Page 35 of The Art of Loving Ellie
“I’ll be your canvas for tonight.” His handsome face is etched with that familiar humor that drives me crazy. He knows exactly what he’s doing, and I can’t deny my excitement over the prospect of touching him.
“What’s the catch?”
Wickedness becomes him as his smile widens, and a shiver crawls its way up my spine. “For each body part that you paint of mine, I will paint the same one of yours.”
My eyes gingerly drop back down to his olive-skinned chest where just a light dusting of hair sits between his pecs. His shoulders and arms are tight and lean, and I follow the line of his abs down to the waistband of his jeans, where I can see the barest hint of a happy trail. I bite my inner lip in an attempt to control myself.
I remember what it felt like to have those strong arms wrapped around me, and the touch of his full lips against my own. When I bring my eyes back up to his, he spreads his arms out before me with a ‘come and get it’ grin.
“Challenge accepted.” I reach past him to grab a thick brush and a few others. By the smug look on his face, I can tell he thinks I’m going to start with his chest or back, which in turn, means that I would have to remove my tank top for him to do the same.
Instead, I slowly step up to him—so close that I can feel his breath fan across my face, and look straight into his beautiful eyes.
“Give me your hand,” I demand, and the bewilderment on his face makes me laugh.
Point, Ellie.
He gives me the hand that isn’t holding the palette, and I pause a moment to admire it. Tyler has long, strong hands, and I’m plagued with images of them groping my body. Remembering those hands firmly gripping my ass while we made out in the janitor’s closet makes me clear my throat uncomfortably.
I grab some white paint off the palette in his opposite hand and mix in some black to create a light gray. Placing my hand under his, I begin gentle strokes around the bones beneath his skin, creating thin white striations that make up the cartilage and tendons around them.
When I’m finished, I smirk at him, giving him a clean brush and offering my hand for him to work on.
Admiring my work, he quirks an eyebrow at me, “I’m not normally so easy to outwit.” He gives me the palette and takes my palm in his. Dabbing some green paint onto his brush, he leans over my hand and applies it to my pale skin in slow strokes.
“It seems you may have met your match.” I smile at him, jumping slightly when the cold paint touches my skin.
He chuckles to himself, but I don’t miss the desire flooding his gaze when he glares back at me. “I’m no painter, so don’t you dare laugh.”
I giggle as he swirls the start of a green vine onto the back of my hand. He’s so focused on his work that he barely takes a moment to look up at me through his thick lashes. “I said don’t laugh.”
I hide my smile from him as he finishes the job, and we take turns painting our opposite hands. I move on to his right side contemplating where to start, and I run my fingers lightly down the full-length of his arm. Starting at his shoulder, I end my stroke over the pulse at his wrist where I absently rub a circle over his warm flesh, envisioning the direction of my design.
His skin is warm and smooth, and I can’t help but notice that I’ve left a trail of goosebumps with my touch. I’m lost in thought when he interrupts.
“Like what you see, Princess?” His words come out in a husky whisper that makes the hair on the back of my neck prickle.
I meet his gaze, teasing him, “A good artist always gets familiar with her subject.”
His eyes darken, and I’m satisfied with the effect I have on him. It’s becoming a game of my own to make him speechless.
Taking some red and white, I create a muscular pattern around his bicep and down his forearm. “Are you going to continue to work at Cityscapes for long?” I inquire, focusing on my work. He flexes, causing one of my lines to smear, and I swat him playfully.
“I think so. It’s the best gig I’ve been able to find in the city in a long while.” He lowers his voice, as if to share a secret with me that he isn’t particularly proud of. “Doing weddings is fun, and its good money, but I couldn’t keep up with demand. And if I’m being totally honest, my heart wasn’t really into the whole wedding thing anyway.”
Piquing my interest, I dig a little deeper. “So, you’re not into marriage then?”
He grabs my arm for his turn and continues his vine pattern in slow sensual strokes. This feels so intimate—painting each other, and I’m hyper-aware of every caress of the cool paint and roughness of the paintbrush against my skin.
He laughs lightly. “No, I’m not saying that. I would like to get married someday. I’m just not sure why people spend thousands of dollars just so others they haven’t spoken to in years can come eat and get drunk for free.” I smile, sharing his opinion.
He pauses his strokes a moment. “What are your thoughts?”
“O—on marriage?” I stutter, and curse myself. One day I will be able to form regular sentences around him.
Knowing this is dangerous territory, I open my mouth to tell him the truth, but I don’t even know what the truth is anymore. I don’t want to get married, because that would mean the inevitably of divorcing—but a small part of me wants to believe there’s a chance I could be happy someday with a man that would treat me right.
“I don’t know what I think about it, truthfully.” Grabbing his blank left arm to start painting, I feel his opposite hand wrap around my working bicep. He begins gently rubbing the tender flesh of my arm with his thumb as I brush the acrylic onto my living canvas.
