“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 fucking 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 fucking 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 fucking 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 pussy,” 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 fucking 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.”
“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 fucking 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 fuck?” 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 fucking art in the pose. The crowd goes crazy.
She’s so fucking 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.
She wins, of course, and they hand her a check for five thousand dollars. She looks at me and grins, and then she jumps off the stage and straight into my arms. I squeeze her tightly. She had a wonderful moment, and then she looked for me at the end of it. My heart squeezes almost painfully in my chest as I hug her.
Someone passes her shirt to her, and I help her shrug into it. She’s all smiles, and, I swear, she takes my breath away. My heart is fucking galloping in my chest. I can’t stop it, and I don’t want to.
She accepts congratulations, and she hands out business cards to people who want to be painted for the next competition.
All I can think about is getting her home so she can wash all that paint off her body. I wonder if she might let me help. There are a lot of places she can’t reach. That’ll be my excuse. But, in reality, I just want to love her. That’s all. I just hope she’ll let me.
Friday
I can’t wait to get Paul home. I want to get all this paint off and then shove him on the bed and ride him. My clit has been thumping ever since he painted me, and it’s not getting any better. I’m glad I was wearing a black bathing suit, or people would have been able to see how wet I was.
We walk by Pete, who is checking ID’s at the door. “Damn, did I miss it?” Pete asks.
Sam walks up beside him and holds up his phone. “Don’t worry. I got pictures.” He shakes the phone at Pete, and Pete grabs for it, but Paul gets to it first. He grimaces and talks quietly to himself while he does something to the phone. Paul gives it back and grins at him.
“What did you do?” Sam asks. He flips through his photos. “You big fucker,” he cries. “You deleted my pictures!”
Paul keeps smiling and takes my hand. “You ready to go home?” he asks. His blue eyes are shining, and he winks at me. “I have a problem I need you to help me with,” he adds quietly so only I can hear.
My heart thuds. I nod, and his eyes smolder.
He tugs my hand and doesn’t say a word on the walk back home. I look up at him a few times, but he just keeps walking with his jaw clenched. Every now and then I see a tiny tic in it. “You’re not mad at me are you?” I ask.
He looks down at me, startled. “Why would I be mad at you?”
“You’re not talking to me and you’re clenching your jaw.”
He stares at me for a second. “I have a reason for not talking to you,” he tells me quietly.
I stop walking. “Well, what is it?”
He looks down at me. “Every single thought in my head right now is about how much I want to fuck you. All I can think about is getting this paint off and then kissing my way down your body so I can taste that hood piercing of yours.”
My clit thumps harder than ever. “Paul,” I whisper.
“And then I want to take my time and play with those big old nipples.” His thumb drags beneath my breast, right there in the middle of the crowded street, and my stomach jumps straight down to my toes.
“And then?” I ask.
“And I’m going to come in my pants right now if you make me keep talking about it.” He pulls me against him and hugs me while he chuckles, then I feel him press a kiss to my forehead. “I want to throw you over my shoulder, but you’re pregnant.” He sets me back from him. “Wait!” he cries. “Can you even have an orgasm yet?” His eyes search mine.
I laugh. “I don’t know,” I say. I bite my fingernail and grin at him. “Depends on how good you are at getting me there.”
He laughs and pulls me by the hand down the street. “I’ll get you there.”
I laugh and let him drag me. When we get to the apartment building, he holds the door open for me and slaps me on the ass after I go through it. I look back at him and start to race up the stairs. I think he’s going to overtake me, and he nearly does, but only in time to open the next door for me. Then we go into the apartment and stop when someone walks through the kitchen.
“Em?” he says. He looks over and sees Logan sitting on the couch with the baby in a carrier at his feet. “Is everything okay?”
Emily looks from me to Paul and back again. “We just thought we’d come for a visit,” she says.
I bite back my groan.
“A visit,” Paul repeats.
I hit him in the shoulder. “They came for a visit. Aren’t you glad?”
“Fuck, no, I’m not—” he starts, but I hit him in the stomach, and he clutches for it with a loud grunt.
“We’re so glad you’re here,” I say, trying to sound excited. What I’m feeling is quite the opposite. I feel let down. I feel miserable. I feel like I will never, ever get to come again in my life.
“Shouldn’t you be at home letting that baby sleep or something?” Paul asks. He stalks over to the couch, flops down across from Logan, and stuffs a pillow into his lap.
“That baby wakes up every two hours and can sleep just about anywhere,” Logan tells him. He glances toward the pillow Paul shoved in his lap and raises his brow. He smirks. “Did we interrupt something?”
“No,” I say.
Paul says, “Yes,” at the same time.
Logan smirks and reaches for a can of nuts on the table. He puts his feet up and grins. “So, how was the contest?” he asks. He can barely chew around that smile.
“I won!” I cry, holding my arms up.
Logan and Emily both clap, but their little one sta
rtles in the car seat and lets out a cry.
“Uh oh,” Logan says. “She’s awake.”
“Which means she’ll want to eat,” Emily says.
Logan picks her up and holds her until her face turns red and she’s screaming. “She’s definitely hungry,” Logan says, holding their daughter out to Emily.
She reaches for her and turns to me. “Do you want to go in your room so I can feed her and we can talk? I still can’t get used to the whole boob-out-in-public thing.”
I look at Paul, who throws up his hands and then swipes a frustrated palm down his face. Logan chuckles.
“Actually,” I say. “I need to soak this paint off. Can you talk to me from the bathtub?”
She nods, looking relieved that she won’t have to feed her daughter in the living room. She gives me a minute to undress and climb in, and then she knocks. “Are you decent?” she asks.
“I’m in bubbles,” I call back. I halfway pull the bath curtain so that only my head is exposed. “Bubbles that are quickly looking like black licorice.”
She pokes her head in. “That’s kind of gross,” she says.
I rub a sponge over my body and let the water out, then refill the tub. This is going to be a multi-step process. It was a lot of paint.
Emily closes the lid of the toilet and sits down. Then she bares her breast, and the little one latches on to it with a smacking noise and a sigh.
“God, your boobs are huge!” I say. They are. Like fucking huge. Like melon sized but with a baby attached.
She laughs. “I know, right?” she says. “They’re too big. Logan likes them, though.” She smiles. “He keeps wanting to play with them.” She grimaces. “But they hurt. I think I have enough milk to feed a small nation.”
I agree; she could probably start her own dairy farm, but I’m afraid to say so.
“So, how is pregnancy treating you?” she asks. Kit sucks greedily at her breast, and my insides go all melty at how comfortable and secure they look together.
“I still wake up sick, but it’s not too bad,” I admit. “I can deal with it.”
“Do you wish you hadn’t done it, now that things are going the way they are with Paul?”