Chapter 27 Dax
dax
I debated whether to stay at the house while Clementine dropped the boys off at my parents, but in the end, I decided against it, choosing to run to Winterberry Brews for coffee and the hardware store for the hinge to fix the cabinet door.
I have no doubt they’ll be fine without me there.
My parents have an agenda planned for them and are stoked to have the company.
Should be interesting to hear how it goes.
As for me, I’m curious about our afternoon.
After our discussion yesterday about the real reason she came to Winterberry Junction, her ex—what a fucking tool—and me laying my feelings on the line, I’m not sure exactly where we stand besides for we’re trying “something different.” Excitement courses through me at what this will look like.
As long as it gets me more time with her, in and out of the bedroom, I’m going to cherish it. I meant every word I said about the person she is. And if she’ll give me the chance to prove myself, maybe there’s an opportunity that what we have has some kind of lasting power.
Even if it’s slim.
If she’s willing to put up with bumps along the path, I’ll put in the work. My life has been exponentially changed since she came into it. I’d be a fool for not taking my shot.
I pull into the driveway behind her, but I’m out of my truck, coffee in hand, before she’s out of her seat. With my free hand, I open her door, her staring at me with an expression I’m unfamiliar with. Disbelief morphs into sorrow.
“What’s wrong?”
“Somehow, three hours became six. I can’t be sure it wasn’t Atlas’s idea or one of your parents.”
“O-kay. Why the long face?”
“I can’t leave my children with your parents for six hours!”
“Why not? Are you worried it’s too long? Do you not trust them?” A bead of sweat forms on my neck. If she’s this upset about it, would she cancel the entire thing?
“Of course, I trust them. They raised four children, and they’re ‘young’ grandparents. But six hours, Dax.”
Maybe she’s concerned about how her boys will be. “Are you worried about your boys being there too long?”
“I’m worried your parents are going to be exhausted and taken advantage of and will never agree to spend time with my children again.” She expels a long breath.
“No way. They’ll all be fine and will survive. If there’s a problem, they’ll call us.” I’m afraid to ask her opinion about this afternoon. Is she going to have trouble being creative if she’s worried about what’s happening at my parents’? I lift the tray. “I brought coffee.”
In a flash, her concern disappears, replaced by a smile. She leans from her seat, held back by her belt, and puts her hands on my face. “You brilliant man. I could kiss you.”
“I wouldn’t stop you.” I incline closer, careful not to let the coffee spill or fall out of the tray. “A prelude to later?”
“Indeed. Six hours, Dax.” Her hands drop from my face, but she doesn’t follow through with her threat of kissing me.
She’s stuck on this six-hour business. “You mentioned that.”
“Know what we could do with six, entire uninterrupted hours?” She’s downright gleeful now, and the slight bubble of dread pops.
“Double what we planned to do in three.”
“I have so many ideas of what to do with you.”
I quirk a brow. “Do you now?”
She nods. “Shall we get to it?”
“We shall.” I step back, giving her room to climb down from the seat. “What’s first?”
“Me painting you.”
“Oh, okay.” Seems she’s sticking to our original plan. Given the extra time, I thought we might start with sex to get her creative juices flowing.
She glances over her shoulder at me. “You seem disappointed.”
I banish the despondency. “I’m not. But there is going to be sex today, right? That’s part of your plan?”
“Oh, Mr. Nicholas.” She shakes her head. “Do you doubt me?”
“Not necessarily . . .”
Clementine unlocks the door, holding it open for me to step inside first. I shrug out of my jacket and boots. “I’ll meet you in the basement. Door’s in the back of the house, off the kitchen. Bring the coffees, but don’t put them near the supplies. Did you bring condoms or should I grab my stash?”
I’m halfway through the kitchen, but her question causes me to spin around. “They’re in my jacket pocket. Didn’t realize I needed them downstairs. Is there a bed down there?”
She waggles her brow. “Nope. Is that a problem?”
She’s got me more intrigued. “Nope.”
One half of the basement is designated as her studio. It’s organized in the way Clementine is—a work in progress.
The smell of paint invades my nostrils, and recessed lighting and track lighting with halogen bulbs provide illumination.
Bottles of paint line up along a long slab of wood against the far wall with cups and brushes arranged on the other side of the sink.
Different-sized frames lean against each other on the floor.
A “works in progress” table covered in books, canvases, and one random slab of wood sits in the middle of the room.
Another table with fabric scraps, a sewing machine, and random other materials occupies a fourth of the space.
I sneak a peek at the sweater progress, and I smile.
Even in this unfinished stage, it has the potential to win.
Changed into a pair of old, paint-splattered overalls, Clementine sets out several containers of body paint along with a sketch of whatever she’s planning to paint on a cleared space on the table.
On my torso. The whole “can I paint you” has a completely different connotation than I originally induced.
“When you said you wanted to paint me, I envisioned something completely different.”
She turns to face me. “Are you backing out?” Her tone is even, with not a trace of how she feels about my answer.
“God, no. I have complete faith in whatever you’re going to do.”
Her smile lights up the already bright room. “Superb. Shirt off and sit there.” She points to a stool positioned on a drop cloth. I do as she instructs, waiting for the next direction. She won’t give me even a hint of what she’s going to paint on me. And I’m not supposed to look. Not even a peek.
“I wouldn’t have pegged you as such a rule follower.”
“When you’re the one making the rules, I can’t resist.” I refrain from adding anything about how if my teachers had looked like her in high school, my grades would have been better. Middle school, too.
“Good information to save for the future.”
I can’t resist grabbing her by the waist and tugging her flush against me. She yelps, mostly caught off guard. “How long will this take?”
“Probably no longer than an hour. It’s for practice and an experiment. If it’s too difficult for either of us, we can always stop.”
“Have you done anything like this before?”
“Just face painting. Never professionally or anything. At the kids’ school and a few parties. It’s something I’ve been interested in for a while, but I couldn’t find a willing participant. The boys won’t sit still long enough.”
“I’m sure you could have hired a model or something.”
“Funds for fun projects are kinda limited, ya know?”
“Wait. I’m not getting paid to sit here for an hour while you decorate my body? What kind of horseshit is this?” I pout for dramatic sake.
“Oh you’re getting paid, mister. Not with dollars, though.”
“Perhaps I should have asked for a prepayment.” I squeeze her ass, but it only serves to turn me on.
“You’ll be well compensated, don’t you worry.
If there are no further questions, I should get started.
We’re down to five and a half hours.” She wiggles out of my hold and grabs a brush and a container of red paint from her art table.
With the brush poised above my shoulder, she states, “Hopefully you’re not too ticklish. ”
“You should be good.”
The first brush stroke glides over my skin like a feather, light and soft. She’s gentle with her actions, the brush barely touching my shoulder. Her face is set in determination, yet there’s an effortlessness to it.
“Are you going to stare at me the entire time I’m painting?” she asks with a huff, her movements not ceasing.
“Where else do you want me to look? I’m not allowed to look down at what you’re doing.”
“It’s creepy.”
“Want me to close my eyes?”
“Preferably, yes.”
She’s serious, so I settle a little more comfortably on the stool, careful to keep my torso upright.
I close my eyes, and in doing so, heighten my other senses.
This close to her, her coconut aroma tickles my nostrils, stronger than the paint she uses.
The room’s quiet, other than her humming under her breath and her breathing, and I focus on every breath she takes, in and out, as it lulls me into an almost meditative state.
Brushes and sponges slide over my body, the paint smooth on my skin.
I can’t wait to see what masterpiece she’s creating.
As she works, thoughts of her swirl through my mind. I’m so lost in my head, it seems like no time passes when she declares, “All done.”
My eyes fly open, soaking up Clementine, who stands in front of the stool, eyeing her handiwork. Flecks of paint dot her cheeks, arms, and fingernails.
“Not perfect, but for my first attempt, I’d say not half bad.” I try to peer down, but her thumb tips my chin back up. “Nope. First look is in the mirror.” She holds out her hands, and when I place mine in them, she attempts to pull me up. Much to her chagrin, I don’t budge.
I chuckle. “I can stand on my own.” Demonstrating, I rise from the stool, shaking out each leg one at a time. I’m not sure how much time has passed, but they’re a little stiff. My torso, too, from sitting ramrod straight, not to mention the paint inked all over it.
“How does it feel? Is it weird?” She nibbles the skin around her thumbnail, waiting expectantly for my response.
“The skin’s a little taut, but not uncomfortable. I wouldn’t want it on my skin for days. I’d be afraid to scratch an itch and ruin it.”
“You can shower as soon as you check it out. Well, as soon as I take a few pictures.” I raise a brow.
She didn’t mention she’d be capturing her work.
“For me only. So if I do it again, I can critique it and then compare it to the others. And I can cut your head off. No one will have a clue who it is.”
“Exactly what every man wants to hear,” I deadpan. Her cheeks tinge pink, not a full flush, but my comment got to her. “Can I finally look at it now?”
“Oh, yeah.” She pulls a full-length mirror out of a closet and rests it against the wall. She doesn’t move away from standing in front of it. “First, thank you for being my test subject. Second, if you hate it, you can wash it off immediately after I take pictures.”
It’s rare to see her nervous. It’s adorable. I wonder what else would put her in this state. Something in the bedroom? I can’t wait to test out ideas when they come to me.
With my arm, I push her out of the way so I can see what she’s done. And when I see it, I can’t help but chuckle. “Seriously? Of all the things you could have chosen, you chose this?”
“A little inside joke. But other than who it is, what do you think? Be honest. I always need practice in getting used to criticism.”
My eyes survey my torso.
The red “coat.”
The black buttons.
The white trim.
If I didn’t know it was paint, I might think it was real. It’s that good.
I glimpse my back, where it’s also covered in red paint for the full effect.
“It’s amazing, Clementine. The detail, the way it’s hard to tell it’s paint, the lines. Damn, girl. You’re so talented.”
My compliments make her full-on blush. “You think so?”
“Uh, yeah. I mean, don’t think the parents would approve of a half-naked Santa, but fuck.” I start to pull her toward me, but stop when I remember it’s not dry. “Quick, take your pictures. I don’t want to mess it up.”
She rushes to grab her phone, situating me in different poses, taking shots from different angles. When she finishes, she chews her nail. “I kinda don’t want you to take it off so soon. I didn’t expect it to be so good.”
“I can shower later.” First, I have a better idea. I take her phone from her hand and set it on the table. “Is it time to move on to the next portion of the day?”
My words elicit a shiver. I hardly think it’s from the cold.
“Yeah.”
I pick up a brush that still has a little paint on it. “Do you trust me?”