Page 145 of Proposal Play
His gaze drifts down to my chest, and I’m sure we’re both suddenly remembering that day in the studio, when he ran his finger across the red paint on my skin, when his touch lit me up, made me sizzle.
“Did you have something in mind to break in the studio,husband?”
His smile is sinful. “I sure do.”
49
PAINT MY BODY RED
Maeve
I set a drop cloth on the floor and pick out a few paintbrushes—slim ones, soft ones, but also a few bigger ones. I’ve never done this before, so I’m not sure what will feel right.
“More is more,” I say to Asher, offering them in a mason jar.
“With you, it is,” he replies, his voice rich with amusement as he takes the jar, then carefully studies the options before picking a slim one to go with the paint he’s selected—a tube I’ve never seen before. It isn’t one I bought.
This man. He’s ravenous, and also prepared. Which is veryhim. I don’t even need to ask if he researched body-safe paints—because of course he did.
He sets the brush next to the tube.
I hand him a palette as I nod to the tube. “Let me guess—you went to Risqué Business again?”
With a glint in his eyes, he nods. “You know me so well.”
He’s right. I do. And I like that knowing. It’s comforting, but it also stirs something else inside me. “And you didn’t even have to ask them for the best paint forkinkypainting night. You went straight to the shelves and found it.”
“I did all my homework in advance.” He steps closer, his smile fading into something deeper, darker—his green eyes glinting like gemstones, full of flickering want. He runs the back of his fingers along my cheek and murmurs, “It’s your studio, but you’re my canvas tonight.”
Chills erupt down my spine.
I hadn’t really thought about the mechanics of this—who’s painting whom—but of course, this makes sense. He’ll paint my body.
I sit down in the chair, the one I’d normally paint in, and fumble with the button of my blouse. “When the painter becomes the painted,” I say softly.
He stalks over, cups my chin, and raises my face. “Take off your shirt, wife. I want to paint your tits red.”
I shudder out a breath, my mind flashing back to a moment in time—back to when my friends and I were at the diner for lunch, and I was musing about the ideal man for me—someone who’d want to paint my body.
And now that someone is…my best friend.
My brother’s best friend.
My husband.
My breath quickens as I undo the buttons, slip the shirt off my shoulders, and let it fall.
“Now the bra,” he says, his voice low and steady.
I unhook it, my pulse racing. He looms over me, holding the brand-new paintbrush. As he steps closer, hecurls a hand around the back of my chair, leaning in, his breath warm against my skin. “I’m not an artist. I just know what I like. And I like…” He pauses, as if choosing his words carefully. He licks his lips, maybe gathering his thoughts before he says, “I likethis.”
It’s said like he’s holding something back, like he’s adjusting what he really meant to say. But I think I know what he’s saying—he likes me. And I thinklikewasn’t the verb he originally wanted to use either.
Or maybe I’m just hoping another four-letter word was forming on his tongue. Maybe I’m feeling far too much. Maybe all these emotions bubbling up inside me are making me want something I probably can’t have.
He lifts the brush but doesn’t touch me with it. Instead, he runs it across the back of his hand, as if he’s testing its softness. Then, in a low, smoky voice, he says, “Lift your chin.”
I do, and he drags the brush from the bottom of my chin, along my throat to the hollow at its base, then continues down, down, down my chest, between my breasts, all the way to my belly button. I’m trembling everywhere. The hair on my arms stands on end. I feel electric in my own skin—just from that one stroke.