Chapter 28
clem
Dax, standing in my art studio with a paintbrush in his hand, is a fantasy come to life. Even though his torso is painted to resemble Santa, somehow he pulls it off. Perhaps there is something to Willa’s theory about a hot Santa.
Instead of answering him with words, I unhook the shoulder straps, letting them dangle at my waist. Next comes my ratty T-shirt, revealing a new bra I ordered online after we had sex the first time.
By the way Dax’s eyes home in on it and his tongue sneaks out of his mouth, I’d say it was worth the added overnight shipping charges.
I step out of my overalls, leaving me in the matching undies.
His eyes grow wider, hungrier, as he takes in the tiny scraps of fabric I’m wearing.
“As good as you look in these, they have to go. They’ll be in my way as I create my masterpiece.
” My hands reach behind my back, stopped by his growl.
“Allow me.” He crowds my personal space and puts the paintbrush in his mouth.
I never thought that would be sexy, but turns out, Dax can make almost anything sexy.
With gentle fingers, he unclasps the bra, dragging the straps down my arms until it moves past my fingers and off my hands. He then hooks his thumbs into the waistband of my underwear and drags them down my leg, pausing only so I can lean my hands on his shoulders to step out of them.
He removes the brush from between his teeth. “Your body is a beautiful blank canvas.” His tone of voice elicits a shudder. “Let’s see what I can do.”
Though it’s not so much an order, I can’t disobey him. “Where do you want me?”
He points to the floor. “Spread out on the cloth.”
I lie down on the floor, my legs and arms cast out to the side.
I’m already turned on, but I’m excited to see what he’s going to do next, how he’s going to decorate my skin.
Hopefully, his masterpiece doesn’t take an hour because I’m not sure I can lie here for that long.
It’s been a few days since we had sex at his house, and I’ve been craving a Dax-induced orgasm since I left. My fingers aren’t the same.
Hell, the way his intensity points my way, I’m not sure I can last ten minutes.
Dax taps the brush against his palm, splattering bits of paint onto the drop cloth. “Oops.” When he does it again, it’s not by accident, especially when the flecks of paint hit my skin.
“Are you going to get on with the arting?” I ask, my patience waning.
“This is me arting.” He flicks the brush again, drops landing on my legs. His gaze heats with each flick.
An idea blossoms, and I sit up. “Wait. I have the best idea.” Not caring I’m stark naked—not like he hasn’t seen it all before—I dash across the studio to the closet, digging through the shelves for an unused canvas.
I didn’t have a specific reason for anything when I bought it, but now I’m sure glad I did.
Back in Dax’s presence, I unfold it, laying it on top of the work cloth, and get back into position. “Okay, art away.”
He doesn’t question my actions but gets back to it, grabbing a different brush and dipping it into the green.
He plants his feet on the sides of my waist, straddling my body.
He’s still wearing his pants—hope he doesn’t care if paint gets on them—and peers down at me.
The desire coursing through him, the heat in his eyes, is a heady feeling.
The Santa-torso does nothing to detract from the hotness factor. In fact, it heightens it.
Our gazes lock for several intakes of breath, my curiosity about what he’s waiting for at an all-time high.
I’m not expecting the bending of his knees nor the way he trails the brush to outline one breast and then the other.
The sensation is light and ticklish. I bite my lower lip to contain the giggle.
The only other time I allowed someone to paint me, there wasn’t anything sexual about it. It was purely for education.
I’m digging this encounter so much more.
With careful strokes, Dax paints the rest of my breasts, and I giggle-snort at the sensation on my nipples. “How do they look?”
He tips his head back and forth, studying his work. “I’m not sure green is the best choice. Maybe pink or purple. Take notes for next time.”
His words give me pause. “We’re doing this again?” I choke out.
“I’m game if you are.”
Therein lies the problem. I could spend all my time doing things like this with this man if it weren’t for reality. One reason why what we’re doing was a fantasy until now.
“Let’s table it for later. You’ve got art to create. Because I’m dying to get to the next portion of today.”
“You had your fun. Let me have mine. I’ll make the wait worth it, promise.”
If I didn’t believe him, I’d protest more. Instead, I lie back down, reveling in the sensation of watching this man create a masterpiece of my body.
From my position on the floor, I monitor his every movement.
How he chooses his next color from the variety at his disposal.
How he draws lines and objects on my skin.
How he drips paint onto the canvas in a deliberate pattern.
How he “arts”.
It’s messy and chaotic, but it’s beautiful.
With each brushstroke across my skin, my arousal sharpens.
Some from his determination, some from knowing what comes next, and some from the act itself.
Perhaps that’s why it’s always been a fantasy of mine to come together with a partner after painting.
To see what we can create with paint and our bodies.
After what is way too long, he puts down the brush and crosses his arms over his chest, his eyes scrutinizing every inch of my body covered in paint and the rest of his handiwork. Paint dabs splatter his jeans and the Santa depiction.
“Are you okay with me taking a picture of you like this? I’ll make sure it’s in the hidden folder on my phone. My eyes are the only ones that get to see you like this, but damn, Clementine. This is good work, if I say so myself.”
He’s given me no reason to doubt him, so I agree, “Sure. You want me to pose differently?”
“I want you exactly as you are.” He gathers his phone from the table, taking photos from different angles, his tongue peeking out of his mouth, and he smirks.
“Gorgeous.” He’s quiet for a few moments, his mind working through something.
“I’m sure you want to see yourself in the mirror, but would a picture be satisfying? ”
“If it means you getting naked faster, yes.”
“Patience is not your strong suit today.” I’m about to argue, tell him how desperate I am for him, but his fingers find the button on his jeans. I heave a sigh of relief.
“Is your paint still a little tacky?”
He touches it in different spots. “Yeah. Do you want to wait until it’s fully dry so it doesn’t ruin it?”
I sit up. “No. Absolutely not. It was only for fun. What I want is for you to remove your pants and get on with it. Watching you paint was all the foreplay I need. My pussy is ready for your cock, Dax.”
There was a point in my life when I would have been embarrassed to even think the words, let alone voice them in front of a guy. However, today I’m not even ashamed. Because I’m horny as fuck, but also because Dax won’t judge me.
“Clementine,” he grunts, “the mouth on you.”
“If you stop moving at a glacial speed, I’ll use it on you after. See how fast I can make you come.”
His eyes close and he hangs his head, but he also—finally—removes his pants and boxers, his dick erect. “Condom?”
“Table.” After digging it from his jacket pocket, I threw it on the table before I started painting.
He grabs one from the box and sheathes his cock. I don’t even care I don’t have time to admire it with his painted torso. I’m practically dripping, so fucking ready for a release.
With his cock covered, he eliminates the distance to where I am with quick strides, laying himself over me. Balanced on his left forearm, his other hand reaches between us, stroking once. “I wasn’t prepared to be so aroused painting you, but it was thrilling. Sexy. You’re edible.”
“And on the edge. Stop with the flowery talk and get to it already.”
He swallows any other argument I have, his tongue seeking entrance into my mouth the minute our lips touch. The moan escaping me is loud and drawn-out. Without having to worry that anyone else can hear us, I can be loud. Rambunctious. Wild.
Shifting his body, his cock pokes my entrance, and the second it breaches inside, another moan tumbles from my lips. “Yessssss.”
“You’re soaked.”
“I also underestimated how appealing it would be to have you paint me. Naked. To watch you work on me was tantalizing.” He presses his torso against mine, our paint smearing together. Good thing we’ll have time for a shower later.
Together. Though my shower isn’t nearly as big as his.
I wrap my arms around his back, pulling him closer, as close as I can get him, needing to feel his weight. It’s so good, so desirable, so enticing.
“You feel so good clamping my cock. So tight.”
“Ha. I’m sure.” Sex pre-children was different from now.
I shove away those thoughts, focusing my attention on Dax thrusting inside me, pushing to a point only he’s ever found.
“I’m so close.” As much as it feels so good, that I don’t want it to end, I’m chasing the release. The high, the elation, the euphoria.
I’m so full of his cock, my hips lift in rhythm with Dax’s motions. Writhing from side to side, the motion haphazard as I reach the pinnacle.
“Come for me.”
With Dax’s words, I do. Rhapsody and pleasure wash over me as I spiral out of control, careening with ecstasy back down to Earth.
“Ahhhhhhh.” My moans fill the room, combining with the sound of Dax slapping against me as he bottoms out, his cock filling me to satiety. And when he grunts, his release claims him. He doesn’t stop moving until he’s wrung out, letting go of every drop.
He falls on top of my boneless body, leaving us connected. Again, his weight is welcome, and a sated smile claims my lips. I’m not sure how it gets better and better each time, how the electricity can palpitate so strongly between us. But it does.
“Damn, Clementine. Your pussy is magical.”
The chortle that leaves my mouth is ridiculous, matching his comment. He lifts his head off my chest, the wet paint transferring to his cheek. “You got some paint, right here.” My finger rubs it, smearing it more than wiping it. “We’re gonna need a shower.”
“No kidding, though I’m not sure I want to wash the Santa suit off. It’s kinda growing on me.”
I scrunch my face. “It’ll get all over your clothes.” I speak from experience. I have an entire wardrobe full of clothes with paint on them. At least this one isn’t acrylic.
“It’s body paint. It would come off in the wash.”
Reluctantly, he pulls out of me, tying off the condom after carefully removing it. I point to the trash in the corner of the room. With his ass on full display, he walks over to it, hiding it under other things in the can, making me giggle.
I sit up, scanning the mess of paint covering my body and the canvas.
It’s a kaleidoscope of colors—he was not stingy on the amount of different colors—with a mixture of lines, splatters, gobs, dots, and dashes creating the design.
If you look closely enough, you can kind of make out the outline of my body, but no one would know I was naked.
Once it dries, I’m going to save it as a memento from today.
The day Dax Nicholas brought my fantasy to life.
“Are you opposed to going out for an early dinner?”
Dax’s question lifts my head. He wears curiosity and hopefulness like a mask. “Like on a date?”
“Uh, yeah.” He sounds so unsure, so unlike the confident man I’ve gotten to know.
“In Winterberry?”
“Yeah. Have you been to Sweetgrass Grill?”
“No.” I wrap my arms around my waist, leaving my breasts uncovered, an action Dax doesn’t miss. He doesn’t openly ogle them, which I appreciate, but he’s interested in how they’re pushed up.
We didn’t put a label on the “more” of our relationship, and we didn’t quite define rules or boundaries.
There’s no reason to think anyone would judge us for eating a meal together, whether as friends or more.
I doubt there would be much evidence to prove it was a date. Still, I’m unsure how I feel about it.
It’s not that I have an issue eating at a restaurant with him. It’s the whole “date” thing I’m wary of. But I suppose if we’re taking our relationship to another level, dates would be a part of that.
I haven’t been on a date in over ten years. Keith didn’t buy into the whole “date your wife” philosophy, so I didn’t push it. Maybe if I had, things wouldn’t have escalated to where they did.
“It’s been a long time since I’ve been on a date,” I end up telling him instead of addressing his question.
“Then all the more reason to do it.” He takes his eyes off my chest and looks down at his pants. “Though I need a different outfit. Not sure the owners would appreciate my showing up in paint-covered jeans.”
“No, probably not. Good thing you’ll have time to stop at home and change. But will that raise questions for your parents or my kids?”
“They won’t even know I’m there.” My brain works through the scenario of how that’s possible, but it’s too much effort. If he’s caught, it’s on him. “Why don’t we shower, I’ll run home to change, and come back to pick you up? This way, if you need more time to get ready, you’ll have it.”
“Sounds good.”