45. Petra #2
And I feel like I’ve done something terribly wicked . . . and terribly thrilling.
Still blushing, I reach for the array of paints and begin choosing colors. The outline on the canvas is done—rough but passable—so I may as well try my hand at painting. It’s not as if reality offers me better prospects. At least Dream-Me gets to live her fantasy.
I settle on a dark brown to start with his hair and grab a tube of paint. But when I try to squeeze some out, nothing happens.
Frowning, I shake it, press harder, try again. Still nothing. Maybe it’s dried?
I tilt the tube upward toward my face, peering into the opening as I apply more pressure.
Just then—splatter.
A thick line of dark paint shoots straight into my face and across my dress.
There’s a beat of stunned silence.
Then laughter. His laughter, rich and unrestrained, echoes through the room.
He crosses the space in a few easy strides, already offering to help. But as I look at him—his bare chest, the open amusement in his eyes, my face smeared with paint—I don’t hesitate. I squeeze the tube again and send another jet of paint straight at him.
It hits his chest, dripping lower.
He stumbles back a step, blinking, but then grins. Instead of scolding me, he grabs a tube from the pile and launches a counterattack. Blue smears across my shoulder, and I gasp.
Then laugh.
Before I know it, we’re in the middle of a riot of color—shrieking, dodging, flinging paint across each other like children. I forget everything else. The rules. The fear. Even the fact that he’s still naked.
All I can do is laugh and spray a streak of green across his stomach.
But just as I reach for another tube, he lunges.
Paints in hand, he tackles me gently to the ground, sending us tumbling among the scattered brushes and tubes. I expect a new volley of color to hit my face, but instead—he shifts.
He pins me softly beneath him, balancing with one hand, while the other goes to my bodice.
In one swift motion, he tears it open.
Cool air hits my exposed skin.
I suck in a breath, but he’s already shaking up a tube of red paint—and then pouring it directly across my stomach, letting it run like liquid silk over my skin.
He watches, transfixed.
Then he lowers his hand, spreading his fingers wide, and presses it against the paint.
A crimson handprint blooms across my body.
“So beautiful,” he whispers. His voice is reverent. Almost worshipful. “So beautiful . . . and so mine. You have no idea what you do to me, Petra, do you?” he murmurs, voice low and rough. “You have no idea how much you excite me . . . how damn much you turn me on.”
My lips part slightly, breath catching as I stare into his face—into the wild intensity darkening his eyes. But my gaze betrays me.
Slowly, involuntarily, it drifts downward.
There.
It had only been a glimpse before, barely a peek, but now . . . now it’s different.
Bigger. Much bigger.
My mind scrambles to comprehend it. Is that normal? I think, stunned. How is that even possible?
Perhaps he didn’t sell his soul for a kiss, but he might have sold it for an inhumanly large . . . appendage.
And then, because the situation is so absurd, so surreal, I let out a breathless little laugh.
He arches a brow. “What are you laughing at?”
I hesitate, then point vaguely in the direction of his lower half. “I was just thinking . . .” I trail off, trying to suppress the grin tugging at my lips. “Did you sell your soul for that?”
His expression freezes. “You think I made a deal with the devil for a big cock?” he repeats, blinking in disbelief.
And that only makes me laugh harder.
“You little minx,” he says with a chuckle.
“Do you blame me for thinking that? It’s alarmingly large.”
“It is quite the compliment, I must confess.”
“A compliment?” I laugh. “You, sir, need to learn what a compliment is. That was merely an observation.”
“Still a compliment.” He winks at me. “But have no fear, I won’t hurt you, nor will I take you today.” He leans forward, his cock nestled between my legs as he thrusts it forward over my mons. A shiver goes down my back.
His skin is hot, soft, and though I might find the size of him alarming, the way my body clenches in anticipation tells me that we would fit just fine.
“Ah, sweet Petra,” he murmurs, his eyes fluttering closed. “I need you so badly.”
Perhaps it’s bold of me to do so, but I grab his cheeks with my paint-stained hands and bring him closer until his lips brush against mine.
“What do you need? Tell me.”
Surprise flickers across his features.
“You would give it to me?” he whispers.
“I’m not scared of you, Sin. Despite everything, I’m .
. .” I trail off, unable to vocalize the strange array of feelings he inspires in me.
And though there might be an echo of fear still within me, it’s morphed into something else, something resembling more like excitement than true terror. “I’m here,” I say eventually.
He regales me with a gorgeous smile as he places a small kiss on my nose before moving my hands lower, to his cock.
The first touch surprises me. For something that looks so menacing, he’s soft, fiery, almost melting in my hand.
“Like that,” he rasps as he pushes his hips forward, his member sliding in and out of my hands. “Just like that.” His features tighten, and he releases an animalistic sound as he utters a low, “Fuck,” before a substance spills over my stomach in white spurts.
It meets the red of the paint, and together they make a mosaic of experience: lust and . . . love?
I gulp down, unable to tear my eyes away from his face. So beautiful, so agonizingly vulnerable in this moment.
I keep my grip on his cock as the last of the tremors subside from his body.
He crashes on top of me, though still keeping most of his weight off me.
It’s a strange feeling. He’s warmth and comfort where I once thought he was going to be my damnation.
Instead, as I hold him close to my body, basking in his presence, only one word seems to drift through my mind.
Home . . . he feels like home.
I wake up with a start. Immediately, I take note of my surroundings and realize I’m in my room, in my nightgown, with not one hair out of place.
It was a dream after all . . . though sometimes I wonder how I could conjure up things I know nothing about.
A deep chasm opens in my heart as I realize the dream Sin, that tender, funny man from that dream, is just that . . . a figment of my imagination.