Page 93 of The Art of Being Merry
“Uh, yeah. I mean, don’t think the parents would approve of a half-naked Santa, but fuck.” I start to pull her toward me, but stop when I remember it’s not dry. “Quick, take your pictures. I don’t want to mess it up.”
She rushes to grab her phone, situating me in different poses, taking shots from different angles. When she finishes, she chews her nail. “I kinda don’t want you to take it off so soon. I didn’t expect it to be so good.”
“I can shower later.” First, I have a better idea. I take her phone from her hand and set it on the table. “Is it time to move on to the next portion of the day?”
My words elicit a shiver. I hardly think it’s from the cold.
“Yeah.”
I pick up a brush that still has a little paint on it. “Do you trust me?”
28
clem
Dax,standing in my art studio with a paintbrush in his hand, is a fantasy come to life. Even though his torso is painted to resemble Santa, somehow he pulls it off. Perhaps there is something to Willa’s theory about a hot Santa.
Instead of answering him with words, I unhook the shoulder straps, letting them dangle at my waist. Next comes my ratty T-shirt, revealing a new bra I ordered online after we had sex the first time. By the way Dax’s eyes home in on it and his tongue sneaks out of his mouth, I’d say it was worth the added overnight shipping charges. I step out of my overalls, leaving me in the matching undies. His eyes grow wider, hungrier, as he takes in the tiny scraps of fabric I’m wearing.
“As good as you look in these, they have to go. They’ll be in my way as I create my masterpiece.” My hands reach behind my back, stopped by his growl. “Allow me.” He crowds my personal space and puts the paintbrush in his mouth. I never thought that would be sexy, but turns out, Dax can make almost anything sexy.
With gentle fingers, he unclasps the bra, dragging the straps down my arms until it moves past my fingers and off my hands. He then hooks his thumbs into the waistband of my underwear and drags them down my leg, pausing only so I can lean my hands on his shoulders to step out of them.
He removes the brush from between his teeth. “Your body is abeautiful blank canvas.” His tone of voice elicits a shudder. “Let’s see what I can do.”
Though it’s not so much an order, I can’t disobey him. “Where do you want me?”
He points to the floor. “Spread out on the cloth.”
I lie down on the floor, my legs and arms cast out to the side. I’m already turned on, but I’m excited to see what he’s going to do next, how he’s going to decorate my skin. Hopefully, his masterpiece doesn’t take an hour because I’m not sure I can lie here for that long. It’s been a few days since we had sex at his house, and I’ve been craving a Dax-induced orgasm since I left. My fingers aren’t the same.
Hell, the way his intensity points my way, I’m not sure I can last ten minutes.
Dax taps the brush against his palm, splattering bits of paint onto the drop cloth. “Oops.” When he does it again, it’s not by accident, especially when the flecks of paint hit my skin.
“Are you going to get on with the arting?” I ask, my patience waning.
“This is me arting.” He flicks the brush again, drops landing on my legs. His gaze heats with each flick.
An idea blossoms, and I sit up. “Wait. I have the best idea.” Not caring I’m stark naked—not like he hasn’t seen it all before—I dash across the studio to the closet, digging through the shelves for an unused canvas. I didn’t have a specific reason for anything when I bought it, but now I’m sure glad I did.
Back in Dax’s presence, I unfold it, laying it on top of the work cloth, and get back into position. “Okay, art away.”
He doesn’t question my actions but gets back to it, grabbing a different brush and dipping it into the green. He plants his feet on the sides of my waist, straddling my body. He’s still wearing his pants—hope he doesn’t care if paint gets on them—and peers down at me. The desire coursing through him, the heat in his eyes, is a heady feeling. The Santa-torso does nothing to detract from the hotness factor. In fact, it heightens it.
Our gazes lock for several intakes of breath, my curiosity about what he’s waiting for at an all-time high. I’m not expecting the bending of his knees nor the way he trails the brush to outlineone breast and then the other. The sensation is light and ticklish. I bite my lower lip to contain the giggle. The only other time I allowed someone to paint me, there wasn’t anything sexual about it. It was purely for education.
I’m digging this encounter so much more.
With careful strokes, Dax paints the rest of my breasts, and I giggle-snort at the sensation on my nipples. “How do they look?”
He tips his head back and forth, studying his work. “I’m not sure green is the best choice. Maybe pink or purple. Take notes for next time.”
His words give me pause. “We’re doing this again?” I choke out.
“I’m game if you are.”
Therein lies the problem. I could spend all my time doing things like this with this man if it weren’t for reality. One reason why what we’re doing was a fantasy until now.
