Chapter Twenty-Four #2
“Yeah. We got everything we need.” She looks back at the painting. “Fun fact, sometimes I find myself wanting to cry because I miss her so much, and then I imagine her calling me a nerd for crying over her. Believe it or not, it helps.”
“Bet it dries those tears right up.”
“With a quickness.”
Once we move Tanya’s portrait out of the way so it can rest and dry, Dani is in no rush to leave and I’m in no rush to let her go.
She sits in my lap with her head on my chest while I rub her back.
Neither of us is sleeping or even tired, we’re just existing.
Existing is a thousand times better when I’m doing it with her.
I’ve fallen for this girl. Again.
The first time I fell in love with Dani, it was after we got caught in the rain on the day we met. She was soaking wet, in total shock that the rain had come down so hard, and when she looked at me, something in me said, I could do this for the rest of my life.
The second time I fell in love with her was instantaneous.
I hadn’t seen her in years since our first and last encounter.
But the moment I saw her again, standing in the middle of a New York club looking like heaven on Earth, it was as if my heart had been beating irregularly until she came back into the picture to set it right.
This time, I don’t think there was a specific moment. It just was. It’s always been.
“I had an idea,” she mumbles.
I tug on her hair so she’s forced to look at me. “What is it?”
“I want you to make me into art again.”
“Okay, I can do that.”
“But.” She pauses. “I wanna turn you into art too.” She runs her hands up and down my arms, the heat from them searing my skin.
“You wanna make art together?”
“I liked how I felt when you painted me. I wanna feel that again with you.”
I’ll give her anything she asks for. “How did you feel, Storm?”
“Like me,” she says quickly. “I felt like myself.”
I ease her off my lap and take her hand in mine. I grab a tarp and a large canvas and show her my collection of body paints. She carries them over to the middle of the loft floor.
While I lay everything down, she sets up her tripod in the corner, in perfect view of the canvas.
“Let’s make art,” she says as she turns on the camera.
I pull her to the center of the loft and show her the bottles of body paint sitting there.
She crouches down to open them, revealing different shades and colors. She looks up at me from the floor. “Show me how.”
I help her up and lift her shirt off her body, throwing it over the railing down to the floor below. She returns the favor, sending my shirt flying after hers.
With determined eyes, she bends to pull her pants down, staying in her squat position to free my dick too. I grab one of the bottles of blue paint and dip some onto my finger. Gently, I swipe the paint across the base of her throat.
She picks a yellow bottle and lets it drip onto my shoulder.
We keep going back and forth, covering each other in innocent places until I smear some green paint across her breasts.
She hisses from the cold, her eyes hazy when she looks back at me.
Licking her lips, she picks a different color and pours it down her chest until she’s almost completely covered, then she smashes our bodies together.
Her lips seek out mine, tangling our tongues together as her paint-covered hands explore the planes of my chest.
I pick her up and wrap her body around my waist before sinking to my knees and laying her on top of the canvas.
I lean up to grab a condom and stop to admire her, a living embodiment of art. She watches with hooded eyes as I sheath myself and then welcomes the cold touch as I pour more paint between our bodies and slide inside.
“Ahhh my God,” she shivers.
Her hands curl against my stomach, making my muscles contract. I pick up her hand and stretch it behind her head, enjoying the imprint she leaves behind on the canvas. Stretching her arm high like this arches her body upward, her gorgeous figure like a statue.
“Keep your arm there,” I command as I let go in order to smear paint all over my hand to cup her breast, branding her with my touch.
Her pussy clenches around me, plunging me forward so my nose is buried in her neck.
I feel the paint plastering itself to my nose, chin, and beard.
I just don’t care. The scent of her perfume clings to my nose.
It’s rich in its complexities, unapologetically spicy yet sweet.
It’s intoxicating, much like the woman wearing it.
“Micah,” she moans, biting her lip to keep from screaming.
“Be free with yourself, Storm. If you wanna scream, then scream. These walls can take it.”
She reaches for the yellow paint and dips her fingers in it. Watching me, she rubs her paint-covered fingertips over her nipples.
“I should discipline you for moving your arm when I said not to.”
She tweaks her nipples more. “Are you going to?”
Fuck, is she tempting.
I sink my arms into the blue and red paints until they’re almost elbow deep. Paint drips from my fingers as I pull them out. “No, princess, but I am going to make a mess of you.”
She sucks in an intake of air when my hands connect with her throat and glide down her body. I caress the underside of her breasts before dragging my hands down the front of her stomach. She arches into me as I pump into her.
I grip her hips and knead them, fueled by her mewls and whispers of pleasure. My hands make their way to her ass, holding it for what I hope is long enough to leave perfect handprints.
“Mmm, Micah, I need more,” she cries.
My lips tilt up to a maniacal grin. I’m always willing to give her more. I’d give her anything. I lean down to kiss her, sucking her tongue into my mouth before pulling away. “I got you.”
I glide my hands up to the back of her knees, pushing until her legs stretch out past my head. I kiss her ankle and then push her legs until they’re spread wide on both sides.
“Shit, that feels good,” she gasps.
Gripping her hips again so I can lift myself to get a better angle, I slam back into her as her head rolls backward.
There are no more words to be used. No commands or challenges. We let the art speak for itself. The only sounds are the smacking of my body into hers and our groans of ecstasy.
After we’ve washed the paint from our bodies and our hair, we watch the video we made and recreate it again and again without the paint. We’re still on the floor from our latest go-round when my phone pings with an email.
What the fuck?
The email isn’t from Victor. It’s from Tanya herself.
From: tanyaholden@
To: micahwright@
Subject: One Last Request
Micah—
This place shaped who you are. Embrace it.
Love you deeply,
Tanya
That’s all the email says.
One last request? Really, Tanya? I really hope they’re handing you some kind of heavenly Oscar up there.
Dani’s phone pings too and when she practically jumps out of her skin, I know what she’s seeing.
“You got one too?” I ask.
“What the hell is this?”
“I’m guessing this is the true ending of our scavenger hunt.” This must be what Victor was hiding. He knew these emails were scheduled to go out, but I wonder how she decided when we’d get them.
“What does yours say?” she questions, her voice shaky. I tell her and she taps her fingers across her lips. “Our Place?”
“That’s the one.”
“What does she want you to embrace about it?”
My place there. Or what she deems my place should be. She knew about Paris and Penelope’s offer, and she also knew I had turned it down. Is she really expecting me to just change my mind because she sent an email from beyond the grave?
Dani lifts my chin with her hands once I’ve finished telling her my interpretation of Tanya’s email. “Micah.”
“Yes, Storm?”
“What did Tanya say in her letter about you thinking you don’t deserve good things? You’re proving her point right now.”
“I’m okay with that. Because I’m right in this case.”
“Debatable.”
I gasp. “Rude.”
She chuckles. “Don’t deflect; that’s my game. Moonchaser.”
That nickname does something funny in my chest.
“You are deserving of good things. Tanya saw that. Your aunt Monica saw that. Paris and Penelope see that. I see that. And deep down I think you see it too. Your vision is just clouded by the guilt of surviving.”
She’s right about that. I have a hard time celebrating life’s wins because ultimately I end up thinking about the ones who should be standing there with me.
“How about this? I agree to have a conversation with them. I can’t promise anything more than that right now.” I’m not ready to sign any contracts or anything, but I am ready to say I’d like to get there.
“I’ll take it.”
“Good. Can we talk about your email now?”