8. Paint Me in Love
SOUNDTRACK: Whisper by Able Heart.
~ SAM ~
There was a sturdy table in the space between the kitchen and the door. I took the box from her and with a muttered instruction to undress, took it over to the table. I’d brought cleaning wipes and made certain the polished top of the table was clean, then opened the six jars and lined up the paintbrushes alongside them.
Bridget was at my back before I was done, plastering herself against me and stroking my stomach and thighs, which immediately made me hard. Unwilling to be diverted from my plan, because I’d been looking forward to it for a week, as soon as I had everything clean and laid out, I turned and picked her up, planting her on the tabletop in front of me, and leaning over her so she couldn’t slip off.
I should have known she wouldn’t make it easy though. Before I could say a word, she’d taken my mouth and had her hands in my hair, leaning back and pulling me over her as she slowly laid down.
My cock was steel the moment we were pressed together. I let her pull me down and indulged in a lengthy kiss, rubbing myself against her until her breath grew louder. Then took a handful of her hair and held her down when I pulled out of the kiss so I could meet her eyes.
“I haven’t finished giving you your present,” I rasped. Bridget’s pupils dilated, but she grabbed to pull me back down. Pressing hard against her until her mouth dropped open, I kept her pinned down to the tabletop. “I’m going to need both my hands, so you tell me, do I need to restrain you, or will you be the right kind of naughty girl and keep your ass on this table until I’m done?”
Her eyes narrowed and she smiled, fingers tangling in my hair. “That depends on how long this present is going to take.”
“Oh, it’ll take a while,” I chuckled. Her hips bucked and I groaned and gave in to the urge to kiss her, but not for long. Still fisting her hair so she couldn’t lift her head, I pulled out of the kiss and stared down at her with a warning in my eyes. “I’m serious, babe. If I can’t trust you to stay put, I’m going to make sure you do.”
She rolled her eyes, but she smiled. “Well, if you insist.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
I grinned and straightened. “You can sit or lay down, whatever’s more comfortable for you,” I said. “But I want you to see this.”
Still standing between her knees, I turned to select a pot and decided on the chocolate with the middle-sized brush. Bridget pushed up on her elbows, sitting up, but leaning back on her hands and watching as I dipped the brush into the thick syrup, then scanned her beautiful body that was far too pale because she never got enough sun—something I was determined to change over these weeks.
Tapping my lips with the handle of the brush, I decided where to start, then smiled.
Bridget caught my eye and smiled back. “What are you up to?”
“Just looking forward to this,” I said as I dabbed some chocolate onto her right nipple, spreading it with short strokes of the brush.
She giggled and flinched a little at first, but by the time I’d painted a full circle on her nipple, it was going hard and her breath had shallowed. I leaned down and opened my mouth over it, sucking that sweet stickiness off her skin, licking and rubbing with my tongue until Bridget had buried her hands in my hair and I’d removed every trace.
“Oh, shit,” she said breathlessly as I began painting the other one. “I get it now.”
“Babe, we’ve barely begun,” I growled, then plonked the jar on the table next to her and descended on her other nipple, gratified when she sucked in and arched into my mouth.
But that was only the beginning.
I painted the skin under her ear in strawberry and sucked it off.
I painted that line of the tendon on her neck in berry and licked at it until it was gone.
I painted her nipples more than once, because she twitched like a bug when I sucked it off.
Then I knelt and pushed her knees wider as I picked up the salted caramel.
Bridget’s brows rose and her pupils dilated as I examined the canvas and smiled.
“If you want to lay down, you can,” I said, my voice gruff and harsh because I was so fucking turned on.
“Oh no, I want to see this,” she said.
I looked up at her and almost stood to kiss her again, but I could see her quivering and frankly, this was the part I’d been anticipating the most.
I had to push her thighs even further apart than I’d anticipated so I could start low—below her core on that sensitive perineum, then that flushed, swollen flesh, all the way up to the hood of her clit. By the time I reached that, Bridget’s breath was noisy and she rolled her hips, urging me on.
I was panting as I brushed and dabbed, noting when she shivered and when she jolted at the touch of the paintbrush.
Then I put the paint and brush aside, and started licking.
Bottom up, starting with little laps, chuckling when her thighs quivered. Then into her, groaning when I tasted how much she wanted me. Then up—cleaning every soft inch of that sweet, pink flesh until I reached her clit and sucked.
“Oh shit. Oh, Sam— oh shit.”
She grabbed my hair with one hand, pulling me against her and leaned back to lift her hips slightly in time with my licking and sucking. The only noise over the rustle of the trees and rush of the water outside was her small whimpers and mewls as she tensed and her pleasure grew.
It never grew old watching her climb to that peak and fall apart.
A few minutes in, I repainted her clit and she almost came under the brush strokes, so I knew she was close.
Sure enough, I barely had her clean, had only flicked her a few times with my tongue when she started twitching and pulling me against her harder, gasping my name and quivering on the table. I gripped her hips and held her down, relentless as she begged, and looked up just in time to see her head throw back and her jaw drop as she came, her body bowing and bucking, my name echoing through the small space and turning me on.
I kept lapping at her, expecting her to slump and go weak and pull away the over-sensitive flesh. But the moment she caught her breath again, she sat bolt upright and grabbed my hair in both hands to pull my head up, then planted a foot on my chest and pushed me back.
Moments later I was flat on my back on the floor, a little bit stunned, as she clambered down, grabbing one of the pots on her way.
“You lay down and you stay down, Sam,” she said, her voice shaky and breathless.
“Babe, I’m not—”
“Oh, yes you are,” she said, then smiled wickedly as she poured some of the syrup over my aching cock, then opened her mouth over me like I was a popsicle.
I cursed and grabbed her hair, but she didn’t give me a second to breathe. Hands stroking me at the base, she drew me deep into her throat—deeper than she ever had before—and did something with her tongue that almost took me over the edge immediately.
“Bridget! Fuck!”
She came off me with a slurp, grinning, and grabbing that jar again. “Not this time!” Before I could respond, she’d dipped her hands in the syrup and rubbed it on her breasts, then dropped down between my thighs and pressed my cock between those beautiful, soft rounds, now sticky with syrup.
The sensation was overwhelming. And the sight of her rubbing herself on me, chin down to flick me with her tongue on the upthrust was too much.
“Bridget,” I gasped. “I’m not going to last… I can’t—”
“Good.”
I dropped my head back for a second to try and hold my orgasm off, but then I felt the warm wetness of her mouth again and I groaned, my breath shuddering out of me as I tipped my head up again and drank in the beautiful sight of my wife, jaw wide as she took me in her mouth and rubbed her breasts on my thighs.
I came like a gunshot, rasping her name over and over as my body spasmed. I grabbed for her, simultaneously needing more and needing it to stop, because seeing her and feeling her at the same time threatened to steal my sanity.
But she slapped a hand to my stomach and wouldn’t let me sit up, so I laid there, helpless as pulse after pulse, wave after wave of bliss rocked through me, and she swallowed me down, every drop, until a raw, guttural bark broke in my throat and I slumped back, both hands in my hair and body twitching, over-sensitized and overwhelmed.
And my wife… my beautiful, fragile, unhinged wife, flopped over me, then planted a sweet kiss right on the head of my dick.
“I love you, Sam. This is the best non-Christmas present ever,” she whispered.
I almost made a joke, almost told her my eyes were up here. But she looked so… happy.
When, eventually, we both had our breath back, she laid on my chest, knees drawn up on either side of my waist and her chin resting on her hands.
Every time we moved the sticky parts of our skin stuck together and made things awkward, but it was so fantastic to see her smiling, I didn’t want to move.
Bridget stared at me, bright-eyed like… well, like a kid at Christmas, ironically. It broke my heart that I couldn’t say that, but I enjoyed the moment, thanking God that she really did seem lighter here. Easier.
Then she leaned forward and kissed me. She would have made it a peck, but I caught her hair and held her there, lifting my head to kiss her properly.
“Bridget,” I whispered without letting her go, “I love you… but I need a bath.”
“Oh, thank God,” she spluttered and kissed me again. “I was just thinking exactly the same thing.”
She giggled as she crawled off me. I got up and helped her to her feet, then leaned down to throw her over my shoulder. She shrieked, but laughed. And she didn’t struggle as I carried her out of the house and down that ramp to the waterhole below and plunged us both in.
After the muggy air of the treehouse and our activities, we were both hot, so the water felt beautifully chill. It was a shock on the skin at first, and Bridget shrieked when my steps splashed her. But I kept her in my arms and dropped us both into the clear water, dunking us, then coming up with a gasp at the shock of the cold.
Bridget spluttered, but laughed.
We spent a few minutes washing each other off, rubbing and stroking skin to dissolve what sugar was left.
At one point, she’d been rubbing my thighs while I kneaded her breasts and cupped my hands to trail water over them, and she stopped moving and looked up at me with wide eyes.
I froze—had she had a scary thought? Heard something I missed? “Bridget, what—”
“Thank you,” she breathed. Her eyes went a little red and shiny, but she didn’t give in to tears. “Thank you for this, Sam. This is going to be the best Christmas ever. Ever!”
Then she leaned up on her tiptoes and pulled me down into a kiss.
I held her tightly against me, one hand in her hair, the other at her back, and thanked God that I’d gotten it right.
And when she didn’t stop kissing me, and her breathing picked up again, I didn’t stop either.
I held her tightly, and walked her backwards, slowly, deeper and deeper into the water until our bodies were as weightless as my heart in that moment…