She moans against me, the roses crush between us, but we don’t care. We devour one another, the kiss needy and explicit, our tongues crashing against one another, both of us hungry for more.
Breathless we pull apart, our eyes locked. “Tell me,” I say. “What is this that you planned for us?”
She steps back, a smile on her face. “An art project.” She giggles. “Ready to get messy?”
9
IMOGEN
On the floor of my studio is a massive canvas, 8x10. Most of my furniture is pushed against the walls, clearing the space.
My finger feels heavy, the diamond massive and so extravagant. My mother is going to flip out in the best way possible.
“Art project?” Neil asks, following me into my place, I see his eyes roaming around the open shelving where my mismatched coffee cups sit, the books on every table, haphazardly stacked. And the paint.
So. Much. Paint.
“Yes, art project. I thought we could get creative together.” I lick my lips, undo the tie on my robe. Let it fall to the ground.
This morning, after receiving Neil’s letter, I went to the salon and got waxed. Entirely. I wanted my pussy nice and bare for him. Then, I went to the spa and had an exfoliating scrub ... my skin has never been softer. When he runs his big hands over me I want him coming with desire.
Now, I stand in nothing but my birthday suit … and Neil’s eyes are wide, his jaw dropped, and from what I can see through those slacks — his cock is raging hard.
Good.
“I’m not exactly an artist,” he confesses, stepping toward me.
“You’ll be good at this, I promise.” I unhook his belt, slide it off, toss it aside. I grab his tie, tug it loose.
“How do you know?” he asks, shrugging off his jacket and shirt, then stepping from his pants.
“This project is special,” I say, bending down to reach a large paint brush, dipping it in red. I wave a finger at his boxers. “Off.”
He obliges with a grin that has my heart spinning. The last forty-eight hours have turned my world upside down and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
I am going to marry a man I hardly know and it feels like the best decision of my life.
Now naked, I step toward him. “See, when you fucked me in the hotel room,” I tell him, running the wet paint over his chiseled chest, “I knew you were more wild than you let on. You may be the silent type in the boardroom, but I could tell in the bedroom that you are a wild man at heart.”
The red paint glistens on his skin. He groans as I run the paint over his throbbing cock. How is it possible for him to be so big? “Fuck, Imogen,” he grunts, the pinpricks of pleasure clearly rushing straight to his head.
“We’re the art project. Here’s your brush,” I say, handing another one to him. “Paint away.” I move to the center of the canvas, wanting him to do with me whatever he likes.
He chuckles, shaking his head. “Fuck, you are a surprise.”
“A piece of work, some might say.”
“A hot mess,” he adds, dipping his brush in blue paint. “But I like it. In fact, I fucking love it.” He runs the paint brush over my tight nipples, his other hand cupping my bare cunt. “Fuck, you look hot all nice and bare.” He kisses me. Hard. “That pretty pussy of yours likes it when I tease her.”
I inhale sharply, then push him away. “No getting out of this,” I tell him. “I’m bossy too. And we’re painting together before we fuck.”
He smiles, flicking the brush at me, spraying blue paint all over my skin. I shriek and he laughs. “Is that a promise?” he asks.
I shake my head, grabbing a tube of yellow paint and squirting it at him. “No.” I giggle. “It’s a guarantee!”
We roll in the paint for an hour, orange and purple and green, our skin slick, the canvas a rainbow of lust and love. Every inch of our skin is covered, we are a mess, through and through, but damn, this love feels like a work of art.
“You are crazy,” he says, kissing me, his hands covered in blue paint, my legs wrapping around him. The canvas is a lovely mess and when he leans over me, I breathe him in, deeply. His cock is hard, his want is real, and this engagement is no joke.
“This is the best piece of art I’ve ever seen,” I tell him. “It’s perfect.”
Neil smiles, and I know he agrees. He may be all buttoned up during the work week, but I have a feeling I will be the thing that helps him let loose on the weekend.
He takes the brush from my hand, setting it on a tray. He picks me up, and I squeal with laughter as he holds me against his muscular chest.