Page 75 of Feverburn

I opened my mouth to argue, but he grasped his shirt collar behind his neck and tugged it off his body, stepping closer to me so his pecs were at eye level. “I want you to paint my body.”

An amused snort left me. “Oh, you’re serious?” I asked, skimming a nail across one of his coppery nipples.

“Yes,” he reached for a tube of cornflower blue paint and a small brush, “my body is your canvas. Yours for the taking. If you’ll paint.”

I took in the drop cloths and fire, the wine in my hand, and the gentle hum of music. He had created a cozy space for us. And he had seen my artwork and knew my secret. All I could think was…Why the hell not?

“Only if you drop the pants and get buck naked,” I countered, setting down my wine.

Carson flashed me a smile as I undid his pants, pushing them down with his underwear before palming his cock while I kissed him just because I could.

I broke the kiss with a laugh when Kizzy let out a miserable grumble, plopping down in his bed by the fire.

“What?” Carson taunted his dog, getting only twitchy eyebrows, showing nothing but judgment in return. Turning back to me, he changed his tone. “This is a joint effort,” he said, reaching for the hem of my top.

I lifted my arms, letting him undress me. He crouched to remove my shorts, my hands bracing on his shoulders as I stepped out of them and my underwear. His palms skimmed the sensitive skin on the back of my knees, then over my thighs in admiration. He planted a kiss on each hip bone before running his nose up my torso, kissing the bud of each breast, then feathering kisses on my shoulders.

With the fire crackling and the dim lights of the cabin, I was lulled into a sense of safety. He was holding space for me and taking the lead. It was exactly what I needed.

We sat down together on the covered section of the couch. As he doled up patches of paint, I couldn’t help but stare at how striking he was with the flames roaring behind his broad shoulders.

He twirled his brush in white paint and brought it to my clavicle with a calm smile. The second the hairs touched my skin, I sucked in a breath, my breast brushing against the side of his hand. I closed my eyes, taking in the cool paint and the warmth of the fire, the gentle exhale of Carson’s breath on my skin.

“You’re safe,” he murmured.

I nodded, eyes still closed.

“Would you like me to keep going?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Is it okay to paint here?” he asked, brushing his hand over my tummy. I nodded. He stroked his knuckles on the side of my arm. “What about here?”

“That’s okay, too.”

Knuckles traced between my breasts, over my branding that was almost hidden amongst the intricately woven snakes of Medusa. “And here?” he whispered.

“Yes, especially there.”

And from there, he rendered a phoenix on my chest. He knew the fiery phoenix was my favorite mythical creature from a lengthy discussion at Silver Springs in the early days. It meant a lot to me that he remembered that detail.

Stroke by stroke, brush by brush, it was healing to have a man stare at my skin, and instead of seeing something to claim, it was something to revere, to love up on instead of harm.

Once he was done, I couldn’t stop staring at my chest. How the flames curled around my breast, and the tail curved over one of my ribs. “Thank you,” I whispered, leaning close to nuzzle his nose before kissing him.

“You’re welcome.” His lashes fluttered close before he moved in for another kiss.

I grabbed my brush, chasing my fleeting courage. “What about you? Anywhere off limits?”

“Nope,” he licked his lips as I dipped in the blue and held a breath, sweeping a long line vertically between his pecs. Still holding my breath, I started a swirl by his shoulder, dragging it down his bicep. My eyes danced back and forth, deciding whether to match his shoulder swirls to make it symmetrical. “Go on. Follow your instinct,” he whispered, pushing me out of my worry.

I grabbed my blue and started a swirl lower down on his faint abs and then went in with some green, the distinct silence filling my head that I hadn’t experienced for far too long. It was creating. I was making art.

He looked down at my pattern. “I like that,” he said, brushing my cheek with his thumb as I leaned closer to set little marks within the swirl. Each time I’d pull back to examine my work before I could overthink it, Carson would say something or touch me lovingly in a way that distracted me to keep going. Time slowed, and before I knew it, his chest and arms were covered in fluid vines and swirls.

I made my way to his back, using the constellation of freckles on his shoulders as stars, painting a hunter with a bow and arrow on the top of a hill, seeking out a kill with his hound. I must’ve been at it a while because Carson eventually had to put more wood on the fire but returned to his seat silently. My concentration tapered off, so I finished up and took him to the bathroom mirror to show him my handiwork.

He gazed in awe, looking over his shoulder, extending his arms to see the whole motif. “This is incredible,” he murmured. “You did it, sweetheart, you made art!” he said between kisses. “I’m so proud of you!”

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