Page 47 of Of Heartbreak and Harmony
“No. You?”
“Yeah. A few times.” He turns and walks into the tent, so I follow him. “Are you allergic to latex? Sorry. I probably should have asked you that already.”
“I’m not.”
“Good.” He stops in front of some buckets of paint, every color of the rainbow on display, then turns a mischievous smirk on me. “You gonna let me paint you?”
The bluntness of his question catches me off guard, especially after seeing that gorgeous model of a woman all sexy and painted. I about choke on my spit. I have to clear my throat before I can force words out of my mouth.
“Why can’t I paint you?”
The words come out stuttered, clumsy, but I don’t miss the flash of heat in his eyes. He cocks his head to the side and sinks his white teeth into his bottom lip before speaking.
“What if we do it together? You do me, and I’ll do you.”
I nod, and then stand frozen as he takes off his hat, then pulls his shirt over his head. When he drops the shirt and hat to the ground, my eyes fall to his chest and my exhale lodges in my throat.
I could probably draw his tattoos from memory, but the pictures I have stored in my head are nothing compared to seeing the art up close. His biceps, shoulders, collarbones, and chest are covered in intricate, colorful designs, and I scan them like I’m completing a seek-and-find.
The skull on his right pec looks even more menacing in person, yet the red rose growing from it looks so real, I want to lean in and smell it. I find the antique record player on the side of his rib cage, and I know from an interview he did once that the music notes filtering from the horn make up the opening chords to The Hometown Heartless’s first single.
My eyes drift lower, searching for the moth inked onto his pelvis, the one he told a night show host represents rebirth and new beginnings, and when I find it, I curl my hands into fists. He’s fucking art. This body I’ve dreamed about, that I’ve seen only in photographs, is real and close enough for me to touch.
“I think I’d feel bad covering them up,” I whisper, and when he laughs, I flick my eyes from his pelvis to his face and blush. “Sorry.”
He steps closer. “Don’t be. I like it when you look.”
Our gazes lock and hold. My heart thuds louder in my head the longer we stare at each other. He’s older. He’s unattainable. He’s experienced, tempting, and so verydangerousfor me. I’ve exchanged only a handful of sentences with him—hell, some of them weren’t even full sentences—yet here I am, reaching for the hem of my shirt so I can strip it off for him.
I’ve done some reckless fucking things in my nineteen years of life, but this has to be top of the list.
Part of me wants to look away,knowsI should break eye contact and flee.
But the other part...
The other part simplycannot.
“Would you like me to help you?”
The words are whispered seductively as he covers my hand with his. The feel of his long, calloused fingers sends a rush of shivers up my arm and over my torso. I know I’m blushing. My breathing is shallow. I might pass out from lack of oxygen.
Torren King is touching me.
I shake my head, and he drops his hand, severing the skin-on-skin connection right before my vision fizzles at the corners. I suck in a lungful of night air, the scent of latex paint and weed and leather consuming me, and then I turn my back to him so I can pull my shirt over my head. He chuckles, and goose bumps cover my back, chest, and arms as I drop my shirt onto the ground beside his.
I turn to face the instructor and don’t look at Torren again as we’re given a rundown of the dos and don’ts of body painting. Someone stops by and asks if we need help, and Torren says no. He’s done it before. The instructor does a double take, obviously recognizing him, but she says nothing and leaves us to begin without assistance.
“You want to go first?” he asks, and I shake my head again, my tongue still incapable of forming words. “I’m going to fix your hair.”
I nod, and he smirks as he steps in front of me once more. I try my damnedest not to think about the fact that I’m currently standing in front of Torren King in nothing but cut-off shorts and a nude, strapless bra. I fail.
Gently, he removes the claw clip from my hair, and my long auburntresses fall to my back. He puts the claw clip between his teeth, freeing both hands so he can gather my hair and twist it into a bun at the back of my head.
My eyes flutter shut the moment his fingers make contact with my scalp. His tattooed forearms frame my face, his hands sinking into my hair and caressing in a way that has me imagining bed sheets and no space between our bodies.
I’m inches from his chest. Just a hitch at the waist and I could kiss the guitar pick tattoo on his sternum.
I pray he can’t see how hard my nipples have gotten. I’m so fucking grateful he doesn’t know how wet he’s made me just from the simplest of touches.
