by Tina Donahue
She flicked her nipples. “Now you.”
“What? I simply took a breath.” He pulled in another. “Happy?”
“Hardly. You’re playing with your balls…or maybe your cock.” She pushed up, trying to see lower.
“That’s not going to help your line of sight.”
As if she hadn’t already found out. She slumped in her chair. “Speaking of your paintings.”
“Were we?”
“You mentioned territory and starting something new. I want to see your old and current stuff. Shoot me some photos.”
He leaned in to the screen and stared at her boobs. “That might be a problem. Rub your clit. Send me a selfie with you doing that and plucking your nipples.”
“Only if you play with yourself and send me what you’re doing. I want your balls and cock in every condition. Erect and at rest.”
“That’s impossible at the same time.”
“Yeah, I know.” She crossed her arms covering her small breasts. “Show me yours in all conditions and I’ll show you mine.”
He groaned. “Why the before and after shots? Please don’t tell me you’re going to design jewelry from that.”
She touched his lips on the screen. “Never entered my mind till now. Thanks for the idea. They’d make great earrings. The long one on the left ear, the shriveled-up one on the right.”
He bowed his head.
Men were such strange creatures. Say anything remotely negative about their equipment and they fell apart. “Why is it a problem?”
“You’re seriously asking that?”
“I meant sending me photos of every oil you’ve done. Not the stuff you’ve sold. I understand why you couldn’t do that. But what about the other paintings you’re still trying to move?”
“Still being the operative word.”
She patted the screen where his cheek was. “I’d like to see them. Email me your portfolio.”
“That’s my most saleable work, in my opinion, but not everything I’ve done. That stuff’s wall-to-wall in my bedroom.”
“No kidding?” A great reason for him to invite her to his place. “Are any of them of me?”
“They’re from before I first saw you.”
She hoped they weren’t of other women. Although she was too blunt at times, she didn’t have enough courage to ask about his pre-Clover liaisons. “Did you paint still lifes? Landscapes? People?” Hopefully, he was too shy to mention former girlfriends to her.
“I’ve done everything you said. Mainly images that caught my attention. I played around with them, making each my version of reality. Lucky for the subjects they never saw them.”
Sounded as if those subjects might be strangers. “I’m sure you would have impressed them with your talent.”
“You haven’t seen the oils yet.”
“Or your bedroom. When do I get a showing?”
“Finish your stuff, and I’ll take you on the full tour.” Arousal tightened his features. “Top to bottom and everything in between.”
Heat flowed to her pussy. “I’d like that. It’s a date. But I need a few days to finish this.”
“Three? Four?”
“Two.” She’d give up sleep and taking time to eat to speed up the process. Being away from him was too damn hard. “Send me your selfies in the interim, and I’ll do the same.”
“Not as good as the real thing, but it’ll have to do. Bye.”
“Wait.”
“Nope. Get to work so we can be together.” He killed the call.
He wasn’t getting away that easily. She sent him a partial boob selfie that showed the edges of her nipples, no tips. He matched it with one displaying his pecs. She took a pussy shot. He reciprocated with a photo of his stiffened cock and heavy balls followed by a text.
Want this in the flesh? Then get 2 work.
Clover threw her phone on the bed. She focused so hard on her designs, she gave herself a headache. Putting the air conditioner on full blast didn’t help the pain or her shitty financial situation. When apple juice failed to give her an adequate sugar buzz, she swilled a beer and paced until her legs hurt. Slumped in her chair, she rubbed her temples.
Ideas popped up, evolved, and solidified.
She drew feverishly and broke out her paper clay, a medium she ordinarily used for her flower jewelry, but employed it for the cuffs instead. Getting the designs right took too long, but by the following evening she was well on her way to fantastic. Good thing. Her heavy-metal band clients had called. That conversation had given her more ideas.
Wanting to share them with Van Gogh and get back into his arms, she sent him a text the next day.
Done. When?
His text popped up.
With a customer till 10. Meet me 10:40 my place.
He gave her the address and directions.
She had enough time to launder her red underwear and primp, except for her nails. They were too short, her hands a mess from working with tools and hot metal. Her latest burn practically glowed.
Thankfully, Van Gogh was a boob-and-ass man. Her body parts weren’t voluptuous, but they got him off. The only thing that mattered.
She raced through her grooming, packed her cuffs in a tissue-lined box, and left at a run. Panting, she reached a fast-food stand and bought two deluxe cheeseburgers for herself and three for him, along with supersized fries. At his apartment, she rang his bell then pounded on the door.
Footfalls rang out on the steps behind her.
She spun around.
Van Gogh pointed. “You’re late.”
“Early. I beat you.” She threw her arms around him and claimed his mouth. He gave tongue first, tasting minty from mouthwash or toothpaste and hot from longing as deep as hers was. She suckled him until they both needed air.
He patted her backpack. “What’s in here?”
“Cheeseburgers with everything, fries, and cuffs. Not the ones you bought. Prototypes I made. What’s in here?” She touched the large white bag he carried.
“Beef burritos, chips, salsa, and candy bars.”
“Exactly what the government’s food pyramid advised.”
“Hell no. This is a feast. Our feast. Come on.” He ushered her inside.
Chilled air grazed her. Willingly, she stepped into its cool embrace.
He flicked on the lights.
His man cave was pretty dull, especially for an artist. No lewd posters…not even any of his oils on the wall. A battered sofa dominated the space, flanked by two sorry-looking end tables and cheap lamps.
Clover loved the decor. “You shop in dumpsters like I do.”
“People throw out too much good stuff. A little Clorox with a Lysol chaser and most things are good to go again.” He put his bag on the cocktail table. “Take a load off. I’ll get us beers, unless you’d prefer tap water or orange juice.”
“Booze.” She put her backpack next to his bag. “Do you mind living like this?”
He peered over the refrigerator door. “You mean alone?”
An emotion she couldn’t read passed over his face. Possibly confusion, hope, or maybe dread that she might be angling to move in. Already. Although she wasn’t one to take things slowly and trouble over every detail, she wouldn’t throw herself at him. At least not too much. “Scaling down like you have. When you were with your folks, you lived large, right? Probably had a pool and everything.”
“Round-the-clock staff, too. A chef, housekeeper, and full crew for the fifteen acres surrounding the mansion.”
Only rock stars and Wall Streeters lived that well. “Never alone, huh? Thanks.” She accepted the beer and pressed the chilled bottle to her neck.
He finished his sip. “More like never a dull moment. There were more hook-ups between the staff than what goes on in Chicago Med.”
“No kidding? I need a spreadsheet to keep up with the romances, engagements, and breakups on that show. Did you ever talk to the people who worked for your parents, or did they grovel when th
ey saw you?”
He laughed. “I wasn’t the crown prince. Believe me, my nannies had the upper hand and weren’t afraid to use it. Way harder than I spanked you.”
“You had nannies?”
“Called the first one Mama until Mom heard my faux pas. She set me straight fast then disappeared again. She and Dad were busy. Him with his corporate empire. Her with the conservative political groups plotting to take over the world.”
“That’s awful. Not their advocacy—that’s a whole other story—how they treated you. Judgmental, I know, but a kid needs parents. Mom nursed me well past my second birthday. I have the pictures. Want to see them?” She pulled out her phone.
“Ah…”
“I’m kidding, okay?” She put the device on the cocktail table. “Not about the photos. They’re real. Your stomach keeps growling.” The spicy burrito scent got to her, too. “Ready to eat?”
“Yep. You’ll be the appetizer.” He lifted her Betty Boop T-shirt. His eyes goggled. “Whoa.”
The bra was pretty. Red satin with white polka-dot netting and a center bow. A steal on eBay.
He fingered the satin strap. “Did you wear a matching thong?”
“Strip me and find out.”
Her tennies and shorts landed on the sofa. He draped her shirt over his shoulder. “Turn around.”
She struck a Betty Grable pose, matching the old-time star’s war poster, hands on her hips, face turned to the side, her smile coy yet inviting.
Van Gogh stared at Clover’s naked ass and pointed. “Never take that underwear off. I mean it.”
“Not even for sex?”
“We’ll work around it.” He cupped her butt. “God, I love thongs.”
“If you let me take mine off, you can wear it.”
“Yeah?” He put her beer on the table next to his, hauled her to the sofa, and turned her over his knee. “You think I’m into women’s underwear?”
Loving his macho act, she gripped his hairy calf, eager to play their game. “You just said you were. Frankly, I think you’d look adorable in red.”
“Wrong answer. Bad girl.”
“You have no idea.” She licked her lips. “So what are you waiting—”
He spanked her hard and long, precisely as she liked. Her skin prickled. Surging warmth washed away the discomfort and left pure pleasure. With this kink conquered, they had oodles more to discover.
She dug her fingers into his leg. “Again. Please.”
“Once we eat.” He kissed her paddled cheeks. “Your stomach’s rumbling.”
“That’s my pussy calling for your cock. If you listen hard, you’ll hear it cry out. There it goes again.” She raised her voice to a Betty Boop squeak. “Come in, baby. Come in.”
Laughing, he set her on the middle cushion and returned her beer. “Be right back.”
She grabbed his tank top. “Where’re you going? Why are you still dressed?”
He stripped and pointed behind himself. “I’ll get us plates and napkins.”
“We could eat off each other’s bods then you could lick my mouth clean and I’ll do yours.”
He sank to the sofa. “Okay.”
“Or even better…” She stood and removed her thong.
“Hey. I liked that.”
Clover gave him the lacy silk scrap.
He pressed the crotch to his nose and moaned indecently, inflating her ego 1,000 percent.
“Come on.” She offered her hand.
Van Gogh didn’t take it. “We’re not going outside, are we?”
“Later.”
“Or not. The bedroom?” He glanced at the hall.
“Nope.”
“The bath?”
She pointed down. “Floor.” She ran her toes over the dark-green carpet. “Looks freshly vacuumed.”
“I had my people come in. Tomorrow they’ll do the pool, tennis courts, and stables.”
“I never thought I’d say this when it came to you, but you’re talking too much. Go on. Lie on your back. I swear this won’t hurt.”
“If you put three-alarm salsa on my cock, it will.”
“I promise I won’t.” She gave him the Girl Scout salute.
He sprawled, his head near her feet, his gaze on her pussy. “Wow, this is a nice view.”
“I’ll give you a better one.” Facing his feet, she straddled him and scooted down, her cleft above his face, his family jewels beneath her mouth, his fragrance drawing her close. Nothing could match his heated flesh. Hard yet soft. Powerful but needy. She licked his length.
Groaning, he pulled her down and fitted his mouth to her folds, tongue skimming her nub.
The room whirled. She clutched his thighs, uncertain she could ignore her pleasure long enough to concentrate on his. God knew she was no saint. “I need a sec.”
“I did, too, when you had my cock in your mouth and wouldn’t give me a break. Good luck with your pain.” He held her clit between his teeth and licked.
Her head fell forward, the delight he created nearly unbearable. Dammit, she had to endure. Hardened against desire, she eased his cock aside and suckled his sac.
He jerked his thighs up and bumped her shoulders.
It’d take more than that to make her stop.
Still licking, he slipped two fingers into her pussy, one in her anus, and slid them in and out.
She trembled. He was too good at this and getting better by the second.
He suckled her nub, bit it gently, then lapped the small kernel.
Her breath spilled out but she refused to give up. Doggedly, she tongued his sac and fondled his rod, her thumb behind his crown on his most sensitive spot.
He lifted his ass.
She took his ball in deeper.
They worked each other into a frenzy, growls and moans filling the room. She wouldn’t cave. Neither would he. At this rate they’d kill each other. Poor Lauren would find out during the morning news after the cops swarmed this place.
Drunk with desire, Clover came for the greater good and panted around his rod.
His cum filled her mouth.
Together, they glided down, sweaty and breathless.
She fell over his leg and patted his knee. “I’ll bring our food down here. We’ll eat off you.” She crawled to the cocktail table.
Chapter Twelve
The next time they ate together, Van Gogh planned on taking Clover fully clothed to a family restaurant. She kept blindsiding him after sex, offering food when he would have killed for a nap. Too proud to sleep, he hung in there.
She placed two cheeseburgers on his belly. “Tired?”
“You?”
“I should be comatose.” She lowered the paper wrapper on one sandwich, handed it to him and took the other. “I haven’t slept in days.”
Shadows circled her eyes. If possible, her skin was even paler.
He pushed up, legs crossed, shoulders slumped, lids heavy. “Is it too hot in your place to rest? Look, if you need help, I’ll pay your electric bill. Crank up the air. Live a little. At the very least, avoid heat stroke.”
“I’m fine.” She bit into the double beef patty and fingered cheese off her lip. “I was working on my Clover Cuffs.”
He popped a pickle into his mouth. “How are they coming?”
“You tell me.” She pulled a box from her backpack and unfolded tissue paper. “The final color will be silver or gold, depending on the metal I use. I may do every set in both. I might even do some in black or red. Mix it up.”
He lifted her first design. The cuffs resembled a snake eating its tail, jaws open, fangs displayed, forked tongue hanging down. The next was more dramatic. A dragon, wings retracted, the tail also in its mouth. However, this one had fin-like swirls that protruded from its spine. Another set boasted two intertwined snakes eating each other’s tails.
They were amazing.
The last one, though… She’d modeled a man’s hand in place of the cuff, his fingers touching his thumb.
Van Gogh lifted it. “I like this one best.”
“Silver or gold?”
“Gold, but not the yellow kind. Darker.”
“Antique?”
“If that’s bronze to make this look like a real hand trapping the woman’s wrists, then yeah. This is too cool.”
“Then you forgive me for neglecting you these last days?”
“I didn’t say that.” He chowed down on his cheeseburger and fries. “That comes after you tend me.” All night if he had his way. “Do I get another burger?”
“Two more.” She gave them to him, along with a monster burrito, half the salsa and chips, and took the rest for herself. “When do I get to see your oils?”
He gulped his beer and burped. “’Scuse me.”
“Never, huh?” She squeezed his knee. “Don’t you know how talented you are?”
Her question was too guileless and sweet for Van Gogh to laugh off.
After struggling for so many years, he wasn’t certain he’d trust fame if he achieved it. He might be like popular artists who considered themselves frauds, always worried their fans would find out their limitations and failings.
She sighed. “You don’t know how awesome you are.”
“It’s not that. I have some talent. At Wicked Brand I’m the best artist. Tor’s good, but he’s not me. However, when it comes to my oils… Am I up there with the greats? No freaking way.”
“Hey, they had to die to reach that status. I read Van Gogh’s bio. Poor dude didn’t have Facebook, Twitter, or other social media to push his stuff. You do. I saw how Lauren prices your oils. She wouldn’t do that if she didn’t think you deserved it.”
He scooped salsa on a chip and shoved it into his mouth.
Clover gave him her expectant, too-honest-and-open look. Must have been hell for her parents when they told her Santa didn’t exist. Unless they hadn’t filled her head with the silly fantasy in the first place.
“I appreciate you cheerleading my work, but did you ever consider Lauren’s looking ahead and protecting herself? When my stuff doesn’t sell, she can say it’s because the prices were too high. Gets her off the hook and makes me feel as if it’s not my fault.”