by JA Huss
“And now you’re ready,” he whispers.
“What am I ready for?”
He gets up from the grass, grabs my clothes, places them in the office, then drags his airbrush equipment over to the spot where I’m sitting on the grass. “Now, I fuck you with paint.”
Holy shit. He just said that.
I’m so turned on, I’m starting to throb. He walks back over to the cart, tests the flow of paint on a piece of cardboard, and then turns to me. “You will never forget this day, Veronica Vaughn. For the rest of your life, whenever someone asks you what the best day of your life was, this will be in your top three.”
“What about the other two?” I ask.
“We haven’t made those memories yet, Bomb. But we will.”
The air bursts out of the gun and flows against my lower leg. It’s not a sexual place on the body, not really. But I have to stop myself from coming right then and there. When I look up at Spencer he’s all business now, concentrating on his canvas.
I take my attention back to the paint. It’s clear, or almost clear. But it’s got some kind of glitter in it too. And as time passes and more and more of my skin is coated, I realize what he’s doing.
He’s making me… shimmer.
“Lie still,” he commands in his alpha voice. “And spread your legs.”
“Oh. God.”
But he ignores my words and instead takes his light stream of air to the inside of my thighs. He paints them in long strokes. Long, agonizingly delicious, flutter-inducing strokes. Up and down.
He adjusts the paint flow and then a puff of air hits my pussy and I almost die. “Oh,” I moan out.
Spencer’s spraying never stops. The stream of air only becomes slower and more directed. Lingering over my clit for a moment, then moving off to the side, then down my leg again. I realize he’s been doing the same places over and over and I want to open my eyes and ask him what he’s doing.
But I don’t need to. I know what he’s doing.
He’s fucking me with paint.
“Give in to it, Veronica. Just give in, baby.”
And I do. I open my legs wider. I pull my knees up and slip my hand down to my stomach, but it’s quickly removed.
“No cheating,” he chastises me. And then he adjusts the stream of air so it’s stronger and the delivery of paint so it’s almost nonexistent.
My back arches as the nothingness reaches out and caresses my clit. One pass. I moan. Two more passes. I whimper again and again. Three quick bursts and I lose myself in the sensation. And then the air is gone, and Spencer’s body is propped over mine, his mouth on my mouth, his tongue tangled with my tongue.
I orgasm in the atrium.
And only his paint and his mouth ever touches me.
I have Spencer’s complete attention the entire day. After the erotic beginning, the conversation is easy and fun. He teases me and tickles me, on purpose and sometimes not on purpose. We laugh and when it gets past dinnertime, he stops and feeds me strawberries and holds a glass of wine to my lips. My fingers have been intricately painted with elaborate rings and the jeweled bracelets encircling my wrists are so detailed and beautiful, I wish they were real.
He’s painted my face too. A fantastical pattern of barely-there pastels that have the same shimmer to them as the whole-body paint. He won’t let me look in the mirror and even though I can guess that I’m some kind of fairy by the outfit, I really have no idea what he’s doing other than making me fall in love.
“What are you thinking about, Bombshell?” he asks me.
I realize I’m smiling. Very big.
I turn my head so I can see him next to me, careful not to rub my painted cheek on the soft grass since I’m lying on my back. “You,” I sigh.
“Then my plan is working.”
“What’s your plan? Keep me captive in this atrium all day, naked under the pretense of making my body your canvas?”
He smiles, like there’s more truth in that statement than not.
“It’s gonna get dark soon. Are there lights in here?”
He looks up at the ceiling and my gaze follows. It’s only then that I notice that some of the branches of the large tree have been trimmed so the geometric patterns of the ceiling can be seen. He points. “All the light we need will come from the moon.”
This statement stops my brain. I look over at him again and he’s smirking. “What are you up to? You’ve certainly taken your time today.” I lift my head so I can look down the full length of my body. “Is it done?” It could be, I conclude before I look back at him.
He says nothing, just smiles.
The minutes pass and I relax back into the soft grass. “It’s such a shame this will all be gone next week.”
“Nah,” Spencer says as he stretches back next to me. He reaches for my hand and gently twines our fingers together. “It’s gonna be here forever.” For a second I think he’s changed his mind about ripping down the building. But then he taps my head. “Veronica Vaughn, this place will live on in our fantasies. You will remember this place for the rest of your life.”
I say nothing to that. Just accept that it’s true.
A little while later the moon appears above us, but it’s not fully dark yet. “Soon,” Spencer whispers.
“Are we done painting?” I ask.
“We’re done painting, baby. We’re just waitin’ on the moon now.”
With each passing minute the moon travels closer to the apex of the atrium and the sky grows darker.
It’s a full moon. And I realize that it’s bathing me in its light.
Spencer stirs and then leans in and kisses me on head. “Stay here,” he whispers. “Be right back.” I tilt my head as he walks off into the little office room off to the side. He emerges a few minutes later with an armful of camera equipment, including a tripod, which he sets up a little ways off from where I lie still. He mounts the camera and presses some buttons which make a beeping noise.
And then he stands up and walks towards me, reaching down.
I take his hand, carefully, mindful of the paint. But he doesn’t pull me to my feet, only a sitting position. I stare up at him and he puts his finger to his lips. “Shhhh,” he breathes softly.
And then he lifts the hem of his shirt and drags it up over his abs. Over the muscles of his chest. Then, in one swift movement, over his head.
I’ve seen Spencer Shrike’s amazing body plenty of times over the past couple weeks. He’s been in display as our life drawing model in art class.
But with him standing here, in this magical room, bathed in moonlight—well, I’m breathless just looking at him.
He unbuttons his jeans and drags the zipper down, the sound a break from the nighttime song of crickets against the backdrop of a flowing river on the other side of the glass walls. He steps out of the pants, completely nude, and then picks up his clothes and takes them back into the office.
When he comes back out he stretches out his hand again and this time he pulls me all the way up to my feet.
The camera beeps. Spencer leans into my ear and whispers, “Stay still now, Bomb. I need a long exposure time to catch the moonlight on your body.”
As soon as the silence is back, it’s broken again with the programmed click of the camera. It’s positioned beneath us, looking up. And I realize that this photo will capture my shimmering body being held in the arms of Spencer Shrike in the moonlight, the view of the apex of the geometric glass over our heads, and the branches of the tree in each shot.
The shutter clicks and Spencer’s hands come up to my throat and he kisses me. The beep sounds and we freeze, mid-kiss.
I can feel his breath inside me.
I feel nothing but him.
The camera shutter clicks and we change positions again. This time Spencer maneuvers me in front of him, one hand greedily squeezing my breast, the other flat against my throat as his mouth claims the tender spot on my neck, just below my ear.
Beep. Freeze. Cl
ick.
He turns me around again and now I can feel his thick hardness against my leg, but not for long, because he reaches around to my ass and lifts me up. I instinctively press my sex against his and wrap my legs around his waist.
Beep. Freeze. Click.
We move again. This time he eases inside me, and I throw my head back as he fills me up.
Beep. Freeze. Click.
I have never.
Been fucked.
So slowly.
In my life.
I have never felt every movement so clearly.
And who knew that an orgasm could obey the laws of moonlight photography exposure times?
I drag myself out of the daydream and turn into the DMV parking lot. I park the bike and take my pack off as I walk into the building. My phone begins ringing inside the pack. I check it.
Spencer.
Shit. I cannot talk to him right now. Not after I just relived that first day in the atrium. I feel weak all over again. How the hell can this man affect me like this across time?
I need some fucking space. So bad.
I let it go to voicemail and then take a number and sit down in the hard plastic chair to wait my turn. It’s not busy, so I don’t expect it to take long. My phone dings a message.
Did you find me a place to live?
Shit. I totally forgot about my assignment today. I probably should find him at least one place to see. I text him back.
Yes. Will send details later.
My number is called and I go to the counter and ignore the next text. I’ve got everything in order, so I hand over my bill of sale, my insurance card, and my license. The woman doesn’t even say hello, just does her thing and asks for her money. I hand it over and ten minutes later I’m walking back to my Shrike Bike with the biggest fucking smile I’ve had in ages.
It’s really mine now.
It’s all mine and no one can take it away.
I smile all the way back to my apartment. But when I pull up to the crappy building I’m accosted with trucks of construction workers blocking most of the alley and my parking space to boot. I weave the bike between the men and the trucks and park in front of my stairs. I slip my helmet off and a prickle goes all the way up my spine as my eyes seek the cause.
And there he is. Standing on the small concrete landing that serves as my front porch, his knuckles in mid-air, like he’s caught in the process of knocking.
“Miss Veronica Vaughn?”
“Yes?” I answer back hesitantly. A man in a dark suit looking for me cannot be good.
“I’ve been waiting for you.”
Chapter Nine
SPENCER
Ford’s phone dings as I enter the Shrike Bikes cafeteria where the guys are kicking back eating the catered lunch. That’s one thing they really love about doing the show. Not that they don’t love the money, everyone got a raise this time around. Hell, Rook is making a quarter of a mil and the boys are all pulling close to two hundred K themselves.
But men run on two things. Food and fucking. I can’t help them with the fucking part, and they don’t need it from what I know of their personal lives. But food—hell yes. We get fabulous lunches. Fort Collins might be podunk to most people living on the outside, but it’s got a shitload of great restaurants that are more than willing to feed us for including their logo napkins in a shot on the show.
Ford chuckles as I walk up next to him. He’s leaning against the white cinder block wall, smiling like a dumbass down at his phone.
“What’s so funny?” I ask him as I walk up.
“Kate,” he says, flashing me the picture on his phone. “She’s eating apricots for lunch and she’s got them all over her chubby face.”
Jesus Christ. I have no idea who this Ford is. He’s got baby on the brain these days. “It’s two minutes away, why don’t you just go home for lunch and spare the rest of us your pussy-whipped bullshit?”
“Because,” he says, looking up at me, totally serious, “it’s hard enough to leave Ash once in the morning. If I went home for lunch, I’d tackle her the minute I walked in the door and never want to leave.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” I walk away and go help myself to the food, then take my plate and cop a squat next to Ryan at the table with the rest of the boys. Ford and his family. He’s only been back in town a week and I’m already starting to gag on his sickening happiness.
“You’ll understand one day, Spencer. When you’re tired of playing games with Ronnie, you’ll see.”
My fork stops midway to my mouth and I stare hard at him. “You better shut the fuck up, Ford.” He eyes me, then the camera crew, who are not on a lunch break, and winces.
Luckily he’s smart enough to drop it and not start spouting apologies.
“Hey.” Ryan jabs me in the ribs to take my attention off Ford. “I thought you were gonna show up at the Sundance last Thursday? I took my date there, hoping you’d bail me out, but you flaked on me.”
“Yeah.” I look over at him. Ryan is a few years older than me and he came from a bike family too, only his old man lost everything in a high-stakes poker game a few years back. Ryan and I were already friends—we met at the Elvis convention in Vegas the year before and we hit it off right away. We both have bikes, tats, and an insatiable drive to make money. “I had to cancel on Carla. In fact, I’m just too busy to do the Thursday night dates anymore. I might still hang at the Cat Call on Fridays since it’s close, but I’m not gonna do Saturday night dates either.”
“Totally understand, man. You’re hooked up big with commitments.”
Ryan’s tall and big, like me. But his tattoos tell a story I’m not sure I want to know about. His tats are nothing but violence. On a first look, they’re just a bunch of retro WWII shit. Old-school stuff. Diving swallows, anchors that say Mom, pinups. But if you ever have a chance to look closely, you see that’s not what they are at all. The swallow is dead and decaying. The anchor is attached to the foot of a drowning man. The pinup has a black eye.
He’s had a difficult life. Family had a lot of money when he was small, but they were new money. And sometimes new money has no idea what to do with all their money. So they do all the wrong things with it. Like gamble away the family business. Or get hooked on meth and try to sell their kids on the black market. Luckily Ryan was already thirteen by the time that shit started going down, so he got his little sisters out of it by turning in his mother the night before the ‘sale’. But that didn’t stop the downward spiral for long.
“Yeah, but we should go out this week. Just the guys, maybe,” Ryan says. “Celebrate a little, huh?”
“I’m in,” Griff says. “I’m a free man again, why the fuck not?” He gets up to throw his trash away and then heads back into the shop.
“I’ll go too,” Fletch offers. He’s the youngest. No steady girlfriend or nothing. He almost never hangs out with us since he heads down to Denver every weekend. “I’m sick of Denver.” He finishes his last bite of lunch and then gathers his trash and heads after Griff.
Ryan and I both look at each other and smile because Fletch only gets tired of Denver when he’s avoiding a girl. I’m shoveling some half-warm fettuccine in my mouth when the back door slams open and the cops come in.
“There he is!” that little fuck, Drake, calls out, pointing at me. “That’s him. I want Spencer Shrike arrested for breaking into my shop!”
Holy fuck.
I look over at Ford and he’s already dialing the phone. Ronin, I’m sure. Why the fuck do the cops have to show up when Ronin’s out of town?
I take a deep breath and come out swinging—so to speak. “Hey, Drake! What’s up, little dude?” I take my attention to the cops. It’s a short chick with blonde hair and a big guy with… “Scott? You a townie now?” This is the deputy who busted Rook last summer for speeding in my Shrike truck. It was a major scene because he’s the one who found out Jon had filed a missing person’s report on her. We’ve never been close friends or an
ything—in fact, he sorta hated my guts until that little Rook incident. But he lives down the road from me, so I see him driving through Bellvue a lot. And he always flashes me the country wave when he passes now.
That’s like the universal rural signal for what’s up? Which means we’re friends. Because if you’re not friends, you don’t country-wave people. It’s the law.
“Yeah,” Scott says as his little partner jots down notes. Of what, I have no clue, but the chick is getting busy with the pen and paper. Scott ignores her and walks up to me. “I had my name on the FoCo department waiting list for a few years. Full-time position finally opened up, so I took it.”
“Hey, Barney Fife?” Drake says. “This ain’t Mayberry. I want him arrested for stealing my bikes!”
Scott holds up a hand to me and then turns to Drake. “Mr. Cikes, we have a procedure, so why don’t you go give your side of the story to my partner over there, and I’ll handle Mr. Shrike.”
Drake scowls up at him and then does a quick turn.
“OK,” Scott says as he looks around, spies Ford, nods, and then takes in who all’s here. “I know what you’re gonna say. Talk to Ronin. But I don’t see him and I’d like to just get rid of this little twerp.” Ford walks up and stands next to me and Scott directs his talk to him as well. “So just tell me what you two were doing outside his shop last week and we’ll call it good, OK?”
“We weren’t outside his shop,” Ford says, taking over. “We were parked down the street. And the last I heard, we still live in America. Where people are free to park on any public street they want.”
“They were smoking a joint in the truck, ask them about the pot they were smoking in the truck!” Drake yells from across the room.
Scott rolls his eyes, but he’s got his back to Drake, so Drake can’t see. “Were you smoking pot in the truck, guys?”
We laugh. In fact, Griff, Ryan, and Fletch are all in the lunch room again now, and they laugh too.
We might be criminals guilty of a lot of bad shit. But we don’t do drugs and everyone knows that.
Scott leans in. “OK, come on, guys, you know anything about this? I don’t think you did it, but if you know anything—”