Page 94 of The Art of Being Merry
“Let’s table it for later. You’ve got art to create. Because I’m dying to get to the next portion of today.”
“You had your fun. Let me have mine. I’ll make the wait worth it, promise.”
If I didn’t believe him, I’d protest more. Instead, I lie back down, reveling in the sensation of watching this man create a masterpiece of my body.
From my position on the floor, I monitor his every movement.
How he chooses his next color from the variety at his disposal.
How he draws lines and objects on my skin.
How he drips paint onto the canvas in a deliberate pattern.
How he “arts”.
It’s messy and chaotic, but it’s beautiful.
With each brushstroke across my skin, my arousal sharpens. Some from his determination, some from knowing what comes next, and some from the act itself. Perhaps that’s why it’s always been a fantasy of mine to come together with a partner after painting. To see what we can create with paint and our bodies.
After what is way too long, he puts down the brush and crosses his arms over his chest, his eyes scrutinizing every inch of my body covered in paint and the rest of his handiwork. Paint dabs splatter his jeans and the Santa depiction.
“Are you okay with me taking a picture of you like this? I’ll make sure it’s in the hidden folder on my phone. My eyes are the only ones that get to see you like this, but damn, Clementine. This is good work, if I say so myself.”
He’s given me no reason to doubt him, so I agree, “Sure. You want me to pose differently?”
“I want you exactly as you are.” He gathers his phone from the table, taking photos from different angles, his tongue peeking out of his mouth, and he smirks. “Gorgeous.” He’s quiet for a few moments, his mind working through something. “I’m sure you want to see yourself in the mirror, but would a picture be satisfying?”
“If it means you getting naked faster, yes.”
“Patience is not your strong suit today.” I’m about to argue, tell him how desperate I am for him, but his fingers find the button on his jeans. I heave a sigh of relief.
“Is your paint still a little tacky?”
He touches it in different spots. “Yeah. Do you want to wait until it’s fully dry so it doesn’t ruin it?”
I sit up. “No. Absolutely not. It was only for fun. What I want is for you to remove your pants and get on with it. Watching you paint was all the foreplay I need. My pussy is ready for your cock, Dax.”
There was a point in my life when I would have been embarrassed to even think the words, let alone voice them in front of a guy. However, today I’m not even ashamed. Because I’m horny as fuck, but also because Dax won’t judge me.
“Clementine,” he grunts, “the mouth on you.”
“If you stop moving at a glacial speed, I’ll use it on you after. See how fast I can make you come.”
His eyes close and he hangs his head, but he also—finally—removes his pants and boxers, his dick erect. “Condom?”
“Table.” After digging it from his jacket pocket, I threw it on the table before I started painting.
He grabs one from the box and sheathes his cock. I don’t even care I don’t have time to admire it with his painted torso. I’m practically dripping, so fucking ready for a release.
With his cock covered, he eliminates the distance to where Iam with quick strides, laying himself over me. Balanced on his left forearm, his other hand reaches between us, stroking once. “I wasn’t prepared to be so aroused painting you, but it was thrilling. Sexy. You’re edible.”
“And on the edge. Stop with the flowery talk and get to it already.”
He swallows any other argument I have, his tongue seeking entrance into my mouth the minute our lips touch. The moan escaping me is loud and drawn-out. Without having to worry that anyone else can hear us, I can be loud. Rambunctious. Wild.
Shifting his body, his cock pokes my entrance, and the second it breaches inside, another moan tumbles from my lips. “Yessssss.”
“You’re soaked.”
