Page 42 of Falling for the Bad Boy
Her hands gripped my hips, her fingers digging into my waist. I should cut things off right there, end it before it went too far. The promise I’d made to Wyatt rang in my head. I couldn’t have it both ways. But in the moment, I couldn’t tear myself away. My tongue tangled with hers even as I told myself to stop, pull away.
I’d almost convinced myself when she slid her hand from my waist and stroked me through the front of my jeans. Hissing in a breath, I threw all thoughts of Wyatt and the deal we’d made out of my head. There wasn’t room for anything else except this woman, the urgent need to claim her, and the maddening friction she was generating between us.
I flung an arm behind her and laid her down on the canvas. She pulled me down on top of her, then moved her hands to work on the button of my jeans. Rolling her to the side, one hand fumbled with the clasp of her bra while the other moved between her legs. She pushed my pants down, and I kicked them off, not bothering to look where they landed. She pushed me onto my back. My elbow knocked into the can of paint. The liquid splashed over the rim, splattering onto my arm, and soaking through the canvas.
“Your sign…” I made a move to shift away.
She groaned as she straddled my hips. “I’ll fix it later.”
My hands roamed up her ribs, reached around her back and finally got the damn clasp undone. Her breath hitched as I lowered my mouth, kissing my way down her neck, past her collarbone, pausing to pay homage to the space between her perfect breasts.
“You’re gorgeous,” I muttered against her chest, unable to move my mouth from her skin.
“And you’re blue.” She rubbed her hands over the paint that had sloshed over the edge, then slid them up and down my arms.
Not willing to be the only victim, I dunked my whole hand into the can. Cupping a handful of paint, I held it above her head, letting it drip through my fingers to coat her long hair.
Her eyes widened as the paint splashed onto the canvas. “You’re so going to regret that.”
Palming her bare breast with my paint-covered hand, I shook my head. “I doubt it.”
She pushed me back again, clamping her thighs around my middle. Then she dipped her hand in the paint and drew a heart on my chest. “Here’s where your heart would be”—then she stuck her tongue out at me—“if you had one.”
A deep laugh rumbled through me, making my chest rise and fall. “Hey, you started it.”
“Is that how you see it?” She continued to paint my chest, first the heart, then a smiley face over my right pec.
I put my hands behind my head, not caring that my own hair would be covered in paint. This was happening, I may as well enjoy it. “It’s not just how I see it, it’s how it is.”
She continued to slop paint over my torso.
“What are you making now?”
“I’m making you a shirt.” Her finger traced a line right up the middle of my navel. “Put your arms down, I need to make sleeves.”
“I’m comfy, can’t you make it sleeveless?”
She let out a huff but kept going, drawing a plaid pattern over my stomach.
“Am I going to be able to wear this shirt?”
“Shh. When you talk you wiggle, and it messes me up.”
I held still for a moment, enjoying the look of total concentration on her face. Her teeth gripped her bottom lip, a tiny furrow appeared between her eyebrows, and her finger traced along my ribs. Then I laughed.
“Stop moving.”
“It tickles. Besides”—I pushed myself up on my elbows—“Why are you making me a shirt when all I’m going to do is rub it off?”
Her arms slid up over my shoulders and she clasped her hands behind my neck. “You made a mess.”
“Me?” Snugging her in close, I rubbed my chest over hers, transferring as much of the paint as I could.
She wrapped her legs around my waist, positioning herself directly over my hard-on. I wanted to pick her up, carry her to my bed caveman style and have my way with her all night long. But there was no way to get to my apartment without going outside.
“Trinity?”
“Mmhmm?” She didn’t lift her head from where she’d started nibbling on my neck, the one area of me not covered in paint.
