Grounded (Up in the Air #3)(20)

James had no qualms about reminding me. “Take the clothes off. All of them. Now.”

I stripped slowly and a little awkwardly. It was no strip tease. I didn’t think I had that in me. I didn’t doubt that I had something wild inside of me, but it just wasn’t that.

I wore nothing but my collar and my earrings as I began to paint. Surprisingly, I was able to jump right into the project, not nearly as distracted by my own nudity as I’d thought I would be. That was probably because I was utterly captivated by the man that had inspired the painting.

James watched me paint, as he’d said he needed to. It was hard to feel self-conscious, even nude, when someone was looking at you as though you were the most beautiful and fascinating creature on the planet.

I had painted most of his face and torso before I got distracted by the subject at hand. When I’d painted his chest, I’d wanted to touch his chest, to kiss it, and bury my face there. I’d felt a similar urge when I’d been working on the curve of his neck, and his abdomen, hell, even his hair. But when I started to work on that sexy little V shaped pelvic muscle, I got sidetracked in a hurry.

I felt myself licking my lips a lot, as I studied that area of his body. Felt it, but couldn’t seem to stop it.

As though it had snapped me out of the dreamy trance I seemed to go into when I lost myself in a painting, I suddenly felt the air against my bare skin, like the temperature had just risen ten degrees in the room. My skin felt hot, my br**sts so heavy, my ni**les hardening until they quivered. I knew with a certainty that I wasn’t going to make any more progress on the nude that night.

I set down my palette, reaching for another one. They were a luxury I’d never indulged in before. Generally, I mixed paints on whatever piece of plastic I found that was the right shape and size. James had a dozen for me here, in their own designated drawer.

I began to rifle through a selection of acrylic paints that were sorted by color. I found one named Turquoise, but it wasn’t quite right, so I mixed in just a touch of emerald on the palette.

“What are you doing? You mix mediums like that on paintings? I didn’t notice that on any of your work,” James asked, sounding surprised.

My cheeks flushed in pleasure. That he knew so much about my little hobby, that he studied what I did, it still surprised me, but more and more, it was only a good surprise. My natural instinct to doubt everything he said and did was turning into something else now. He didn’t lie. Not about anything. It was freeing for me somehow as I realized that. If he didn’t lie, I didn’t have to question every little thing he did and said. It was a liberating realization.

I grabbed a larger sable brush, dipping it lightly into the paint of my new palette as I returned to my easel. I stood as though I were going to paint on the paper, then brought the brush slowly to my own chest. I traced the large globe of my right breast with a light touch.

James sucked in a breath, sitting up to watch me. His c**k had calmed down to semi-hard, for once, but it quickly stood at attention, inflating like a particularly wonderful toy.

I traced the brush down the middle of my abdomen, nearly reaching my sex before tracing to the side to paint one hip.

“Come here,” James said gruffly.

I had been intending to tease him a bit, but my body began to move instantly at his words, walking to him slowly, dragging the paintbrush to my other hip with a leisurely stroke.

He licked his lips. “Keep going,” he said, making no move to touch me even after I’d moved close.

I painted up my torso again, tracing my ribs one by one slowly, first one side and then the other. I dipped into my palette, picking up a generous amount of the turquoise. I painted the bones of my collar, being very careful not to graze my locked choker. I painted my other breast, moving the brush in wide circles over its roundness until I reached the rock hard nipple in the center.

James made a little, “hmm,” of approval in his throat, so I lingered there, painting small circles while he watched my brush move with rapt attention. I gave the opposite breast the same slow treatment.

James leaned back on his elbows. He patted a spot near his hip. “Put your foot right here. I want you to paint your thighs for me.”

I propped my foot at his hip, and he sucked in a gasp. “Fuck, I can see how wet you are from here.”

I painted down my body, down my hip and to my thighs. I painted the very upper edges of my thighs carefully, stopping just shy of my mound. I painted back and forth, back and forth, from the top of my inner thigh to my knee and back again, teasing him with the movement.

“Are you sore?” he asked, his voice thick.

“Sore how? From the roses?” I asked, painting an idle pattern down my shin, then back up my calf.

“I know you’re sore from the roses. I saw the marks on you. I’m talking about inside. Are you too sore for rough f**king?”

“Hmmm. Only one way to find out,” I told him.

I moved over him, straddling his thighs, skimming over his quivering erection, finally settling myself against his taut stomach. I traced the brush over one perfect cheek. He tilted his face up to give me better access. I’d thought I’d done the color of his eyes justice, but as I saw the paint set against that tarnished color, I saw that I hadn’t even come close. His had little gold flecks around the iris, and his eyes were paler, a paleness that pierced, as though being lighter somehow gave them more substance.