Proving Paul's Promise(40)

“Paul,” she protests, but there’s no whine in her voice that’s real. It’s all pretend. Every little bit. I brush back and forth across her nipple. Her head falls forward, and then her mouth opens. She pants. God, she’s going to make me come in my pants.

“I didn’t expect them to be so big,” I admit.

Her eyes fly open. “My boobs?”

I laugh. “No, I knew how big your boobs are. I’ve been staring at them for four years. I mean your nipples. They’re big and perfect.” I can see her pulse beating in her neck, as quick as my tattoo gun, almost.

I keep painting the one on the left and bend my head and slurp her right nipple between my lips. She cries out and reaches for the back of my head. “Careful,” she whispers. “They’re really sensitive right now. I didn’t realize they’d hurt so much.”

“I’m hurting you?” I ask around a mouthful of nipple.

“No, I mean, in general. Just being pregnant makes them hurt. What you’re doing feels really good.” I suckle her boob, plumping it in my palm. If I don’t back up and get out of here, I’m going to disgrace myself. And her, too. “Really, really good,” she whispers.

I stare up into her eyes. When I can’t possibly take anymore, I drop her boob from my lips and paint around the edges and underneath, while I blow on the turgid peak to dry it. Her naked toes wiggle against the floor.

I step back from her, and she turns and puts pasties on, and then we paint over them. I’m glad she’s not going to go out there with her nipples poking out. I wouldn’t like the paint, either—you can see the curve of her boob—but it looks like she’s wearing a latex body suit.

“I think we’re done,” she chirps. She turns to the mirror and raises her arms, spins around, and takes in the work. “You did a really good job.”

I can’t for the life of me figure out what she has designed, and I’m kind of curious what all the oranges and purples will form. “What is it?” I ask.

She grins. “I’m not telling.”

She walks over to me and stands up on her tiptoes. She puckers her lips. I lean down and let her kiss me, and I f*cking love that she initiated it. My heart soars.

“Thank you,” she says.

“You’re welcome.”

“I need to do a few more things.” She glances around the room like she’s not sure what to do first.

“I’ll wait for you in the living room.” I open the door and go out it as quickly as I can. I stumble directly into Sam. “What the f*ck?” I say. “How long have you been there?”

He throws up his hands. “I just walked in the door. I swear.”

“You’re sure?”

“Positive.” He looks at Friday’s door. “What were you doing? Do you need a condom?”

I shove him. “No, I don’t need a condom.”

He glances toward my lap. “You sure, ‘cause…” He lets his voice trail off.

“Don’t talk about her like that.”

He grins. “Good.”

“What’s good?”

“You’re protective.” He nods his head. “I like it.”

“So glad you approve.”

I shove him out of my way, and he grumbles. I pay him no mind, though. Instead, I head into the bathroom. I strip down and turn the shower on the coldest setting. I step beneath the spray and let it wash over me. It’s minutes before my dick softens. Minutes before the water becomes uncomfortable. Minutes before I can get the feel of her, the smell of her, and the taste of her off my mind.

But I don’t want any of her gone. I want her here, every single day.

I get dressed and find her waiting in the living room. “Are you ready to go?” she asks. She’s wearing a big button-down shirt and some oversized shorts. Her hair is loose around her shoulders, and she’s made up softly. She’s definitely wearing makeup because I can’t see her freckles, but it’s not the normal Friday get-up. It’s different.

We get to Bounce with barely any time to spare. I see that Sam and Pete are already there when we arrive, and they’re bouncing tonight. The band Fallen from Zero—the one Emily plays with sometimes—is on stage, and they finish their set. I have to say, they’re not as good when Emily isn’t with them.

They clear the stage, and the club’s owner goes up to the microphone. I lean back against a speaker and watch. Painted people start to walk across the stage. Some are made up to look like they’re wearing bikinis, and others are painted to look like they have on shirts. Some are superheroes and others are characters from books. No one is painted like Friday.

When it’s her turn, I make my way to the front of the room. She walks out onto the stage, and the room goes quiet. The announcer says something about the paint, and she motions for him to wait. She sits down facing the wall, with her back to the audience. She puts one leg out to the side, and bends the other into a funny position. Then she bends her back, and her arm outstretches. And suddenly, I can see it. She’s a butterfly. She’s a butterfly with a broken wing. The purples and oranges are the wings, and one is broken at an odd angle. She flutters her wings, and you can see the f*cking art in the pose. The crowd goes crazy.

She’s so f*cking talented. She stands up and takes a bow, but the crowd is shouting for an encore. Hell, I want to see that beautiful art again, myself. This time, I drag myself out of my crazy stupor and snap a few pictures of her.