30. Paint Me
Chapter 30
Paint Me
Bonnie
We don’t bother to unpack the van before walking down Main. The wind is starting to pick up, and if the dark clouds are any indication, we’re in for some rain.
Rafe unlocks the shop with the sign GONE TO ART SHOW hung on the door, and we both ascend the stairs to his studio. The moment the door closes, an exhale leaves him, and he immediately swings open the back door and lights a cigarette. I follow him out and sit on the stool as he leans his forearms on the porch railing.
“Sorry,” he murmurs.
“Sorry? For what?”
He smokes and shakes his head. “I love my mom, but she can be a lot sometimes.” He turns to face me, tapping the end of his cigarette into the ashtray. “But she means well.”
“I know she does.”
Somewhere distant, thunder gargles across the sky. The clouds rumble on.
“She always brings up Dad. Christ almighty …” Rafe takes an irritated pull of his cigarette and blows it away from me, drifting the smoke out to sea. “As if he’s gonna—I don’t know—come back to her. After all the time that’s passed. And he’s … well, I just … I want to be more, you know?”
He’s never been this vulnerable before. I’m not sure I’m following one hundred percent, but I’m letting him vent. He needs it.
“More?” I ask.
“More successful. More secure. More … everything.”
“I think you’re enough as you are.”
He pauses, blinking at me like he’s seeing me wearing something new. “You … you were beautiful, Shiv. Absolutely stunning. Nobody else can survive her.”
I snort. “I’m sure other women have?—”
“I’ve never let anyone meet my mom before.” He swallows. “Ever.”
I’m frozen to the spot. The sky growls once more.
“Dad once asked me how I could sleep at night, knowing I moved away from her. Real rich, coming from him. I don’t understand why it still hurts her,” he says, suddenly turning to me. “Is that my future? Heartbreak and obsession?”
I stand and walk up as Rafe puts out the cigarette on the ashtray even though he barely touched it. I cup his face in my palms. His eyes dart between mine. He looks almost nervous, but I know by now that kissing is off the table.
“Would you feel better if you painted?” I ask.
“I always feel better when I paint.”
“I know.”
He swallows, slowly nodding. “Let’s go inside, Shiv. It’s windy tonight.” He rubs the outside of my arms and guides me back inside.
The moment we shut the door behind us, tiny droplets start to plunk on the roof, starting slow, then increasing to a storm.
Rafe circles his apartment. It’s a routine he’s accustomed to. He clicks on a playlist. He grabs his brush cup, along with a palette stained by old paint. He tosses a new canvas on the floor and takes his place cross-legged in front of it. I wonder if he abandons his easel when he’s stressed or if the floor is just a comforting place for him. I know it is for me.
He starts to stand again, but I quickly say, “What do you need?”
“The, uh …” He’s having trouble with words, pinching the bridge of his nose. “The cup of water on the ledge over there.”
I find it, but when I do, I walk past the row of canvases leaning against the wall, uneven and staggered. Poking out behind one is the curve of a breast. A thigh. It’s one of the women he’s drawn over the years. She’s sexy. Proud of her body. Nothing like me.
I walk across the room, hand him the cup, then hesitate as I stand in front of him.
He stares. “Do you want to sit?” he asks.
“No,” I say, and before I can overthink it, I pull my shirt over my head.
He blinks at me, his lips parting in question. I reach behind my back and unhook my bra. I slide the straps down both my shoulders. I toss it to the side. It clacks to the hardwood floor.
“Paint me,” I say.
I unbutton my jeans and slide down the zipper, a slow crackling sound, only overshadowed by the hum of guitars coming from the propped-open laptop playing music. I step out of my jeans and toss them next to my bra.
His eyes don’t move from mine as he says, “Shiv?—”
With shaking hands, I tuck a thumb into each side of my thong and pull until it falls. I kick it to the side.
I’m standing naked—entirely on display in front of him. With my knobby knees, an ass that could be curvier, and posture that should be straighter. But I’m here.
“I want you to paint me, Rafe,” I say.
He wets his bottom lip with his tongue.
I can see his mind racing as he roams over my figure—from my lips down to my neck, my chest, my stomach, and my thighs, ending at my feet with cracked black nail polish.
I also see the moment he switches into artist mode. When his eyes shadow over, he confidently reaches for a paintbrush and begins a wash of orange on the canvas.
I don’t know how long I stand there in a single standing position, but I’m too entranced by his process to move. His wrists flick with each stroke. His tattoos shift under his T-shirt, peeking out when he extends an arm to hit the top of the canvas. He peers up at me through thick black eyelashes, focused on another part of me before memorializing it on canvas a moment later.
I watch my figure slowly take shape. The imperfections I’m aware of, offset with things I don’t normally see. My breasts, hanging too low for my taste, seem almost sexy in his wash of merlot. My hands, freckled and spindly, look delicate in his pink hues. My torso, too disproportionate to the rest of me, sticks up and out. It’s the posture of a person confident in herself. Or maybe this is just how he sees me.
Around the moment my legs start to tire, he stands.
“Are you done?” I ask.
Rafe doesn’t say anything. But he does press the toe of one boot into the heel of the other, kicking one shoe off before the next. He removes his socks, revealing the tops of his feet, decorated in ink I’ve never seen before. He grips the corner hem of his top with one hand and removes the shirt in one movement. More tattoos cover his chest, ribs, and stomach. It’s a mural of designs hidden from the world, and here I am, admiring them. Silently, he unbuckles his belt, slipping the leather through the clanging metal, before unbuttoning and pushing his pants down, taking his black boxer briefs with it.
It’s one thing to feel him below a library table. It’s another to see his cock under studio lights. It’s thick and corded with veins, resting heavy between his strong thighs.
“Your turn,” he says.
It’s been so long since I’ve heard him talk that the low tone almost startles me.
“What?”
“A practical lesson in anatomy,” he explains. “Grab a canvas and get on the floor.”
I do as he asked. What else am I to do with a command like that?
I know where his blank canvases are. I grab one and place it next to his painting, half finished but with parts more detailed than any of the other figure drawings I’ve seen before.
I walk to grab my underwear, but a sharp whistle echoes through the studio, halting me.
“No clothes. I need something to admire,” he says, a small smirk spreading in the corner of his mouth.
My cheeks heat with embarrassment.
“Oh.”
“Yeah. Oh. So, sit.”
I lower down in front of my canvas, the hardwood stinging my bare ass as I tuck my knees into my chest to hide my stomach. I hesitate for only a second before grabbing a paintbrush, dipping it in a cool blue, and start to paint.
I always paint Rafe Cohen with colors like indigo and mauve. Cool tones. They’re the only ones that suit him.
At least, that’s what I thought before. I’m so wrong.
His palms are blush pink. The center of his chest is an earthy ochre. The sharp hooks into his hips, leading in a V down to his groin, is burnt umber. He’s a mix of so many colors, hidden beneath the night sky constellation of tattoos. Every limb is accented by small strokes of errant acrylic from his own painting.
I can’t look at him for too long or else I feel hot.
“Eyes on me,” he says.
I jerk my head up from my canvas.
“You have to look at the subject sometimes to understand how to draw,” he says with a twitching smirk.
I gulp and nod. “Right.”
“Tell me what you notice. Harsher lines?”
“A little.”
“Straight lines?”
I nod. “Less curves than women.”
“See why I like women more?” he says with a grin.
I don’t know how to say that I could draw him all day—rigid lines and all.
I dip my paintbrush in the water cup again, but my shaking hands knock it over. The muddy water leaks all over his hardwood floor.
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry.”
I stand to find something to clean with, but he’s already opening a cabinet on the wall. He pulls out a towel and drops it on the mess, tapping with his foot to soak it up.
“Those must be original floors,” I say. “I can’t believe?—”
“Hey,” he says, grabbing my cheeks, instantly in front of me. “If I wanted pristine floors, I’d lay down tarps. This floor is what it is.” His hands run down my shoulders and to my waist. “You all right?”
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
The rain outside starts to pluck the roof harder. I glance down, noticing Rafe has smeared yellow and orange streaks down my side. Leftover acrylic. I laugh, looking at my hands dipped in pinks.
Grinning, I stroke my thumb over his face, tracing along the high cheekbones and down his veined neck.
“You monster,” he says, deadpan.
“You look good in pinks.”
“Do I?”
“Yeah, it’s almost like you’re blushing. Softy.”
“Well, you ”—he runs a finger over my cheek next—“look ridiculous with yellow.”
“No, I look radiant.” I shake out my hair with a smile. “See? Even you can’t stop looking.”
And even though I was joking, it’s true. Rafe’s expression has fallen. His eyes have shadowed over. His brow is even. And his eyes, whiskey and ringed with green, snag onto mine.
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Caught me.”
He isn’t laughing with me anymore. No, there’s something else in his expression I can’t place my finger on. But before I can question it, the world stops, and Rafe kisses me.
Rafe Cohen is kissing me .
I thought our one-night-stand kisses would be enough. I left that night so flustered that the hope of feeling his lips skating over mine again felt like a fantasy best kept in dreams. Our one night would be a memory I could look back on, a story I could tell to whatever man took his place one day. But one slip of his tongue against mine, and I’m reminded how any replacement for Rafe would just be a gauze and Band-Aid over the gaping hole in my chest that longed for him.
I press against him, locking our lips together, moving in tandem with my arms wrapped around his neck. When his thumbs stroke over my cheeks, I feel the cool paint smear with it. I tug his neck closer, and my palms slip on the small washes of acrylic my wrists left behind.
He reaches down to grab my ass. I can’t help but laugh at the idea of painted handprints left behind.
“Something funny?” he asks, kissing my jawline like he loves to do.
When I laugh again, he bites the space along my neck, sending shocks down to my stomach.
“No, nothing funny,” I say through a giggle.
“That’s what I thought.”
He bends at the waist, placing his palms under my thighs and picking me up. I wrap my legs around him. He strides across the room with me in his arms, ascending the stairs to his bed, where he drops me down.
“Wait, your sheets?—”
“Shiv, does it seem like I care?”
He crawls on top of me, kissing me again, lips moving steadily against mine. I let myself melt under his weight. When he goes to move, I grab his cheeks and pull him back. Sure, we’re naked together. But this—I want this .
Eventually, he kisses a line down my chest to my stomach, slowly disappearing between my legs.
I gasp when his tongue rolls over me. He buries his face between my thighs. I reach out to touch the paint smeared over his shifting shoulders, holding him closer to me. But down between us, hanging heavy, is his cock, red and veined. Larger than even when I painted it. My cheeks burn.
“I want to touch you,” I say.
“No,” he growls, whipping his tongue over me like a punishment.
My head falls back on the pillow as I breathe through the pleasure.
“But what if … we did both?” I ask.
His movements grow gentler as he peers up at me with those greedy eyes.
“Tell me how,” I say. I tug at his arm, smearing more blue along his inked biceps. “Please.”
He stares for a moment, as if considering, before placing a kiss to my inner thigh and moving up my body.
Rafe crawls beside me and lies on his back. It’s a gorgeous sight. I love seeing him like this, long limbs taking up so much room, stretched out like a king on his throne.
“All right. Come sit on my face then,” he directs.
“What?” I laugh.
“Don’t make me ask again, Shiv. Sit your ass up on here.”
Shakily, I move backward until my hips are level with his chin and I’m facing his stomach.
“One leg over, please,” he instructs with a smug smile.
I swing one leg over his chin, resting my palms on either side of his chest.
“Now, you can do whatever you like,” Rafe says, “But I’m getting back to my favorite hobby.”
He buries his face into me again, and I melt downward. The new angle is wonderful. His chin rubs against me as he licks, and I’m suddenly wondering why we haven’t done this before.
I stare at his hard cock in front of me. It’s just a simple crawl away. Hesitantly, I lean over and press my tongue to the red tip. It twitches at my movement.
Rafe lets out a small groan, and it vibrates against me.
I lean down again, slowly rolling my tongue over the head. A bead of pre-cum leaks out of the slit. It’s such a weird thing to see, but I make an instinctual move and lick it up.
Rafe grunts, and I can’t tell if that’s good or bad, so I take him in one palm and bring my mouth down.
It’s not bad. I honestly expected it would be, but with each inch I take into my mouth, Rafe groans a little more desperately. I suck faster whenever he makes a sound, and it’s addictive to hear the plea back.
Rafe pauses his own mouth to murmur, “Use your tongue a little more.” It isn’t a command. In fact, it might be the sweetest he’s ever sounded.
I do as he asked, holding out my tongue to stroke over him as I bob my head up and down. It elicits another low moan from him.
“Just like that. Now use your hand too.”
His tongue whips over me again, this time with more fervor. Licking, sucking, nipping—it’s a combination of everything, and I swear he’s trying to kill me.
I try to concentrate on him and what he needs, listening out for his groans and feeling each time he bucks into my mouth, but my thighs start to shake the more he focuses on me. I take him deeper in response. Maybe it’s a pride thing, but I want him to come first.
I swallow more of him in my mouth until his head hits the pillow with a low, groaning, “Fuck, Shiv.”
I keep going, pushing him down further, until he hits my throat over and over, until his legs shiver beneath me.
Suddenly, he taps my ass with his palm. “I’m about to come, Shiv.”
I don’t stop. I want to win. I want to have it all.
“Shiv,” he says again in a near whine, gripping my ass in his palm. “You don’t have to?—”
I lick with my tongue, tracing along him until, suddenly, with a low groan, warm liquid floods my mouth. I don’t even think; I keep going until there’s nothing left, and then I swallow it down before I can even let the taste register.
“Christ,” he hisses.
Accomplishment zips through me, but only for a second because his own determination—or obsession—starts again. He wraps his arms around my waist, jerking me closer to his mouth. He dips two fingers inside me, thrusting, curling, and pushing until it’s so much. Until it’s more than enough.
My orgasm comes in a wave. Strong and insistent, winding up my spine to the nape of my neck. It goes until I feel dizzy, falling down on him in a messy heap.
We lie there for a moment, heavy breathing in sync. His stomach expands against my chest. My breath heats along his thigh.
He smacks my ass, and I jolt.
“You did so good.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Come up here.”
I swing my leg back over him and crawl beside him. He tucks us into his sheets, kissing along my forehead and then finally back to my lips.
I can taste myself on him, but I don’t care. His hand strokes along my jaw. His thumb traces over my cheek.
“Thank you,” he whispers.
“For what?”
“Today. Tonight. This.”
I curl in close with his biceps under my head. My hand strokes over the intricate, inky lines on his chest, taking in the new tattoos and cherishing the old ones I’m so familiar with.
I kiss his chest. “You never have to thank me for simple things, all right? You’re not a burden to me.”
There’s a second of silence before he murmurs a shaky, “All right.”
We don’t clean the strokes of paint over our skin. The mess isn’t enough to justify moving. The last thing I remember before drifting off is his soft kiss against my lips once more, and I wonder how this could possibly get more perfect.