“Alright Stan, get naked,” Leah orders as she sits down and starts mixing paints.
“I was kidding. Are you seriously painting me naked?” I ask. “Leah, I’m not sure—”
“Naked,” she insists. “Now don’t get all self-conscious on me now. Hundreds of women have seen that naked body, I’m sure. I just get to be the first person to officially paint it.”
“I wouldn’t say hundreds… okay, I would,” I admit. “In college, I won a best abs contest at a bar,” I gloat, trying to stall the inevitable.
“I don’t doubt it,” Leah says, not looking up from her palette of paints. I strip down to my underwear, standing in front of her. Still not looking up, she says, “skivvies too.”
I take down my underwear, standing completely naked in front of her. Leah still doesn’t look up from mixing colors. “You choose Tristan, do you want to be standing up or lying on the bed.”
Figuring that this is going to take a while, I dive on the bed. “Care to join me?”
“Not yet. My hues aren’t ready,” she explains, not noticing me at all. I start to grab a pillow to cover my junk and decide against it. When she finally does look up, I want her to know what she’s in for—not that she doesn’t already know. However, a quick reminder, a little glance, can’t hurt.
Once her paints are ready, she stands up and takes off her shirt, leaving on a small, white tank top. Then she shimmies out of her linen pants, and says, “I don’t want to get paint all over me.” She’s not wearing men’s boxers this time, but is wearing those fucking sexy boy short underwear. She folds her pants over the chair, giving me an incredible view of her ass. I probably should’ve covered my junk.
“It’s fine Tristan,” she says, watching me adjust myself. “I wanted to paint it hard anyway.” Grabbing her paints, she crawls over to me on the bed.
“Don’t you need to get a canvas or some paper or something?” I ask, not understanding how this is going to roll.
“Tristan, I’m not painting a portrait of you,” Leah explains, swirling her brush on the palette. “I’m painting you. You’re the canvas.”
I flinch the second the brush hits my cheek, “I don’t know about—”
“Relax. They’re washable paints,” Leah explains. “You trust me, don’t you?” The paintbrush trails down my cheek in a slow, soft stroke. The feel of it is intense, causing every part of me to wake up and come alive.
“I do,” I admit, not only to her, but also to myself as well.
After everything she and I have gone through, alone and together, she’s really about the only person I’ve ever trusted this much. I knocked her down. She knocked me down. Neither of us is any better than the other. We are like those houses hit by the hurricane on Rainbow Row, torn down, gutted, and ultimately destroyed by the storm, only to be rebuilt, reconstructed, into something stronger, more durable, and infinitely more breathtakingly beautiful. Those houses have strength from what they’ve endured in the past and are built for a more durable and unbreakable future. They are as strong as they are beautiful.
“Tristan, I have to tell you something,” she says as the brush glides along my nose. “I’ve kind of had a thing for you since you talked to my college class my freshman year.”
“At Granite State?” I ask, feeling my face redden in embarrassment. “Tell me you were not in that lecture.”
“Sure was,” she says, grinning. “You changed things for me. I always thought I was going to just major in art—probably be an art teacher or something like that. But after you talked about business and all that, I decided that I wanted to open my own art gallery. Do it all for myself.”
“Leah, I was a babbling idiot that day,” I remind her.
“And I loved every part of that guy,” Leah says, smiling. “No more talking for you. You have to stay still now.”
Leah continues to paint along my face. When she finishes and the brush trails down my chest, my body responds. The devilish grin on her face tells me that’s what she wanted all along. As the brush circles my nipples, they harden immediately.
“When can I see what you’re painting?” I mumble, as not to crack the drying paint on my cheeks.
“No talking,” she says, “that’s why I did your face first.”
Dipping the brush in water, she changes the colors and continues to paint my chest. Her face changes, darkens in seriousness and angst. I want to look down and see what she’s painting that causes her such anguish. I don’t though, accepting that she doesn’t want me to just yet. Leah spends a lot of time, painting and creating, paying careful attention to the colors and lines. Watching her is an aphrodisiac, and it captives me completely. I want to touch her, feel her, explore and memorize every part of her body. Every time the paintbrush goes further south, my body awakens more. Noticing the glint her eyes, she knows what she’s doing to me, knows the effect she has on me.
Once the brush lightly touches the tip of my penis, I react immediately. Leah watches as I harden fully, growing as her brush glides up and down me. The lustful look she gives me causes me to groan. I want her. I want to be inside her. I want to own her, possess her and know her in ways I’ve never known anyone before—never cared to know anyone before. I’ve never wanted someone as badly as I want her. Maybe it was the chase. Maybe it was the chemistry. Maybe it was the fucked up way in which we got together. I have no idea, but I do know that I want Leah Franchetti. Not all things are rainbows and roses. Some things are inexplicable and fucked the Hell up. Our past is fucked up, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to let our future be as well—and there will be a future with her.
“Easy killer,” Leah laughs, staring at my penis as she coats it in paint. “I’ll take care of you later. I promise.”
She promises? Oh Hell yeah. I’m going to get lost in her, buried so deep inside of her she won’t remember why we spent the last three years apart. Leah’s creating art on me. I’m going to create a masterpiece of sexual pleasure for her, one she won’t ever forget or ever want to forget.
Reading my mind, she says, “Tristan, I’ve never had sex like the night in your hotel room. I’ve never had that kind of… of… fun before.”
“Fun?” I ask, careful not to crack any more of the paint.
“Yes ‘fun.’ It was hot and satisfying, but it was fun too,” Leah admits, averting my eyes. “Sex with you was… was… funny and real.”
“Funny?” I exclaim, feeling the paint separate.
“Careful!” Leah admonishes, filling in the lines that I broke on my cheeks. “The first time… in front of that mirror… that was… epic.” When the word leaves her mouth, her face reddens, and her breath catches. “Stop smiling,” she says, noticing the grin on my face. “It was incredible.”
“But the second time… the time when you were playful and fun, kissing the craziest parts of my body and making up silly rhyming words… that… that was the best sex I’ve ever had.” Leah gets up from the bed, squeezes more paint onto the palette and mixes more colors. “I always knew that sex was hot and pleasurable… I just guess that I never knew it could be fun too.”
“With Samuel, it was… oh shush—” she instructs, when she hears me growl at his name. Envy is a bizarre thing. I know Jackass is out of the picture, but that doesn’t stop me from wanting to rip off his head and grand-slam it into the Atlantic Ocean.
Leah’s voice brings me back from my Jackass mutilation. “It was never satisfying… never fun… Hell, I never even… ya know.” Leah continues painting my penis, and it jerks toward her brush. “I see you like that answer,” she giggles. “Tristan, the only time I’ve been able to… to… get off is when I think of you.” My erection strains. It’s doing all the communicating for me. Honestly, I was as giddy as a virgin getting laid on prom night when I heard that he couldn’t get her off. Nothing has tickled my ears more.
Mumbling through my teeth, I say, “You painted my face first, so I couldn’t respond to this shit, didn’t you?”
“A
bsolutely,” she grins, looking straight into my eyes for the first time.
“I don’t care about the paint,” I say through a very closed mouth. “Leah, I fucked up. I fucked up, because I found the perfect treasure and all I did was toss it in the trash. I’m sorry. I swear to God, I’m going to show you just how sorry I am. Today, tomorrow, for as long as you’ll let me.”
“What did you say? Treasure? Did you just call me a ‘treasure?’ Is that what you said,” she asks rambling, her face contorting in anguish and wonder. I nod, and her eyes fill with tears. “Tristan, did you know that’s what I’ve always themed my art—not the paintings, but the ones I build? Trash to treasures?”
I shake my head slightly, knowing that every time I move and mess up her artwork, it pisses her off. “Makes sense then that you’re my treasure. Leah, I’ve seen trash, nailed the Hell out of nothing but garbage. There is no part of you that is something to be thrown out… Leah, you’re the only treasure I’ve ever found.” Leah wipes her eyes, getting paint on her face. “And more than anything I want to show you just how much I do treasure you.” God, I want to hold her, to touch her, to reassure her in ways I’ve never wanted to reassure anyone before.
“Are you almost done, here? It’s the longest foreplay I’ve fucking ever endured,” I growl, no longer worrying about the paint. “And trust me, it’s foreplay, because I’ve got three years to make up for, doll.”
“Almost, a few more minutes,” she says giggling, working the paintbrush down my legs. “It takes a while to paint perfection when the canvass is so incredibly flawed.”
“Flawed? Flawed?” I grab her paintbrush out of her hand, hearing the flaking off of the paint on my stomach and chest as I move to pin her beneath me. “So, you think I’m flawed, do ya?” She squeezes her mouth and eyes shut, nodding emphatically.
I paint a heart on her forehead. “I love how your mind works,” I say, painting the inside of the heart. I paint some terrible fucking looking lips on her neck. “I like kissing your soft, smooth neck.” I hear her breath catch as I place the tip of my tongue on her neck.
I sit up on my knees to paint on her chest. As I glide the paintbrush down her neck and her chest heaves, I momentarily catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. “Holy shit… fuck me… I thought you were just messing around,” I say, hopping off the bed.
Staring in the mirror, I can’t believe the images she’s painted on me. “Looks like we were on the same wavelength,” Leah says, standing next to me.
“Same idea, I guess,” I admit, leaning in closer to the mirror. “Leah, this is… is… fucking incredible.”
“Looks like a flawed canvas turns out rather perfectly in the end,” she says, running her finger along my cheek. “The pictures on your face are everything I find beautiful.”
I stare at my face, covered in suns, moons, stars, and “Is that a waterfall?” I ask.
Leah nods, “Waterfalls and legends of waterfalls are very beautiful.” As I drop my gaze to my chest, I glance at her in the reflection of the mirror.
“Everything on your chest is stuff that causes our hearts to break.” I can’t believe the pictures she created around my heart. There’s a remarkable replica of a Mercedes logo right above my heart with a broken, battered tree through the spokes of the symbol. I can’t believe she remembered that. I can’t believe she remembered how painful that memory is for me. Another picture is of a trashcan with a crumpled paper in it and just a small glimpse of two hands. Money in many different denominations, bills and coins, is the background for all the pain, all the suffering.
“What’s that?” I ask, pointing to a scripted “R” with rings hanging from it.
Frowning, she explains, “It represents Rory being the best man in Adrian’s wedding.” I look back at how close it is to my heart and realize that she knows me almost more than I know myself. I don’t have to ask about the tombstone with her mother’s initials on it. I know the pain Leah still suffers after losing her mom so long ago. When I look closer, I notice her initials are on the tombstone too.
“What’s this? Why are your initials here too, Leah?” I ask, worried she isn’t telling me something, worried that she knows something I don’t.
“When my mom died, so much of me died with her,” she admits, staring at the tombstone.
“I can’t believe how quickly you painted all of this,” I say, turning toward her. “That’s amazing. Leah.”
Chuckling, she says, “That’s what I used to get criticized for in all my art classes. All my teachers and professors used to say that I needed to take my time more and slow down. But once I get started, I can’t slow down. I go into overdrive.”
“I know exactly what you mean,” I say, kissing her forehead and holding her against me. Not wanting her to think that I’m not awed and interested in her talent and only interested in sex. I force myself to let go. “What’s the rest?” I ask, turning back toward the mirror.
“Your stomach is everything that makes me happy—on the part of your body that I like the best,” she admits, smiling shyly. “Well, I couldn’t exactly paint on your eyes. Those are the best. Your stomach’s right up there with them though.”
Did you hear that? Oh yeah, she likes my stomach. Fuck yeah! Hard work pays off people. I flex my abs as she points out the sign for her dad’s shop, a sign for some place called Dirk’s Deli, a liquor bottle with “Truth or Dare” written as the label, a rainbow with Shayla and Jill’s initials, and paintbrushes on a color palette.
“Hey, there’s nothing about me on the part that makes you happy,” I whine, wondering what she’s trying to say, what she’s trying to subtly tell me. I want to make her happy. I even want her to recognize how happy I can make her. I’m not sure what more I could do to show her how much she means to me—has meant to me for a long time.
“Look closer, Stan,” she says, turning my body back toward the mirror.
As I stare at my stomach, a fucking perfectly sculpted stomach I might add, again, I see nothing. I shrug, giving her a questioning look. Leah laughs and slaps me on the upper arm. “It’s all in the shape of a ‘U,’ you dolt. You make me happy. This… what’s going on here… makes me happy.”
Looking below my waist, I ask, “What’s all this?”
“Well, it was going to be all the things that I want… all the things I long for,” Leah says, her cheeks reddening. She giggles and adds, “But I just couldn’t stay focused. I kept getting distracted with what I really wanted.”
“Alright, hand me my phone, please,” I point to my phone on the table behind her. After she hands me the phone, I open the camera, and give it to her. “Try to leave my mountainous junk out of the pictures, but take a few of these so I can keep them.”
“You want me to take pictures of you naked?” Leah asks, incredulously.
“No, I want you to take pictures of your paintings… that just so happen to be on my naked body… my highly built and sexy body.”
Rolling her eyes, she says, “Have you ever heard that song ‘You’re So Vain?’ If not, you should probably give it a whirl some time.”
“Oh I’ve heard it,” I say, when she takes the pictures of my face. “As a matter of fact, I’m pretty sure it was written about me.”
After the pictures are snapped, I double-check them to make sure that I can keep this moment, this day, memorialized forever in my phone. I ask, “Is it time to wash this off? I’m getting kind of itchy.” Leah nods, giving me the go-ahead.
Scooping Leah up in my arms, I walk into the bathroom, and start filling the tub with her still in my arms. I place her on the counter, pulling her tank top off over her head. “Now, that’s art,” I compliment staring at her body. Taking one strap of her bra down, I kiss her shoulders, watching her arms break out in chills.
Leah reaches around and unclasps her bra, letting it fall to the floor in front of me. “I don’t know how you could question how fucking beautiful you are,” I marvel.
Leah reaches her legs out
and wraps them around my waist and pulls me toward her. “Stan, you’re talking way too fucking much.” Her mouth finds mine. There’s a hunger in her that wasn’t there before, a desire in her that she never revealed before this moment. “I want you Tristan,” she says, through gasps.
Taking her nipple into my mouth, I twirl the hardened bud around my tongue, biting lightly on it. I want to devour her completely, but I’m willing myself to slow down to make sure she enjoys every single sensation, every touch, every squeeze, and every taste. I want no part of her to go untouched, un-tasted, un-worshipped, unsatisfied, or unloved. I want her begging for me every day of her life.
Picking her up, I suck on the flesh of her neck, walking to the bathtub and stepping in. “I still have my underwear on,” she says as I sit down in the filling water.
“Underwear is overrated,” I breathe into her mouth. “I’ll get you a new pair… or I won’t.”
My tongue twirls around hers. She tastes exactly how I remember her. She tastes like everything I’ve ever hungered for and everything I’ve ever wanted. I want nothing more than to satiate my appetite with her and her alone. Leah tastes like a hot fudge sundae covered in chocolate fudge and marshmallow with a side of filet mignon topped with Rock-Maine Lobster on a pile of garlic mashed potatoes, followed by naked hotness, drizzled in raunchy hot, mind-blowing sex. Yeah, like I said, everything I ever hungered for.
“Was that your stomach growling?” Leah asks, laughing.
“I’ve got two types of hunger going on here,” I admit, kissing my way down her chest.
“We just ate, Tristan… oh my God,” she moans as my mouth finds her breast again.
“Like four hours ago,” I say, “and anyway, it’s been three years since I’ve tasted anything this good.”
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