Proving Paul's Promise (14 page)

“How did you hear all that?”

He shrugs. “Your volume was really loud.” He stares at me for a minute. I’m pretending that I didn’t hear him. He heaves a sigh and sings, “Fridaaaayy!” He waves his hands in the air wildly. “Earth to Friday.”

“He calls you a stud muffin because you are one.”

A dimple appears in his cheek. “Okay,” he says. “And the rest?” he prompts when I don’t say more. “What did you ask him to do?”

I look around the room. There’s nothing I can use to distract him. “Is Hayley calling you?” I ask.

He rolls his eyes. “She’s with her mom this week. But nice try.”

He’s not going to stop asking. “I asked him to help me with an art project,” I say. I may as well have just spilled my guts out.

“What kind of art project?”

I shrug. “There’s a contest going on at Bounce.” Bounce is a local club, and all the Reed brothers have worked there at one point or another as bouncers, so I know he’s familiar with the place.

“What kind of contest?” he asks.

“A paint contest?” I say. It comes out like a question, even though I didn’t mean for it to.

“The fucking body paint contest?” Paul asks, and he slams his hand down on the counter. “Are you entering that?”

“I already entered. And I had a model for it, but then she backed out at the last minute. Her grandmother died or something. I don’t know why her grandmother couldn’t have waited until after the contest, but I guess I don’t get any say-so.”

He chuckles. “God, you make me laugh,” he says.

I glare at him.

“So your model backed out and you were going to do what? Paint Garrett?”

“Umm, not exactly.” I raise a finger to my lips and start to nibble the nail.

“Then what?” He throws up his hands.

“I was going to have him paint me.” I look down the hallway. “Maybe Sam could do it. Is he here?” I start in that direction, but Paul grabs my arm and jerks me back. I fall against him.

“There is no fucking way any man, even Garrett, is going to paint your naked body. No. Absolutely not.” He folds his arms across his broad chest and stares down at me like I’ve lost my mind.

“The entry fee was a hundred dollars and I spent a month working on the design. It’s perfect, and I think I can win. And just when did you become my father?” I ask. I pull back from him.

“Trust me,” he says. “The last thing I want to be is your father.”

“Then stop acting like one.”

He pulls me to him again, and I feel his dick pressed against my lower belly. “Trust me,” he says again. “I don’t feel like a parent when I’m with you.”

“Oh,” I breathe. My heart stutters, and I get this little flutter in my belly that only happens with him.

“Oh,” he mocks. “I’m acting like a jealous boyfriend because I am one.”

I close my eyes and say, “You haven’t even kissed me since I told you about Jacob.”

“You told me you needed time,” he cries softly. “I’ve been right here waiting. Patiently, I might add.” He chuckles.

“Well, quit being so patient!”

He brushes my hair back from my face with gentle fingers and doesn’t say a word. He just stares at me, his eyes soft and full of something I don’t understand. I wish I did. It would make this so much easier.

“So about this contest,” he says.

“Reagan and Emily are both busy.”

“There’s no one else you can get to model?”

“There isn’t enough time to teach them the position.”

“Position?” He grins.

I shove his shoulder.

“I’ll paint you.” His eyes bore into mine. “I’ll enjoy the hell out of it.” His dimple grows deeper and even cuter.

“No.” I shake my head. “You can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’ll be naked!” I cry.

“I know!” he yells back softly. “That’s why I don’t want anyone else doing it!”

Paul

This is a really bad idea, and I know it before I ever step a foot into her bedroom. “Close the door behind you,” she says. Her voice quivers, and I fucking love that she’s this torn up over me painting her body.

“Nobody else is here,” I remind her.

“Someone is always here, or on their way here, or thinking about coming here.”

She’s right, so I close the door. She has transfer sheets spread all over her bed. They’re arranged in a weird pattern, and I can’t quite make out what it is. “What are you going to be?” I ask.

She smiles and shakes her head. “You’ll have to wait and see.”

“What am I painting you with?” I ask, as she pulls her shirt over her head. My mouth falls open, but she just clutches her shirt to her chest and turns her back to me. She pulls her hair to the side.

“It’s that really thick latex paint. It’ll be like plastic when it’s dry.” She points to a sheet on the bed. “Let’s start transferring.”

This part I know how to do. She used the same transfer sheets we use for tattoos. So, I lay them on her body at her instruction, and then move on to the next one. I do her rib cage while she holds tightly to the shirt.

“Turn around,” she says, making a rolling motion with her finger pointed down.

“Do I have to?” I pretend to sulk.

“Turn,” she says again, more forcefully this time. I turn away from her and look toward her dresser. But she doesn’t realize that I’m facing the mirror. She drops the shirt and lays the transfers over her breasts.

My mouth goes dry. I know I shouldn’t watch her, but I can’t fucking help it. She’s perfect. Her breasts are big for her small frame but firm. Her nipples are hard and pointing directly out in front of her. Her areolas are as big as silver dollars and round and I want so badly to go to her and take one in my mouth. I want to hear her cry out.

She looks up, and I jerk my eyes from the mirror. “You can turn around now,” she says. She lifts the shirt back to her chest. Such a shame. I swallow hard and try to push down the lust that’s clouding my brain. She needs for me to paint her, not to fuck her.

Her brow furrows. “Are you okay?” she asks.

“Fine,” I choke out. I clear my throat because my voice sounds gravelly. “Fine,” I say again.

She shakes her head and turns her back to me. “All the spaces with a one in the center will be this fiery orange.” She holds a tray of paint in her hand until she sets it on a stool right beside us. “Are you sure you have time for this? It’s going to take a really long time.”

“I can’t think of anywhere I’d rather be.” Friday is almost naked with me in her bedroom. I could stay here for days. I dip the brush and get it close to her back. It’s almost a shame to cover up the phoenix tattoo. It’s purple and gray and rising from the ashes. “Did you draw this tattoo?” I ask, as I start to swipe.

“Yes.”

I keep painting. At least doing this, I get to explore all of her art. “It’s pretty. And moving.”

“It’s me right after I met you,” she says. Her voice is soft and curvy, just like her body. “Having a job and a family, even one that wasn’t mine, made me stronger. I felt like I could finally carry on.”

I explore the rest of her back as I paint all the ones. Then I move on to the two’s, and they’re purple. She smiles at me over her shoulder.

“You’re doing great,” she says.

“What’s this one?” I ask. I point to a deck of cards with a clown on the front. There’s a full house showing on the card faces.

“Life’s a gamble.”

“And this one?” I start to paint over her sailboat.

“Someday,” she says quietly, “I’ll sail into the sunset.”

“There are wedding rings on the sail?”

“Yes.”

“You want to be married.”

“Yes.”

My heart kicks in my chest.

“My back is my hopes and dreams. My front is my reality as I saw it at the time. Because I can face anything, as long as I let what happened to me push me forward.”

Damn. I don’t even know how to respond.

When her back is all covered, I scoot my chair to the side and she lifts her arm. “Just do the side. I can do the front.”

I don’t respond, because I’m not stopping.

She has a crashed sailboat on the front side of her belly. And right beside her pierced belly button is a deck of cards with a full house showing on the card faces. She had words like
faith
,
hope
and
charity
written on her back. And on her front, she has words like
loss
and a big
F
like you would see on a school paper. I don’t comment on those because she’s starting to squirm and I’m afraid she’ll make me stop.

I hover over an empty bassinette. I look up at her and see that she has closed her eyes, so I paint over it.

“I can’t figure out what we’re drawing.”

She grins. “I know. Isn’t it great?”

I chuckle. “If you say so.”

I paint up the side of her neck, where there’s a turtle and skulls and other crazy shit that is so Friday.

When there’s nothing left but her boobs, which are still covered by her shirt, she says, “My legs are going to be black.”

“You’re not walking out on the stage naked,” I say. No way in hell.

“No, I’m wearing black bathing suit bottoms.” She picks up a roller.

“Good.” I’d hate to have to tie her to the bedpost. Well, actually, I’d love to tie her to the bedpost.

“I need to take my pants off,” she says. Her face colors, and it’s so damn pretty.

I set the paintbrush down and start to hum to myself as I reach for the button of her pants. She lets me, still clutching onto that shirt. She’s wearing skimpy black bathing suit bottoms, and I whistle when I see them. She giggles, and the sound shoots straight to my heart. I shove her pants down, and she steps out of them.

I squat down in front of her, put one knee on the floor, and rest my elbow on the other. I look up and grin. “The view is nice from down here.”

She grins and looks away.

She doesn’t have a lot of art on her outer thighs except for a baby rattle that’s encased in a spider web. It sweeps across her knee. I know what that one is about. I roll over it with black paint, and then cover all the way down to her toes. She giggles when I do the inside of her foot. “Ticklish?” I ask.

“Hypersensitive right now,” she whispers.

“I need to get below your bottoms,” I tell her, “in case they shift.”

“Can you pull them down just a little?” she asks. “Not far.”

I hook my thumbs in the hips of her bottoms and tug them down. She makes a whispery noise, and I look up to find her talking to herself. It sounds like she’s saying,
Don’t pass out, don’t pass out, don’t pass out
, but I can’t be sure. I paint around her hips and her waistband and leave her bottoms turned down so it can dry for a minute. I lift her leg and rest her foot on my knee. I can see the inside of her thigh where her son’s footprints are, along with his date of birth. I lean forward and kiss her there. I linger, taking in the sweet feel of her soft skin against my lips, and I stop to smell the overwhelming scent that’s all Friday. Her leg starts to tremble so I roll it really quickly and lower it to the floor. I roll all the way up her thigh again, and then I look up at her and grin.

“Forgive me in advance for what I’m about to do,” I say. I pull her bottoms to the side so I can swipe the brush up the crease of her thigh.

Holy Christ. She doesn’t have a stitch of hair down there. Of course, I can only see the edge, but it’s cleanly shaven, and I have to reach down and adjust my junk. I want to pull the suit back farther so I can look for her clit piercing, but I haven’t been invited that far. Hell, I haven’t been invited this far, either, but I’m here. Thank God, I’m here.

“You still okay?” she asks.

“Fine,” I croak.

“Just checking, because your hand is shaking a little.” Her voice trembles just about as much as my hand does.

“You’re making me fucking crazy,” I admit.

She sucks in a breath. “Sorry,” she whispers.

“Don’t be. It’s a good kind of crazy.” I grin up at her.

“I love those fucking dimples,” she says. Then she presses her lips together like she said too much, which makes me grin even more.

“Don’t say the word
love
around me yet,” I warn playfully.

“Why not?”

“Because you make me hopeful,” I say.

She steps back from me and looks down. “I think we’re done,” she says. She smiles at me.

“No, we’re not.”

I step toward her.

She takes a step back. “Yes, we are.”

“No, we’re not.” I grab the edge of the shirt. “Drop the shirt,” I say.

“I can do that part.”

“I just spent two fucking hours painting your body, and you won’t grant me the privilege of painting your boobs?” I ask, trying to look as dejected as possible. I lean close to her ear. “I just painted the left and right side of your pussy,” I tell her. “I can paint your boobs.” I tug the shirt, and she lets it drop. Her hands fall to her sides, and she closes her eyes.

“Go ahead,” she says through clenched teeth.

I smile and start to paint. I work my way around her breasts until I get to the crest of the left one. I stop and roll her piercing in my fingers. Her breath hitches, and she looks down, her mouth falling open. She gasps out something I can’t understand.

“We need to change these for something plastic,” I tell her.

“On the dresser,” she says. She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath.

“Can I do it?” I ask.

I do this all the time when I pierce people. Or when they need to take a piercing out for some reason. I replace the metal with something like fishing line that holds the piercing open until the metal can be put back in.

“You can do it,” she says. She keeps her eyes closed, but she startles when I twist her piercing in my fingers, letting it roll again.

“That’s not very nice,” she says. But her eyes open and she watches me unscrew the end and pull the piercing free. I follow it with the plastic piece and secure it in place. I do the same on the other side, taking a minute to play with it. I can’t help it. It’s a fucking tit piercing. It begs to be played with.

When I’m done, I pick up my paintbrush and say, “Are you ready?”

She nods.