Page 39 of The Truth of Loving You

“A noun.” Shane’s expression turned mischievous. “Cole Branson.”

“Oh, Pretty Boy, you have no idea how much I’m going to enjoy this.” I rolled the stool over and uncapped a black permanent marker. “Adjective.”

Shane tapped his chin thinking. “Dynamic.”

My mouth pinched together, and I tried not to frown. How the hell would I draw ‘dynamic.’ “Okay, Mr. Smarty Pants, a normal verb.”

“Skipping.” He pinched his lips together, trying not to laugh.

“That is not normal.”

“Well, Mr. Fun, when you’re trying to Mad Lib me, skipping is quotidian.” Shane’s amused laughter bounced around the room.

“I don’t even know what that means, dickhead.” I bit his bare shoulder and then licked it to take the sting out.

“That’s Mr. Dickhead to you. And before you ask me for a body part, I’m choosing a dick.” He grabbed my hand and placed it on his cock.

“Listen, I’m an excellent artist, and I work with all kinds of mediums, but I can’t draw a dynamic Cole Branson skipping on your dick. It won’t stay still or the same size.” I gave him a hard stroke. “If you want, I’ll decorate your cock when I’m done creating a masterpiece of me somewhere on you.” A grin overtook my face, and the urge to whistle surprised me.

“Here,” Shane’s hand circled from his collarbones down to his pelvis, “I want a dynamic Cole Branson skipping all over me.” His expression was serious, and I wouldn’t argue.

We were quiet for a few minutes while I outlined myself on his torso. I decided to showcase my face on his chest as realistic, but the rest of my body would be cartoonish and tiny. A little smug about my face on his chest. His fingers trailed over every part of me within his reach.

“I’m a little annoyed that I’m getting a Cole Branson original, and I won’t get to keep it.”

I bit my cheek so I didn’t smile. “You’ll have it for five or six weeks.”

Shane stilled then relaxed. “Fuck you,” he laughed.

“Are you experienced at washing off permanent marker?” I asked, waggling my eyebrows.

“I’ve done my fair share.” Shane’s fingers explored my bicep tattoo as it flexed while I drew. “I wanted a tattoo for most of my life, and I would draw on myself, or someone else would. You should have seen some of the middle school shit drawn on me. Angst city.”

“Any photographic evidence? I’d love to see it.” I had the strangest urge to see a young Shane.

“Probably not.” Shane’s index finger ran along the ridges of my spine, sending a shudder in its wake. “But I bet your middle school art was fascinating.”

“Lots of boobs.” I laugh. As I reposition myself, my hand landed on his scarred shin. “Does this hurt?”

“Not talking about the past.” Shane’s tone turned icy.

“Mmkay, Mr. Rule Breaker. First of all, we were talking about middle school and boobs, which last time I checked was in the past. And second, I’m not asking you what happened; I’m asking if it hurts when I put pressure on your scar.” I leaned in to flick my tongue across his nipple and lightened the mood. “Don’t get bratty with me, or I won’t give you the second orgasm you want.”

“Fine,” Shane said with mock exasperation. “Boobs, huh?”

“Yep, I was obsessed with them. That was before I understood the power of the cock.” I threw him a lustful grin.

I concentrated on drawing and let the comfortable silence fill the space between us. There were very few people that I felt comfortable enough with to enjoy silence. Music was my usual buffer, but I didn’t feel the need.

“It never hurts anymore,” Shane said. “Sometimes the skin feels tight, but most of the time I forget about it.”

Putting my marker aside, I leaned in, kissed the middle of his scar, and rubbed my cheek down the length of it.

“Forgetting about it is the worst part, for me,” Shane said.

I remained quiet, hoping he’d keep talking. My artwork was done, and Shane had my undivided attention. But his eyes were unfocused, as if remembering. It gave me an idea, and I picked up the markers again.

“My family had been through a trauma, and I wanted to escape. I was supposed to go away to camp for a few weeks after it happened. Leaving was the only thing keeping me sane. But the week before, my parents refused to let me go. I snapped. The short story: I burned some shit, including myself.”

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