Our kiss is hungry and leaves me starving for more. I may need him to satisfy me again. Just to be double sure we’re compatible. He has other plans.
From his pocket, he produces the mysterious brush he purchased at my work. “I want you to paint me.”
I tilt my head. “Like a portrait?”
“No. My body.”
A little unexpected foreplay. None of the articles expanded on third date sex and where the boundaries lie. There must not be any.
“Okay,” I say. “Be right back.”
Bare-assed, I tug my tank down and hustle to the laundry room. Tubes of paint littering the shelves fly as I scramble through them to find blue and red. I snatch a mini palette, a towel too, and dash back to Finn.
A now-nude Finn.
My pace slows as I take in the lean muscles and surreal etches before me. The v accentuating his hips is phenomenal, as if someone hand-carved his beautiful body.
“Wow,” I murmur. He’s like a Rodin sculpture come-to-life, full of ferocious emotion, in need of no decoration. An x-rated work of art, of course. There’s a monumental difference in genitalia.
“Where do you want me?” he says, in a throaty voice.
Inside me, but patience is a virtue. “Um...” I glance around the room and this is bad, but I can’t ruin the furniture with stray paint splatters. I need my deposit back to use toward the next place. “Standing is good.”
I spread the towel out and drop down, one knee and then the other, before him.
He fists his cock, stroking. “This is so fucking sexy.”
God, it is. But he’s a wild card who might choose to have sex on top of the chair. With moving out looming over my head, I need to carefully consider which parts to paint. Most of the furnishings belong to June, and I’m not sure she’d appreciate heathen body smears all over it.
While I ponder where to start my masterpiece, it’s hard to look away from the sensual movement of his hand and the way he’s enjoying it. My heart bangs against my chest as I squeeze paint onto the palette and dip my brush in blue. Where to start? I study him and decide to paint his manscaped balls. Not only do they seem least problematic, they’re an erogenous zone.
“Oh, yeah,” he says, when the brush touches him. It’s hard to concentrate on what I’m doing as he tugs at his dick. The way he grips the thickness, stroking from root to tip, is the most erotic thing I’ve ever seen. His well-defined thighs clench as he pleasures himself to my artistry.
When I swirl a red s onto the blue base, he hisses and jerks off at a rapid pace.
“Fuck, I need inside you.”
The brush falls from my hand as he raises me from my kneeling position. In a blur of Superman balls, he flies to the shorts folded on the table and removes a condom. It’s rolled on faster than I can blink. He stalks back, and again lifts me.
I cling to his broad shoulders. “Against the wall,” I plead, equals parts aroused and afraid he’ll go for the couch.
My request is granted. The head of his cock eases in, and ah, God. We groan together as I acclimate to his size. His forehead drops to mine.
With a hand braced on the wall, he pumps into me.
“You’re so tight,” he says.
Over and over.
And over.
In varying forms as he takes me to the clouds—
“You’re so tight, Chloe.”
“Damn, you’re tight.”
“Tight as fuck.”
“So. Tight.”
To make it stop, I kiss him. I’m soaring to my destination, faster than the speed of light. I’m on cruise control.
“Feel good, babe?”
“Yes,” I whimper. He’s bendy and has stamina, ramming in and out, until I’m a quivering mass of limbs.
“Come on me,” he demands when my orgasm can no longer be contained.
It’s glorious, and breathtaking, and my first from penetration. Finn’s release quickly follows mine with an exquisite jerk of his body.
He doesn’t stay over afterward, but he leaves me with a kiss and a promise to call. I’m not necessarily smitten, but I’m damn sure satisfied, and isn’t that a good place to start?
Seven
“Is Finn lost?” Charlotte asks.
“Just running late. Busy Saturday at the gym,” I say, dropping my phone into my handbag. “He’s in the parking lot.”
While we wait for him to join us, people move around us in droves at the Spring Thing Bazaar. It’s the craft fair of the season, and I should know—I’m a craft fair whore.
Charlotte’s brown eyes hold a hint of laughter. “I still can’t believe you painted his balls. They’re the least sexy part. Like, what guy wants his balls painted?”
As all best friends do, I filled Charlotte in on the pertinent details of my afternoon tryst with Finn. To respect his privacy, I should have left out that minor detail, but it turned into a major thing. In my haste to pleasure him, I didn’t really take into consideration the paint removal process. When Finn called later that night to ask how to remove it without also removing his delicate skin, panic ensued. To his credit, he was a good sport and said blue balls were accurate until the next time he was with me.
“In his defense, he just said paint him. I picked his balls.”
Smiling, she moves to a steel column and studies the location directory of the one hundred-plus vendors. “Think Finn has the stamina for the craft fair?”
The better question is, do I? The bazaar is an open style warehouse, covering an acre of land. Under normal circumstances, you pretty much have to haul me out of here. Today, they may have to do it on a stretcher.
“Honestly, I can barely walk.” It’s been three days since our sexcapades, and I’m still not recovered.
“I’m going to tell my fiancé we need to christen every wall in our new house.”
“Do it at your own risk. I think wall sex broke me.”
A cough interrupts our discussion. “I uh...got kettle corn,” Austin says.
The sudden whoosh of blood pounding in my ears silences the chatter of the crowd around us. How much of our conversation did he hear? I’d like to crawl under the display table of colorful gnomes, but I force my lips upward and pretend nothing is amiss.
“Oh, yum.” I take a piece and pop it in my mouth. It’s no big deal he overheard us talking about sex. First of all, I wasn’t bragging. Or exaggerating. My legs are so sore, it was excruciating slipping on my jeans and boots today. Second of all, I’m over him—or working towards it. But it’s always good to distract...
“Did you know, at one time, the wealthy would hire people to be ornamental hermits that lived in their gardens?”
He glances at the garden gnomes watching us and rewards me with a half-grin. “That may be the most disturbing fact you’ve ever given me.”
“You’re welcome.” I take another piece of warm popcorn and smile. “Isn’t it nice to know there’s always a backup plan if life doesn’t really work out?”
“So where is this Fitbit guy?” he says, choosing to ignore any possibility of garden life.
As I chew, I focus on the indent between his dark brows.
“Finn,” I correct. “He’ll be here any minute.”
“Hide your kryptonite, people,” Charlotte says. “I think SuperFinn has arrived.”
It’s a nickname I know he’ll never shed when I turn to see Finn striding toward us, wearing jeans and an actual Superman T-shirt. I give a wave, while warring butterflies battle it out in my stomach. He’s so handsome, but will my friends like him? It’s important to me they do, because after the sex, I sort of want this to work with Finn. I’m invested. The swoony butterflies win when he reaches us and handles the introductions with dazzling charm. All that’s missing is a Mr. Clean-style sparkling tooth when he shakes their hands.
“So you’re a Superman fan?” Charlotte asks.
“Well, he is the Man of Steel,” Finn says, with a wink. For a moment, I’m fearful he’ll flex.
“Ah. What does mine say about me?”
Charlotte launches into an in-depth analysis, and I latch onto the last part of what she says, “You’re loyal and ready to save the day.” Oh, interesting. Loyal is good. “You don’t like to lose.” Yep, I could see this after the nine-plate buffet.
“I’ll take it,” he says.
“My fiancé is a Spiderman guy,” Charlotte tells him. “It fits him. Completely responsible with a dash of nerdy.”
“Everyone knows Batman is the best,” Austin adds.
Finn chuckles. “We’ll have to agree to disagree on that one, man.”
Austin arches a brow, and tosses a handful of kettle corn in his mouth. This superhero thing might become volatile, so I defuse the situation. “Ready to look around and have some judgy fun?”
Finn drapes an arm over my shoulders. “Lead the way, babe.”
Our quartet ambles into the flow of people and a few feet down, Charlotte stops at an enormous patch of ceramic bunnies in an array of sizes.
“Ah, the season’s hottest trend,” I say, moving from under Finn’s shoulder to gawk at the variety of pudgy rabbits.
Austin picks up a tan bunny with long ears and jumbo feet. “Uh-oh. This one appears to have a hare-line fracture.”
I laugh and wish I didn’t enjoy his corny jokes so much.
Finn moves beside me. “What kind of person makes only bunnies?” He glances at the silver-haired woman ringing up a sale.
“Lots of people stick to a particular item,” I tell him. “But this craft fair is seasonal, so a lot of vendors will focus on whatever holiday is upcoming.”
“Plus, she might be onto something,” Charlotte says. “Look at her line. It’s hopping.”
Finn smiles at her pun and so far, it’s going well. I’m noticing I never say great. Except for the sex. Minus the tight thing, sex was great, so we’re definitely compatible in that area. Hopefully, we are in others. Like friends.
This morning, I read introducing your inner circle is a serious step in a relationship. This is a casual relaxed atmosphere like they recommended, so why am I so on edge? Maybe it’s the clowns Finn is now entranced with across the aisle. It’s a horrid display of white-painted faces with cherry noses and creepy smiles. Their creator, a bald man with a bushy mustache, engages Finn in conversation. The surrounding cacophony prevents me from hearing what they’re discussing and why Finn is so enthralled. My phone buzzes.
Dude, if he buys a fucking clown, I’m not okay, a message from Charlotte reads.
I quickly reply, Not everyone hates clowns.
You do! I do! All the people murdered by them do!
I can’t believe I’m about to say this, but… #Notallclowns
Name one.
Ronald McDonald.
She doesn’t look convinced.
Another message arrives from Austin. It’s two emojis—a clown and a knife.
“Stop. They can’t all be bad. Did you know there are clown commandments?”
“I did not know this,” he replies. “Is thou shalt not kill not one of them?”
“Babe,” Finn calls, “come here a minute.”
Somehow, I force my feet over to him. “What’s up?”
“Carl here says there’s a clown motel in Nevada. Next to a graveyard. How cool would that be for Halloween?”
My phone nearly rockets out of my pocket from the vibrations. But more important, he’s making future plans. “Oh, hm. That might be a little too spooky for me.”
“I’ll protect you,” he says, grinning.
“Yeah, no.”
“Thanks for helping with the box,” Carl says to Finn. “Would’ve dropped it, if you hadn’t swooped in.”
Aw. Carl leaves to assist another customer, and the breath stuck in my lungs leaves in a rush when Finn turns away, empty-handed. We rejoin Austin and Charlotte, and the clown crisis is averted when I send them both a text letting them know Finn was only saving the day for Carl.
We mosey further through the fair, and around the midway mark, near the crocheted rabbits, I sense Finn’s interest waning. He stands with his shoulder propped against a life-size Easter Bunny, checking his phone, while we study the intricate tapestries hanging from hooks.
“I think Finn is bored,” Charlotte whispers to me.
Discreetly, I tug her far enough away for Austin not to hear. “Do you think he fits?”
“It only matters if you think he does. Now that I know he’s not a clown killer, I can see the appeal.”
That’s not a winning endorsement, but I’ll take it.
We continue on to the next section, and Finn engages with my friends in lighthearted conversation as we weave in and out of a plethora of kitchen products.
“When are you going to put up a table, Chloe?” Charlotte asks.
“Yeah. You should do it for the summer fair,” Austin says.
They’re always supportive of my art, encouraging me to put up a table of my own, instead of just critiquing all the shabby pottery from other artists. But hey, judging is half the fun.
I shrug. “I don’t know. I don’t know if it would sell.”
“What do you want to sell?” Finn asks.
“Well, I have a whole vision of my products.” I tell him all about my plans for Mae’d With Love. My wares will consist of a variety of handmade and hand-painted kitchen items. Each will include a recipe, printed on a keepsake recipe card, from Granny Mae’s delicious and extensive repertoire.
Pie plates for her heavenly lemon pie.
Serving bowls for her creamy mashed potatoes.
I’ll start small and then expand into dishes, mugs, platters. She has a million recipes, and I have a million ideas.
“I like it, babe.” He kisses my forehead. “You’re cute. All that talk of food made me hungry.” He looks over at the nearby dining area. “Want to grab something to eat?”
I’m not sure what I was expecting or if I’m expecting too much, but I’m cute? Austin said my plan was brilliant, not that I’m comparing. I’m totally comparing, and need to stop. I shrug off his lackluster reply and agree.
Our group crosses to the concession window where a smiling brunette takes our order. When she hands Finn a number, he says, “Thanks, babe.”
My gaze shoots to him. Hm. Okay. It never crossed my mind that babe could be a general term he used. It’s like my grandmother calling everyone “hun.” I’m not sure how I feel about this discovery. Well, I am. I just don’t want to admit my disappointment that I’m not special.
When we have our food, we join Austin and Charlotte at a picnic table. While I stew on the fact my endearment was not in fact an endearment, Finn pulls something from his pocket. I’m praying it’s not another paintbrush.
“While you were looking at the garden stuff, I got this for you.” He hands me a palm-sized stone, painted with a dandelion and the word wish. “I thought with the whole rock thing, you’d like it.”
My chest clenches, and the babe thing is no longer important. Just look at this. “It’s so perfect. Thank you.”
“That’s pretty sweet, Finn,” Charlotte says. “Mine needs to up his game before the wedding.”
Finn asks when the big day is and as Charlotte gives him the details, my phone vibrates.
That’s cute and all, but your boyfriend should only be calling you babe. I look up and meet Austin’s dark stare before he’s drawn into their conversation.
When Charlotte brings up moving out, Austin mentions he still needs a new roommate. And then, like a clown rolling up to a party, the worst thing happens.
“Oh, yeah? I’m in the market,” Finn says. “Ideally, I’d like to buy a place, but I might be interested.”
I almost choke on my fry. I make a mental note, in bold letters, to talk him out of that idea. There definitely won’t be any getting over Austin if my boyf
riend is sleeping in his house.
Not that Finn is my boyfriend. Not that I want him to be my boyfriend. Not that I know what I want at all.
But, really, does anybunny?
Eight
“Dating is about finding out who you are and who others are. If you show up in a masquerade outfit, neither is going to happen.”— Henry Cloud, How to Get a Date Worth Keeping
You’re a wise one, Henry. I bookmark the site, so I can come back later. My boyfriend is here. A few days ago, at a celebration after his SuperFit competition, Finn introduced me as his girlfriend to a competitor. So it’s official; we’re a couple. Dating advice is now a thing of the past. I’ve graduated to relationship articles, and the site I’m on says couples who cuddle together, stay together. Tonight we’re going to watch a show, because I can’t even imagine going out with my quads like this.
When I open the door, Finn, glorious against the backdrop of a tangerine and violet sky, frowns. “You aren’t dressed.”
I glance down at my joggers and T-shirt. I did indeed remember pants. So… “I’m dressed.”
He steps inside. “You’re wearing pajamas?”
“Lounge wear.”
“How fast can you get ready?”
“Like…making popcorn ready? I didn’t think you’d want any.”
He chuckles. “Like clothes. For the show we’re going to?”
Ah, it appears there’s been a misunderstanding about the type of show. “It’s um”—I wink—“like Netflix-and-chill kind of show.”
Emphasis on the “chill” part. Finn and I haven’t had sex since the blue balls. The taxing mental preparation for the SuperFit competition apparently required no surplus energy be expelled in bedroom activities. After he won, I thought he’d throw me over his shoulder caveman style. I was wrong. Once the celebration ended, he needed to rest his muscles.
“Sitting around all night?” he asks. “That’s not really my vibe.”
It’s my whole vibe, so that’s concerning.
I follow him into the living room. “It’ll be romantic.”
Spring Fling (Dating Season Book 1) Page 5
