Total pages in book: 154
Estimated words: 148473 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 742(@200wpm)___ 594(@250wpm)___ 495(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 148473 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 742(@200wpm)___ 594(@250wpm)___ 495(@300wpm)
I laugh, feeling lighter than I have in weeks. “Are you kidding? I love it. I love it just for me.”
“Good, because I didn’t do it for California Style. I did it for you.”
My heart stutters, then slams against my chest, pounding in a rhythm that feels too good. I feel like my veins are glowing.
Inside the studio, the lighting is soft, casting a warm glow over the carefully arranged space. It’s a space for me to create, one I don’t have to share with others, one I don’t have to squeeze myself into.
But it’s not just the space I love—it’s the way the entire backyard leads here with the string lights, the landscaping, the peace and calm, the way I can shut the door and get lost in my art.
I’m overjoyed. “I want to try it out right now,” I say, feeling like a kid at Christmas. Like he’s just given me roller blades and I must race down the street now, feel the wind in my hair, the muscles pumping in my legs.
Asher walks over to the shelves, tapping his chin. “Let’s see then. I ordered some of the paints you like. The ones made with non-toxic chemicals. They’re all cruelty-free.”
That’s it. My heart is going to burst.
Tears prick at the back of my eyes. “How did you know…?”
He turns to face me, and his gaze softens. “You mentioned it once, how important that was—for you to find materials that didn’t cause harm. I thought, if you’re going to paint here, I want you to have everything you need.”
I swallow hard, overwhelmed by how much attention he’s given to every small detail. “This…means so much.”
Then, with a playful gleam in his eyes, he lifts a tube of paint and adds, “And if memory serves, red is your favorite color?”
His gaze drifts down to my chest, and I’m sure we’re both suddenly remembering that day in the studio, when he ran his finger across the red paint on my skin, when his touch lit me up, made me sizzle.
“Did you have something in mind to break in the studio, husband?”
His smile is sinful. “I sure do.”
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.”