Chapter 4 #2
This felt like more than fooling around. She felt cherished. Seen. Inexplicably understood and accepted. Mike looked at her like she was the most important thing in the world. Being the center of his focus was breathtaking.
His hand brushed her ankle and swept slowly up to her knee, worshipping the curve of her calf and setting off waves of pleasure everywhere he touched—and all the other places she wanted him to touch. He left faint paint smears on her as he went, making her shudder with need.
“I’ll get the paint off later,” he muttered.
He would do no such thing. She was keeping those marks as long as they lasted. “I like it.”
“Really?” He moved her dress up by inches, circling her knees with his big, capable hands, brushing her inner thighs with his rough calluses, keeping to his slow, torturous pace even though she was a wriggling, moaning, needy mess. “That gives me an idea. Can I paint you?”
“You just did, didn’t you?” As much as she wanted him to hurry the hell up, she couldn’t stop watching.
His hands on her body were the hottest thing she’d ever seen, her fantasy come to life.
She was committing every moment of this to memory.
She felt like a work of art under his hands, commanding his attention, beautiful.
“Not like this.” He turned to grab his palette, dipped the brush in his hand into paint, and arched a wicked brow at her, waiting.
Her mouth fell open.
Most of her wanted to say yes—hell yes. She was known within her circle of friends as being the most sexually adventurous, but with that liberal mindset came a scrupulous awareness of personal safety.
She couldn’t turn off her professional brain, the part of her that had studied food science for ten years.
That part wanted to know if his paint was safe for skin, if it was water soluble, and if not, whether he wanted to put it anywhere she couldn’t comfortably clean with paint thinner.
Her phone shrilled a familiar summons, making her jump.
Sylvie. Late, but checking in.
“I need to get that,” she said. “I asked my friend to text me, and we do not want her to send in backup.”
“Of course.” He gave her room to get to her feet.
“I need to check the label on the paint, anyway. Might not be safe for skin.” His thoughtfulness and care nearly made her ignore her phone and kiss the daylights out of him, but she didn’t want to worry Sylvie.
Plus, with the resources her friend currently had at her disposal, sending back-up could mean anything from a SWAT team to the national guard.
“Hey, girl,” she answered.
“I’m so sorry.” Sylvie’s panicked voice blasted in her ear. “I left my phone in my camera bag. Please tell me you aren’t in tiny pieces in a basement freezer.”
“Nah—I’m good. Just woke up from a nap and thinking I might get lucky.”
At her words, Mike looked up from the label he was reading and smiled. “So lucky,” he mouthed.
She snorted.
“Sorry I abandoned you, but go team. I’m gonna let you get back to your good fortune,” Sylvie said. “Text me later?”
“Definitely.” Libby ended the call and shoved her phone under the couch for safekeeping.
“What’s the verdict?” she asked.
Mike grimaced. “I got lost about five ingredients in. Not worth the risk.” He tossed the tube onto the coffee table.
“I’d much rather get lucky than paint, even though combining the two seemed like a brilliant idea five minutes ago.
As did this couch. But now that we’ve had a moment to take a breath, I’d love to have you in my bed, with a half-dozen pillows to keep you comfortable while I go down on you and condoms close at hand, just in case. How does that sound?”
She grinned. “Amazing.”
Micah held out his hand, and she took it.
He traced the fine bones of her fingers, much as she had his when they first met, comparing the real thing to the likeness he’d just painted. Hands were tough, but he’d nailed it.
The urge to paint her body was still there, but he forced it to the back of his mind.
A little paint here and there was harmless, but he wasn’t going to risk her health for his newly discovered kink.
Plus, body art wasn’t permanent unless he took pictures, and he couldn’t imagine asking her for that.
But the idea of Libby’s body covered in flowers consumed his imagination.
Let it go. It’s not happening. He wasn’t going to DoorDash body-safe paint. But there’s always tomorrow…
But only tomorrow.
He had to be at the temple by sundown on Monday to celebrate the first night of Hanukkah—unless he extended his vacation.
As soon as the thought occurred to him, he rejected it.
Hanukkah wasn’t a High Holiday, or even a very important one in the Jewish faith, but it was festive and fun.
He’d planned several themed events with the temple youth next week, and some of the clergy had bought tickets for Manhattan’s famed Matzo Baller Hanukkah harbor cruise.
He was looking forward to the eight-hour party, famed for its incredible food, creative cocktails, and unabashed celebration of Jewish culture.
If a tiny part of him wished a non-life-threatening emergency would keep him in Palm Beach with Libby for the week, it was a very small part.
For more reasons than his sense of responsibility.
Libby wanted M. Waterman, the reclusive artist, a man he only got to be once a year on vacation and in the privacy of his guest bathroom. Mike was a free spirit. Mike could casually proposition a woman he’d just met and have a vacation fling with no regrets.
In his real life, he was Micah Wasserman.
The newest associate rabbi at Temple Beth Hatikvah would do no such thing.
Micah wasn’t casual about sex—at all. As a temple representative, his actions, even in his private life, reflected on the congregation, and he was careful to uphold the high standards of character and conduct expected of temple clergy.
Lately, he didn’t even have the time or the emotional bandwidth to date.
Writing sermons, counseling congregants, and working in the community took up most of his time and attention.
During his two weeks of vacation a year, he abandoned himself to the selfish compulsion to create.
During those weeks, he sketched and painted until he was exhausted.
The rest of the year, he confined his hobby to his days off and a social media post whenever he finished a piece.
It was enough—or it had been. Now, he was starting to wonder.
Was his erotic subject matter a sign that he should make time to date?
Probably. He had plenty of opportunities.
It seemed like he was introduced to a new niece, granddaughter, sister, or cousin at every oneg.
Three times that many at a bar or bat mitzvah.
Weddings? Oy vey. Everyone had hearts in their eyes at a wedding.
It was overwhelming—and he often used his all-consuming job as an excuse to escape matchmaking mothers.
It didn’t help that even if he met someone special, he couldn’t bring them back to his place.
If they snooped in his closets and discovered the erotic paintings stacked to the ceilings, his secret would be out.
Gossip would spread. His mother wouldn’t be able to brag to her Mahjong ladies about her son, the rabbi. He’d be a shonda.
But tonight, he didn’t have to worry about any of that.
Being Mike gave him the freedom he didn’t know he’d been craving.
Fingers snapped in front of his face. “You good there? Still with me?”
“Absolutely,” he said. But only until Monday. Then his vacation was over, and Mike was gone until his next one.
He needed to be upfront about that. It wouldn’t be fair to lead her on.
He tugged her down the hall and halted next to his bed in the guest room. “I really like you,” he began, squeezing her hand.
Her gaze narrowed. “I like you, too.”
He barreled ahead, before his desire to get laid subdued his conscience. “But I need to be honest. I have to spend tomorrow packing up, and I’m heading home Monday morning.” He waited for her to frown. Maybe even change her mind.
But instead, she nodded and smiled. “We’re good. I’m not looking for more than tonight. Like I said, I’ll be spending tomorrow and Monday in the kitchen, baking for my Hanukkah gig.”
Again, the urge to tell her he was Jewish clawed at his throat. More than that, he wanted to know how she celebrated Hanukkah. He wanted her sleeping on the couch while a menorah blazed, and he painted again. He really wanted to eat one of the donuts she was making for that party.
But none of that was worth jeopardizing his secret. He should be relieved he was still getting lucky tonight, not disappointed she was only looking for a one-night stand.
Her smile turned teasing. “I’ll miss you while I’m taking long walks alone on the beach this week. How about we make some great memories tonight to keep me company?”
“We can do that.” He fought against the desire to do more, maybe make a plan to see each other again in the future.
But that would mean trusting her with his identity.
He couldn’t imagine continuing to be Mike if he was going to see her again, and selfishly, he didn’t want to destroy her vision of him as an artist and replace it with a work-obsessed rabbi, who only painted in a few spare hours each week.
In her mind, at least, he could be M. Waterman all the time, and it felt amazing to have that part of himself known.
For tonight only, he could enjoy being Mike, impulsive, free, and earthy.
He didn’t have to feel guilty. They were on the same page.
He didn’t have to worry about what the congregation would think because the temple would never know.
He stripped the bedspread off the bed and tossed it on the floor. “Sheets are easier to replace if the paint on my hands isn’t dry.”