by Stella Gray
Even still, all hopes of having a relaxing, fun evening with Mateo are gone. Instead I’m overcome with need for the man who’s only an arm’s length from me.
Mateo pulls out a photograph from the folder on his supply table and gives an annoyed click of his tongue as he thrusts it in my direction. “Let’s do this, babe. It’s go time. I have to turn you into Almond Blossoms in under two hours.”
Mateo doesn’t have an artistic bone in his body, and he’s been tasked with recreating Van Gogh’s iconic art piece on my skin. I suspect this is going to be a royal disaster…especially now that we’re both under the watchful eye of my very sexy, very distracting husband.
Luka shifts his position again at the direction of his artist, a serious young man working to duplicate Starry Night by covering my husband in a base layer of cobalt blue paint. I imagine the bright crescent moon, the soft yellow circles of stars that will soon grace my husband’s skin, with the most impressive swirl of dark blue curling right over his—
“Brooklyn, for God’s sake. Look this way.” Mateo grabs my chin and turns my head. I didn’t realize I’d been staring so long at Luka’s cock. My mouth is watering.
“Sorry,” I mumble, and try to focus on following Mateo’s directions.
Soon the room fills with the laughter and chatter of artists and models. Mateo covers most of me with a faded teal blue. Then he hesitates, brush poised at the apex of my thighs.
“Well this is awkward,” he says.
“You don’t want to paint my lady bits?” I tease.
“I mean, I do…but…” He nods subtly in the direction of my husband. Who happens to be watching us.
“Ninety minutes!” someone calls out.
Mateo’s expression turns to challenge. He dips his brush into the well of paint and presses it against my pubic bone. I jump at the coolness of the paint and try to hold perfectly still as he swipes lower and lower, finally working the brush in quick strokes across my labia.
“Oh my God, that’s cold. And it tickles. Hurry up!” I yelp.
I have the urge to swat the paintbrush away, but I force myself to hold still. At that moment, I see Luka’s artist going for the same region, only with a dark navy paint. He uses a wide brush to slick the color down Luka’s shaft, gently stroking the bristles over the impressive length of it. My mouth goes dry as I watch the paint glisten in the fluorescent lighting.
“Okay, time for some blossoms on these branches,” Mateo says. “Maybe I should start with your nipples. Get the most sensitive part out of the way first.”
His tone is so pointed and direct, it takes me off guard. Luka whips us another look.
“What do you think, Luka?” Mateo asks, turning toward my husband. “If I paint her nipples with blossoms, then I can make the tree branch run between them.”
Luka doesn’t respond right away, but I can see his jaw clench. “Sure. Good idea.”
Then he looks away with a grumble that I can’t make out as an actual word. He shifts a little, and I watch his artist begin painting yellow circles in the center of Luka’s hard abdomen.
God, he’s so perfect. He’s the perfect canvas for something like this. As I watch each dip and rise of the brush, the flicker of lust inside me gets stronger. Luka keeps stealing glances at me too, his eyes burning with a heat I know well. Mateo leans back to inspect his work on me.
“Mmm, girl, your breasts look amazing with those flowers. Don’t you think so, Luka?”
“Mateo,” I whisper-hiss. “Quit it.” Things are strained enough between me and my husband at the moment. I don’t need my best friend adding fuel to the fire.
“Why?” He shrugs and dabs his brush in more paint. “Someone has to appreciate you.”
Is the tension that noticeable? Then again, Mateo knows me so well it probably didn’t take him long to pick up on it. He can also probably tell how hot I’m getting just watching my husband get painted. I can’t take my eyes off him. My nipples stiffen with a sharp ache.
I watch the bristles stroke his skin, wishing they were my fingertips instead. Luka catches me looking and his eyelids flicker, the fingers of his left hand flexing. And then his gaze drops to where Mateo is creating a branch between my breasts, taking his time to get all the different colors of the bark just right. Or maybe he’s purposely torturing Luka. It wouldn’t surprise me.
The way my husband has his eyes locked on mine is torturing me, though. He shifts slightly again, causing his artist to pull the brush back. I can tell he’s getting turned on by watching Mateo paint me, just as I am by watching him. This is hot. And infuriating.
Mateo says something, but I’m not listening. He says it again—something about making sure the paint on my lower lips is thick enough. No doubt he’s amusing himself by trying to get another rise out of Luka. But it’s not working.
Because my husband and I can’t take our eyes off each other.
Brooklyn
Chapter 9
Finally, Mateo finishes painting me. I thought it would never end.
I couldn’t take much more of Luka’s heated eyes on me. Each glance jacked up my desire until I was so edgy and needy that I had a hard time standing still. Mateo definitely knew it, but the ass didn’t do anything to stop fanning the flames with all his little comments and flirtatious remarks. I don’t know who wanted to kill him more, me or Luka.
With a light cotton robe wrapping my dry paint, I hurry backstage with the other finished models and try to calm myself. We don’t have long before the runway show gets started. Sounds from the audience filter through—people talking and laughing, music playing. I wish I was nervous. It might distract me from how much I want to fuck my husband.
I shiver as I recall how erotic it was to watch the paintbrush press against his perfect body and work its way over the hard ridges of his abdomen…the length of his strong thighs, the perfect mounds of his biceps.
“Brooklyn.”
A quiver goes through me at the sound of Luka’s voice. I turn and he takes my hand lightly. The contact is enough to send my heart rate skyrocketing and renew the eager desire pulsing between my legs. He doesn’t say anything else as he pulls me deeper backstage, then down a short hall with a row of dressing rooms along it. He stops beside a door, turning into me as he cups my jaw with one hand and takes my lips with his.
I groan and lean into him, barely aware of the click of the door until he pulls me inside the dimly lit room, his lips never leaving mine. He kicks the door shut, turns me so my back is against it, and locks it. Hope and relief come to life inside me. I knew it would just take time for him to come around. And now here he is, back in my arms again.
My triumph is short-lived as he deepens the kiss and slides the flimsy robe off my shoulders, robbing me of my thoughts. I lean eagerly into his mouth, taking all that he’ll give. My hands itch to touch him, but I’m wary of mussing his paint. I’ve been aching for him ever since he took his clothes off to get painted. I want him to touch me, to stroke his fingers over my clit until I come in his hand. Tilting my pelvis to give him easier access, I let out a needy pant. He smiles against my lips. Of course he knows what I need. Luka always does.
He lets his own robe slip to the floor and his cock springs free against my thigh, hot and hard. Excitement courses through me as I wrap my hand around him. It feels like forever since I’ve touched him, tasted him. My mouth waters as I imagine taking the plump tip between my lips. I want him in every way possible, but the damn paint…
Suddenly, Luka’s hands are around my waist and he’s lifting me. I loop my thighs around his hips and arch back against the door for support. He takes his cock in his hand and slides the tip between my pussy lips, teasing up and down. I cry out as he rubs my clit with it, and within seconds, sweet tension grows as he sweeps shallow strokes over my sensitive flesh.
“You want everyone to think you’re such a good girl, don’t you?” He growls the words against my ear.
I’m consumed by his touch. I don’t
want to talk. I only want to feel. He doesn’t seem to notice or care that I don’t answer him.
“If only people knew what a dirty girl you are,” he goes on. “Look at you. Messing up your paint right before you take the stage, because you couldn’t wait to get fucked.”
“Mmm,” I groan, grinding against him. I need him. I can’t stand it. But he doesn’t indulge me. Instead he starts tapping my swollen clit with the tip of his cock, making me gasp.
“You need to remember your place, Brooklyn. Your image. The public can’t know what a cock-hungry little slut I married.”
“Mm-hmm,” I agree, threading my fingers in his hair. His dirty words are sending me right to the edge, and my chest swells with emotion at the welcome feeling of having his body against mine again. It’s been so long…so, so long.
Without warning his cock slides all the way into me, filling me completely.
“Oh my God,” I murmur, leaning my head back against the door as I sigh with pleasure.
Before I can catch my breath, his hips move, thrusting his cock in and out hard and fast as I grab his shoulders to brace myself. The dry paint on his skin is thick yet smooth beneath my fingers. I have to resist the urge to dig my nails into his skin and drag them through the art.
“You like to tease, don’t you, Brooklyn?” he goads, fucking me as he does. “Did you like having Mateo’s hands all over you? Did it feel good?”
The taunting does little to drag me from my lust—if anything, it only serves to fan the flames of my desire. A whimpering sound comes out of me as our bodies find a rhythm. It’s the only response I can muster as my orgasm builds with potent demand.
“I know it’s hot for you, to let other men touch you like you do. It makes me hot, too.” His breath is hot against my ear. “But you don’t fuck around with anyone but me. Understand?”
He thrusts deeper, as if punishing me for not saying anything. I cry out again…so close. So damn close. I’m so relieved that the fire between us has reignited, that he’s here in my arms.
“Remember, wife: I’m the only one who gets to touch you. To fuck you. To make you feel this good.” He nips the tender juncture of my shoulder and neck. I gasp, the pain pushing me closer to release. “Sure, it’s not real. But we both know you’re good at pretending.”
“I don’t care,” I pant, riding his cock. “Just keep pretending with me.”
Suddenly his thrusts slow, and he pulls back to look down at me. We’re both breathing hard. My nipples are pebbled, my breasts begging to be cupped in his hands. “You just want to get what you want, don’t you, Brooklyn? That’s how it’s always been.”
I tilt my hips, trying to urge him back to me. “I want you.”
“Is that all?”
“Yes. Luka, please—”
He slams into me with new ferocity and my words turn into moans. My body pushes against the door with every stroke, rattling it. I cling to Luka harder, loving every second of this. I have the barest glimpse of my lower body where we’re joined and see my paint has smeared. He’s literally fucking Almond Blossoms right off me.
I don’t care. He can fuck me clean, as long as he makes it last. I never want it to end. His lips find mine again and he kisses me until my head is spinning, my body wound so tight that it hurts. I’m so wet it’s dampening my thighs, and I swear I feel paint smearing with each thrust.
Suddenly, my body bursts with pleasure and released tension. The shock of my orgasm rippling through me again and again as I struggle not to cry out from the ecstasy of it. Luka groans and shoots his own release into me, his cock pulsing so hard it prolongs my pleasure.
Panting, gasping, we both go still in the aftermath. My head is slow to clear as Luka sets me on the floor and braces himself with a hand on the door.
I shiver as the cool air washes over my sweat- and paint-slicked skin. I already miss his heat. I catch his eyes and tip my chin up for a kiss. He’s so close, I could get on my tiptoes and take his mouth myself. I shift to do just that, but he leans away.
His eyes go cold as he looks me over.
I don’t like that detached stare, that critical gaze. The flare of hope inside me immediately snuffs out. I should have known this wouldn’t be more than a booty call for him.
He turns and grabs something from a table, then tosses it at me. A box of tissues.
“Clean yourself up and then go fix your paint.”
“Really?” I shoot back, glaring. “That’s all you have to say to me?”
His face remains impassive and I hate the sting of rejection I feel. His paint is nearly perfect, though he’ll probably need to touch up the smeared strokes of dark navy on his dick. Leave it to Luka to be completely unaffected by any of this. It was just another fuck for him.
“You and Mateo made such a show of getting my attention. I’m sure he’ll be happy to fix the mess I just made.”
I bite my lip, realizing what this was all about. Luka taking out his jealousy by branding me and then nonchalantly sending me back to Mateo to clean up his sex mess. It’s a power trip for him, just like always. Now he’s abandoning me again, and it hurts like hell.
“The paint’s not that smudged,” I say defiantly. “I look fine.”
With a frown, he pulls me over to a full-length mirror and stands behind me in the glass. I can’t help liking what I see as I’m struck by how we look together. His tall, muscular body behind my seductive, curvier one. Even the contrast of our body paint colors is breathtaking.
A new flame of desire ignites between my legs. I wish the mirror had been closer while we were going at it. What a gorgeous show it would have been. Maybe we should do it again.
“You don’t look fine.” He gestures to my lower half, his harsh voice pulling me from my fantasy. “You look freshly fucked. I know you’re comfortable with that, but my image needs to be cleaner than that.” He turns away and crosses back to the door. “So, clean yourself up.”
I watch him in the mirror as he leaves, shutting the door hard behind him. My body is still singing from his touch, even as my gut wrenches from his cold demeanor.
My husband is such an asshole. Why, why do I keep allowing him to get to me like this? He fills me with pleasure, which gives me hope that we can make things work, and then afterward I get slapped in the face with reality. He’s not even close to forgiving me or letting me back into his life the way I’d hoped.
I’ve tried apologizing. I’ve tried using my body for seduction. I’ve tried making him jealous. I’ve lost more sleep over this marriage than I can keep track of. What more can I do?
Luka is making his feelings clear at every turn, yet time and time again, I keep putting myself in his path. He despises me.
So why can’t I seem to get over him?
Brooklyn
Chapter 10
“See this?” Emzee huffs. “The model probably tilted her head at the last second. That’s why you get these shadows in the hollows of her eyes and under her nose, instead of a soft illumination highlighting the planes of her face. Amateurish.”
She gestures at the dark areas on the photo with her pen and looks at me expectantly.
“Make sense, or am I just rambling?”
“No, it makes perfect sense,” I say. “Though it does look kind of artsy that way.”
She shakes her head. “Even if the guy arranged this shot intentionally, he shouldn’t have. Shooting fashion photography for DRM is all about being glossy. Flawless. Uncomplicated.”
The image is still beautiful, of course, but the way Emzee just described it may have made more of an impact on me than the actual photo.
We’re standing over a table in one of the large conference rooms at the Danica Rose Management offices, sifting through images from a photoshoot that a group of DRM models went to yesterday. Emzee is giving each of the hundred or so printouts a once-over with her professional eye. I’m just along to keep her company before we head out for lunch at Aroy.
We’ve looked at so man
y photos by now that the colors, faces, and backgrounds are blending together. I don’t know how she can weigh the small details anymore. Everything looks the same to me and my brain protests each time she asks for my opinion. She’s supposed to be judging a potential new photographer’s style—studying the angles, lighting, colors. Emzee doesn’t seem impressed. She’s been nitpicking every single image. Another Zoric perfectionist.
“There’s too much background focus in these ones. He should have played with the depth of field.” She pulls up another and holds it at arm’s length. “And look. See how her hip juts out all weird? That’ll have to be photoshopped, and you know how people hate that these days.”
I laugh at her angst. “Emzee, you’re stressing over every single picture.”
“Because none of them are right!”
“Then tell your brothers you can’t commit to hiring anyone yet,” I say more gently. “I’m sure there are plenty more out there who’d love to come in and show you what they’ve got.”
DRM has been testing out new portfolio photographers this week, preparing for an influx of work that they hope will be coming to their models soon. It’s all been very hush-hush.
“You seem edgy today,” I add, realizing how ridiculous it sounds as the words leave my mouth. Emzee is always edgy; it’s her default. Her cool, precise, no-nonsense demeanor rubs a lot of people wrong, but I’ve finally gotten used to it. In fact, I’m a little jealous of my sister-in-law’s ability to carry herself like an absolute queen.
She shrugs and starts to collect up the images. “Maybe. It’s just infuriating seeing subpar work from someone who made such a big deal about how they went to ‘Rhode Island School of Design’ and shot a campaign for ‘Chanel’ and whatever. It’s like being lied to, right to your face. Besides, I wanted to hire another woman. There’s way too much testosterone around here.”
Drumming my nails on the tabletop, I lean closer and smile. “Boy trouble?”