Proving Paul's Promise(39)

“I need to take my pants off,” she says. Her face colors, and it’s so damn pretty.

I set the paintbrush down and start to hum to myself as I reach for the button of her pants. She lets me, still clutching onto that shirt. She’s wearing skimpy black bathing suit bottoms, and I whistle when I see them. She giggles, and the sound shoots straight to my heart. I shove her pants down, and she steps out of them.

I squat down in front of her, put one knee on the floor, and rest my elbow on the other. I look up and grin. “The view is nice from down here.”

She grins and looks away.

She doesn’t have a lot of art on her outer thighs except for a baby rattle that’s encased in a spider web. It sweeps across her knee. I know what that one is about. I roll over it with black paint, and then cover all the way down to her toes. She giggles when I do the inside of her foot. “Ticklish?” I ask.

“Hypersensitive right now,” she whispers.

“I need to get below your bottoms,” I tell her, “in case they shift.”

“Can you pull them down just a little?” she asks. “Not far.”

I hook my thumbs in the hips of her bottoms and tug them down. She makes a whispery noise, and I look up to find her talking to herself. It sounds like she’s saying, Don’t pass out, don’t pass out, don’t pass out, but I can’t be sure. I paint around her hips and her waistband and leave her bottoms turned down so it can dry for a minute. I lift her leg and rest her foot on my knee. I can see the inside of her thigh where her son’s footprints are, along with his date of birth. I lean forward and kiss her there. I linger, taking in the sweet feel of her soft skin against my lips, and I stop to smell the overwhelming scent that’s all Friday. Her leg starts to tremble so I roll it really quickly and lower it to the floor. I roll all the way up her thigh again, and then I look up at her and grin.

“Forgive me in advance for what I’m about to do,” I say. I pull her bottoms to the side so I can swipe the brush up the crease of her thigh.

Holy Christ. She doesn’t have a stitch of hair down there. Of course, I can only see the edge, but it’s cleanly shaven, and I have to reach down and adjust my junk. I want to pull the suit back farther so I can look for her clit piercing, but I haven’t been invited that far. Hell, I haven’t been invited this far, either, but I’m here. Thank God, I’m here.

“You still okay?” she asks.

“Fine,” I croak.

“Just checking, because your hand is shaking a little.” Her voice trembles just about as much as my hand does.

“You’re making me f*cking crazy,” I admit.

She sucks in a breath. “Sorry,” she whispers.

“Don’t be. It’s a good kind of crazy.” I grin up at her.

“I love those f*cking dimples,” she says. Then she presses her lips together like she said too much, which makes me grin even more.

“Don’t say the word love around me yet,” I warn playfully.

“Why not?”

“Because you make me hopeful,” I say.

She steps back from me and looks down. “I think we’re done,” she says. She smiles at me.

“No, we’re not.”

I step toward her.

She takes a step back. “Yes, we are.”

“No, we’re not.” I grab the edge of the shirt. “Drop the shirt,” I say.

“I can do that part.”

“I just spent two f*cking hours painting your body, and you won’t grant me the privilege of painting your boobs?” I ask, trying to look as dejected as possible. I lean close to her ear. “I just painted the left and right side of your *,” I tell her. “I can paint your boobs.” I tug the shirt, and she lets it drop. Her hands fall to her sides, and she closes her eyes.

“Go ahead,” she says through clenched teeth.

I smile and start to paint. I work my way around her breasts until I get to the crest of the left one. I stop and roll her piercing in my fingers. Her breath hitches, and she looks down, her mouth falling open. She gasps out something I can’t understand.

“We need to change these for something plastic,” I tell her.

“On the dresser,” she says. She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath.

“Can I do it?” I ask.

I do this all the time when I pierce people. Or when they need to take a piercing out for some reason. I replace the metal with something like fishing line that holds the piercing open until the metal can be put back in.

“You can do it,” she says. She keeps her eyes closed, but she startles when I twist her piercing in my fingers, letting it roll again.

“That’s not very nice,” she says. But her eyes open and she watches me unscrew the end and pull the piercing free. I follow it with the plastic piece and secure it in place. I do the same on the other side, taking a minute to play with it. I can’t help it. It’s a f*cking tit piercing. It begs to be played with.

When I’m done, I pick up my paintbrush and say, “Are you ready?”

She nods.

Then I let the paintbrush drag across her hard nipple. “Shit,” she bites out.

“What?”

“We need to put the pasty things on.”

“Not yet. I’m having fun.”