m content to sit here, waiting for him to paint me. I won’t think beyond that. Whether he paints me, talks to me, or kisses me, he gets to decide. All I have to do is be. It’s a peaceful feeling, and oddly . . . liberating.
He finally swings around and stares at my breasts.
My nipples stand at attention beneath his steady perusal. He doesn’t say a word, but leans forward and draws my nipple into his mouth. I feel the deep pull all the way to my toes, and nearly come up off the chair.
He chuckles, his breath warm against my skin, but he doesn’t stop. Sliding my fingers into his hair, I steady myself. Sensation whirls through me, wracks me more deeply intense than anything I ever imagined. I am like a canvas, I realize, a blank canvas just waiting for this man to touch with the feelings only he evokes in me. The pleasure inside swells, builds until I can only arch my back and press deeper against his mouth in a silent demand for more.
He gives a final swirl of his tongue around my aching nipple and releases me. “Just priming the surface, babe.”
I wouldn’t know what to say to that even if I could talk. I can’t, so it’s moot.
He leans back a bit, and strips off his jacket. Reaching for his brush, he considers me, not me actually, but my skin. His canvas. The first glancing stroke of that moist brush nearly brings me out of the chair again. He holds me still with a scowl, in an instant completely focused on his work as he feathers a design over my moist skin. His brush strokes are quick, strong, certain.
He is a creating a masterpiece. He’s creating a new me. I thrill to the idea, the way I thrill to him. He is beautiful to watch. The rough, raw Ethan of the morning is gone. And the polished, demanding Ethan of this club is gone, too. He is intent, silent, his face becomes a canvas of emotion as he works, each thought flickering across his features. As the time passes and the designs on my skin grow, I learn to read every tiny show of emotion. The triumph of some accomplished success glitters in his golden eyes. Displeasure draws his mouth tight until he has unsmiling dimples. Contemplation furrows his inky eyebrows and narrows the corners of his striking eyes.
When he finishes and says, “Ass next.” I only blink stupidly.
He doesn’t seem to notice before he’s on his feet, opening a floor-to-ceiling cabinet filled with tools and contraptions. He shoves paint and brushes to one side and motions me to him.
“Over here,” he says.
“Excuse me?”
“You have to stand and bend over for me to do your ass, baby doll.”
I blink again. I frown. I still don’t move.
Now I have his attention.
He says sharply, “On your feet now.”
In one stride, he’s in front of me again, and his fingers lock around my wrist and propel me out of the chair. I stumble the distance with him, not daring to protest as he opens a compartment one-handed and folds down a padded bar from the wall. “Lean over it like you’re trying to touch your knees.”
He presses a hand to my lower back, urging me forward, and my skin flushes fiercely as I drape my waist over the pole so my butt is propped high in the air. I’m physically comfortable, but my mind is in chaos. I feel the air caress the sensitive skin between my butt cheeks, and resist the urge to run screaming.
I glance in the mirror and watch him mix paint. As I wait for him to finish, a breeze blows over all my exposed private places, and I shiver. “It’s cold in here.” I sound peevish.
“I can warm you with a spanking if you’d like . . .”
He lets his suggestion trail off. My heart races. The idea disturbs me on some core level that can still reason, but reason is all about my brain and not my body. My body savors all this unfamiliar kink. My nipples are so tight, I feel the pull of the drying paint. My head spins in dizzy excitement. I have a choice to make here—go with the moment and trust Ethan, or grab Emme and hit the road. It’s really pretty simple.
“I’ll live.” Still peevish, and the absence of “sir” is a minor rebellion.
Our gazes collide in the mirror, and he flashes a smile that stokes that heat low in my abdomen. “No worries, baby doll. I’ll turn the AC up a notch.”
He strolls to the thermostat, then ignores me some more for his paints. Then he’s behind me, leaving me feeling exposed and vulnerable. But he aims his first strokes across my hips, the brush outlining whatever design he envisions. The paint is warm, slick, and he bends so low over me to work that I can feel his breaths fan my skin.
He swirls paint over the top of my ass, then the middle, then the bottom. Standing still becomes an effort. I don’t know if it’s the intimacy of my position or the building arousal from the near-constant and glancing strokes of his brush, but the man is driving me crazy. Everything he asks me for is crazy. And apparently, I have it to give.
“Spread your legs wider,” he commands.
This time I don’t question. I only comply. I’m in a haze of unfamiliar sensation as he strokes the brush through the crack of my ass. Then he presses the brush into his paint again and swipes my bottom a few more times.
A thrill shivers through my body, along every nerve ending and centimeter of skin. He notices. I know he notices because he says, “I’m almost done. But I have to dry you with the blow dryer or you’ll smear. Tell me if the air is too hot or cold.”
He cranks on the blow dryer, and the roar rips through the quiet. I jump as the gentle air begins an entirely new form of torture . . . the current blowing against my most intimate places.
My breasts throb with arousal. My pussy clenches and unclenches in a ceaseless tide of motion. My bottom puckers against this intrusion.
“There we go. You can stand now.”
He hands me a mirror, and I admire my bottom. I’m totally bare assed, but I appear to be wearing a patterned bikini bottom. The design showcases my curves, creates an intricate texture that is both unusual and lovely. “Beautiful.”
He gazes down at me, the artist’s light glittering in his eyes. I know I’ve pleased him.
Only that knowledge enables me to let him finish his work when he tells me, “Now stand here and spread your legs. This is the last stretch, I promise.”
He removes a lamp and sets it on the floor where it will shine right up me. Then he lies on a knee-high cart and slides right between my legs like he’s about to give me an oil change.
I squeeze my eyes shut. He is unnerving me again. He’s right down there. Not touching, not licking. Looking.
“You’re a bit damp, Mia.”
“Oh, really,” I shoot back. Like that should be coming as a surprise to the man who has just been caressing a brush between my ass cheeks.
“So good to know you’re enjoying yourself,” he teases.
I may die of embarrassment right now. Just exhale all the breath in my lungs, close my eyes, and die right where I stand.
“I’m enjoying myself, too,” he croons while patting a cloth between my legs. “You have the prettiest pussy. All pink and delicate. Lickably luscious.”
Promises, promises. But his compliments soothe away my embarrassment, so I can remember why I am so wet. Desire curls in my belly and slides down my spine. Then he starts to paint again, and I lose myself in the now-familiar sensations that make my entire being hum from the inside out.
I fight to stand upright when my legs are turning to liquid underneath me. I sway. He tells me to stand still. I mentally curse him. He paints me into a stupor again.
An endless loop of need and annoyance—I begin to think this pleasant torture will never end.
But it does. The brush finally vanishes. I hear Ethan roll out from underneath me and stand before he says, “If it makes you feel any better, I’m hard as a rock.”
I open my eyes and stare at his crotch. Sure enough, he’s telling the truth. I can see his need bulging up from his pants.
“Then why are you painting me?” I ask, my voice sounding like it’s coming from a distance. As opposed to fucking me like this morning? I don’t
say that aloud.
“I want to show you off this evening.”
Okay, coming back to life again. “What?”
“You know, introduce you around. Show you the club.”
“You want to parade me around in public wearing nothing but body paint?”
I shoot from pleasure-drugged to alarmingly-alert in less than a heartbeat.
He hooks a finger beneath my chin and coaxes my head upward to meet his gaze. “I’m proud of my work, and proud of you.”
A mad dash through the hallway naked almost gave me a heart attack. Spending hours in the nude and meeting people will kill me.
10
Mia
I’M ABOUT TO walk into a club naked. Like totally naked. I can’t decide what I feel except my stomach somersaults like a gymnast on speed.
Ethan just stands here, waiting for me to decide. I can’t look at his face. Too much going on in my head right now. I can’t deal with him, too. I know what he wants—to show me off. To show off his paint job, which just happens to be on my body.
My naked body.
I can say no. I can demand he give me back my clothes. He promised he would. Will he be disappointed? Will he even care with the gazillion other women at this club who’ve been checking him out? I have his attention now, prime real estate apparently.
And really, I ask myself, what am I stressing over? The naked part or the Ethan-ordering-me-around part? Then again, the thong bikinis Emme and I wear to South Beach leave us pretty much naked for all intents and purposes.
I think that answers my question.
“I need a minute,” I tell him, buying myself time to think.
I head straight for my phone. The first text from Emme reads: You vanished. Everything okay?
Poor thing. I know exactly what she’s doing—standing around sipping her whiskey, afraid to get plowed, afraid to go too far, afraid to dance, which is torture for her. Emme lives to get a buzz on and dance. I know because I’ve played out this scene for her. More times than I can count, thank you very much. Like every time she wants to hook up with a new guy, which happens way more for her than it does for me.
Actually, it never happens for me. I always had Dylan.
Because Emme owes me so big, she’ll be in total watchdog mode. As in, foaming at the mouth. Sure enough, a return text fires through almost instantly.
OMG this place! THIS PLACE!!!! They have shows. SEX shows. Did you know?
The somersaults kick up the pace. I feel queasy. Is this what Ethan wants to do—parade me around in front of an audience?
NO!! I type back and hit Send, buying myself more time.
Sex shows?
I venture a look at him. He seems to have forgotten all about me as he rinses his brushes. Mr. Artist. Cocky jerk. Happy to give me some time. Not at all worried. Doesn’t care one way or the other. Why should he? He’ll obviously have a buffet of pets in this club to satisfy his weirdo cravings if I don’t do the job.
Can’t do the job.
Wasn’t like I came to this club looking for weirdo sex.
Another vibration. I glance down at my phone and read:
A staffer told me to check out a performance that’s starting. Some sort of stripper show. Jeez, Amelia! I can’t believe YOU found this place!
I cling to the sight of my name like it’s an anchor. A connection to real life. Not this crazy place where arousal and excitement rule reason and common sense.
But isn’t that the world I’m running from?
Deep breath. Calm down. All I have to say is, “No.” Emme’s here. I can collect my clothes, and away we go.
Back to real life.
A predictable life where I’m half alive trying to live up to everyone else’s expectations. What about feeling alive? Like the way I do with Ethan.
As I stand here on a figurative cliff, debating whether I should take a safe step back from the edge or plunge into an exhilarating freefall, I hear Ethan turn off the water. Aware of me again, he rakes his gaze over me, leans back against the sink and folds his arms over his chest.
It’s the appreciation in those golden eyes that convinces me to jump.
GO!!!!! I type fast. Before I have time to chicken out. See the show and tell me about it. I’m good. Txt you if I need you.
I don’t need her seeing me parade around this club naked. That’s about the only thing I know right now. If I do this, I may never be able to look her in the face again.
You’re on!
I draw in a deep breath. I meet Ethan’s gaze.
“All good?” he asks.
“Super good.” No more living by what others want.
And when it comes right down to it, I want to be with Ethan. It’s not like I’m planning to marry the guy. I just want to have a good time, and he’s into this scene. He makes me feel good.
I steel myself and say, “I’m ready.”
I mean it.
He inclines his head, taking me at my word as if he understands my hesitation. Slipping strong fingers around my elbow, he escorts me out of the room, down the hallway. But as we pass door after door, the pulsing noise of the club grows.
I tilt my chin up and hold my head high beside Ethan as if I stroll through crowds naked before breakfast. A total lie. I’ve never felt so exposed in my life, never felt so aware of the way my breasts tremble with my every step, the way the cool air glances off all my newly-bald areas as my thighs open and close while I balance on my high heels.
We reach the end of the hall, and we jump . . .
The crowd has grown. People dance and walk around in all states of undress. Black leather is in vogue. So are corsets. And bare skin. Skin. Skin. And more skin. A woman falls into step beside us for a few beats, rubbing her bare bottom with an outstretched palm. Even in the club’s mood lighting, I can see her skin is a startling shade of crimson, and as she passes, I imagine I can see the imprint of fingers.
Or maybe I’m not imagining.
I don’t see Emme anywhere and, on that score at least, I’m relieved. Also on the fact that no one pays any attention to me. Ethan draws the crowd. Mostly female.
A gorgeous redhead suddenly appears in lockstep with us. She wears skin-tight pants with cut-outs that showcase her tight ass. She rudely circles around me as if I’m not here.
“Hello, sir.” Her head is bowed, and she won’t look Ethan in the eye. She twirls a bit of twisted leather in her hands.
Ethan glances down at her and the intent artist vanishes right before my eyes.
“Pet.” He acknowledges this woman in a tone I’ve never heard before. Maybe he has used hints of this controlling tone with me, but not like this. Domineering. Commanding. As if he knows he can tell this striking woman to do anything, and she will. Eagerly.
“I offer myself to you for whatever pleases you. Level one, two, or three.” She holds out her hand to him, and beside the leather is a tiny gold key.
Ethan eyes the key for a long moment. He’s obviously accustomed to these kinds of propositions, and something about that bugs me. Because I’m not nearly as sophisticated as this striking redhead?
Or because I don’t have a clue how this place works?
Ethan takes the woman’s fingers and closes them over the key. “Thank you, but I already have company for the evening.”
She clutches his hand when he goes to pull away. “A threesome perhaps?”
Whoa. The pet may not be willing to raise her eyes, but I’m not bound by any such restriction. Not as far as I know, anyway.
I shift my gaze from Ethan to her, then back again. He won’t . . . Will he?
He rakes his gaze over me as if considering . . .
Oh, God. A threesome?
“Not tonight,” he says in a tone of finality. “This is Mia’s first time in the club.”
She bobs her head obsequiously. “I understand, sir. Thank you for your consideration and please have a most pleasant evening.”
Well, I have the answer to my question no
w—Ethan is worried about shocking me. Maybe about pushing me too far.
Knowing that bugs me more. Not because he’s wrong. He’s right. Just the thought of him accepting that woman’s offer for a threesome sends another hot flush creeping up through me, makes me suddenly prickling and uncomfortable. No, he’s not wrong. At the rate I’m going tonight, I’ll melt off all the paint and really be naked.
I’m not bugged because he reads me so easily, but because he’s right about me. I am in over my head here. Worse, I don’t even know what I want.
But I’m here to find out. The realization strengthens my spine, and after the pet melts back into the crowd, I raise up on tiptoes and say to Ethan, “I want to know more about how this place works.”
He considers me without a word, and I stand before him, chin tilted up, shoulders back, holding my ground. Maybe he’s not sure I’m ready. I am.
“A scene’s about to start,” he finally says, “I’ll take you to see it.”
“The stripper show?”
Ethan arches a dark brow. I can’t tell if I’ve surprised or amused him.
“No. Not a stripper scene.” He glances at his watch. “That started already.”
Ethan takes my hand and leads me away. We don’t get far before running into the owner of the club, the guy Emme is so taken with. Ace’s nearly as tall as Ethan, which is saying something.
He runs his gaze over my body like a caress. I stiffen my spine, but a blush has my skin prickling with a will of its own, and it’s not going away any time soon. Of course, Ace probably won’t notice with all the paint, and he is most definitely not looking at my face.
“Nice work,” he says to Ethan. “Your best to date.”
I have so much to learn about this place.
“Her skin is a luminescent canvas.”
Ace only nods, making the dance floor strobes spark off his blond hair. “Edible paint?”
Ethan shrugs as if to say, “What else?”
Ace eyes me again, as if he’s imagining licking off the paint. The heat beneath my skin flares hotter. I gulp.
