by Anna del Mar
Nightmare.
The sound came again, a quiet, heartbreaking moan. My throat tightened. I spotted a single tear running down his cheek. I slid my shoulder beneath his head and gently gathered him against me. He was always awake and usually dressed by the time I got up. This was a novelty to me, a new milestone, like last night had been, the movies, the bedroom and the keys.
He’d fallen asleep fully dressed, wearing his tuxedo pants, socks and an undershirt. My hand slipped beneath his shirt, carefully, tentatively, a caress that felt like a furtive exploration. My fingers slid over his back muscles, moving in slow, gentle circles. I loved the feel of him, the power trapped in his body, the warmth that emanated from him like radiant heat. I liked the way he smelled after sex, like hot steam rising from the sheets.
My fingertips traced the edges of a long scar curving across his back like a scimitar. There were other, smaller scars around it as well. Instinctively, he arched his back, fleeing my touch. He didn’t want those scars talked about, seen or felt, not even when he slept.
The nightmares. The scars. The memories he couldn’t share with me. They rose between us like a formidable wall. I stared at the closed door before me. He’d given me a room in his house, but he wasn’t sharing his room with me. Sooner or later, I’d have to find a way to surmount that barrier. But how?
“One more floor,” he said from my cell’s screen, startling me out of my thoughts and wrenching me back to the present.
I climbed the stairs up to the fourth floor, where the landing opened to a fabulous room on the rooftop deck. The old-fashioned glass conservatory looked original to the house, adorned with copper fittings and surrounded by a continuous bank of floor-to-ceiling French windows. It was a beautiful sunroom that would capture the light even on the grayest of days, with exposed brick walls, classic black and white marble floors, a pitched glass roof and a warming stove.
I set down the coffee and looked around. Three adjustable easels were set up against the wall. Several blank canvases were stacked in a rack and rolls of canvas in different widths stood in the corner, next to a stretching rack. Charcoals and sketchpads lay piled on the shelves. An antique trunk raised on a scrolled frame stood in the corner. The lid was open. I peeped in the trunk. It was full of paintbrushes, wood palettes and a jaw-dropping collection of acrylics and oils.
“Is this for me?”
On the screen, Josh smiled. “All of it. For you.”
I squealed in delight. It was like Christmas all over again, when I was five and my father had given me my first artist’s kit. I might have danced from happiness. Instead, I started to cry, and I mean cry, as in not being able to hold back a tsunami of tears.
“Lily?” Josh’s eyes widened, visibly alarmed. “Are you crying? What’s wrong? Lily! I can’t see you very well. Is that water clogging the phone camera?”
Yes. It was water. From my tears. And I couldn’t stop.
“Lily, for God’s sake. Tell me why you’re crying? Did I do something wrong?”
“No.” I sobbed like a fool. “You did good, Josh. You did great.”
“Then why the hell are you crying?”
“I’m crying because I’m so happy.” I sniffed. “Last night...today...it just doesn’t seem real. I’m crying because you took me to the movies and invited me to your home, and you made a gorgeous room for me and then you did this incredible thing, which will allow me to do what I love.” I took a deep breath. “It’s a lot, you know? The way I feel about you. It’s like I’m going to explode from joy.”
“That’s all good,” Josh said. “Right?”
“Yes.”
“But you’re scared,” he said cautiously. “Your mom. Your dad. You’ve lost so much, you wonder if this is going to last.”
My god. How could he know all of that about me? Only if he’d experience huge losses too. Only if his secrets included suffering like mine.
The tension on his features eased. The look in his eyes softened. “We won’t lose what we have, Lily. Quit worrying. You’ve got work to do. You said you needed to have that painting ready for the auction. I’m at work all day today. This is your chance.”
He’d thought of everything, including giving me the time to paint. He had issues, sure. He was blunt and clueless sometimes and, well—he really, really liked sex—but by God, he was caring, generous and thoughtful, and I was never going to forget this moment.
“Thank you,” I said, wiping my eyes.
“Oh, don’t thank me yet. You know I’ll want something in return.”
“Like what?”
“I want the conservatory to be your studio. I want you to paint in my house.”
“Well.” I shrugged. “If I’m going to have a studio, I can’t think of a better one.”
“Excellent.” His eyes lit up with his I-love-it-when-I-have-it-my-way smile, then he was back to business. “Now move all the way to the back of the room. See that laptop open on the desk?”
“This thing is a laptop?”
“It’s got a very specific purpose,” he said. “I set it up so that I can watch you paint.”
My heart skipped a beat. “Oh?”
“I can click on any of my devices and see you at work from anywhere in the world.”
“Really?”
I checked out what he called a laptop, which didn’t look much like any laptop I’d ever seen, but was a futuristic black screen with some sort of a holographic keyboard. I leaned in to further examine the high tech contraption.
An explosion of light and color startled me. Josh appeared on the screen, sitting at his desk as if it was parked in the painting studio right across from me. He leaned back in his sleek, white leather chair, surrounded by all those beiges and whites. His image was so clear and defined that I could actually make out the gold that speckled his irises and his reflection on the desk’s polished glass surface.
He laughed, a rich sound that caressed my ears and brought a crooked grin to my face. “Did I scare you?”
“You surprised me, that’s all.” I plopped down in front of the screen and held up my cell. “I guess I don’t need this anymore?”
“You can put that away. You’re looking at the future’s communication and imaging technology, highest resolution ever achieved.”
I admired the picture on the screen. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”
“Prototype.”
Of course it would be. “Can you see me like I can see you?”
“I can even see the faint outline of the sheets printed on your cheek.”
I fingered the lines on my face, a little self-conscious. “I’m really impressed, but in all truth, watching me paint is not worth all of this.”
“We’ll see about that.”
The tone of his voice released the rabble of butterflies fluttering in my lower belly. “Why are you so set on doing this?”
He lifted his hands in the air and gestured around his office. “It gives me a respite from this.”
I studied his image on the screen. The astounding resolution granted me a much better look at him. Dark smudges underscored his eyes and his frown lines seemed deeper than I remembered. “Having a bad day?”
He scoffed. “Let’s just call it hectic and supremely irritating and move on.”
“I’m sorry.” I caressed his face on the screen, fingers lingering over his hair. “I wish I could make it go away. I don’t mind if watching me paints helps you relax, but it won’t be very exciting.”
“I beg to differ.” His lips turned up in a wolfish grin. “I have one more requirement for you, one that comes attached to the studio.”
“And that is?”
“Whenever you’re in the conservatory, you’ll paint in the nude.”
I choked and had to slap my chest until I sto
pped coughing. “Nude?”
“Yes, Lily. I want you to paint naked for me.”
After last night, I should’ve expected that, in his house, he’d want to play his games fast and furious. This was a Josh Lane signature move if I’d ever seen one. Maybe I should’ve been mad and upset. Surely the Lily that existed before this one would have been offended. Maybe I should’ve put a stop to this, right there, right then.
But I didn’t do any of that, because his request—that’s how I chose to classify this conversation—seized me by the throat, flattered me to no end, and thrilled me to the moon and back. Besides, I didn’t have much of a choice.
“Well?” Josh said from his side of the screen. “What are you waiting for?”
“Further instructions.” I crossed my arms. “They’re coming, aren’t they?”
“How right you are.” He laughed. “I do have a commission for you.”
“And what would you have me paint?”
“Yourself.”
“Oh?” I had a moment of confusion. “Do you want me to paint a self-portrait?”
“Kind of, but not quite.”
How was that for a reply that wasn’t one?
“Look at the spread on the counter,” he said.
I got up and inspected the neatly arranged supplies. An impressive array of high quality paint brushes, sponges, rags and other tools lay next to several bowls of water. A three-tiered display of paint jars rose against the wall, arranged along the color wheel spectrum. I’d never heard of the brand before.
I unscrewed the cap of one of the jars and inspected the paint. A bright yellow shone from within, the color of sunlight, rich with pigment and thick as acrylic. I lowered my nose and sniffed carefully, frowning. I knew my paints really well, and this looked like a quality product, but it was most definitively not acrylic, or oil, or anything I’d ever used before.
I capped the jar and read the properties in the back panel. Water-based, quick dry, non-toxic, non-allergenic, smudge-proof, cleans off easily. Cleans off easily? I turned the jar in my fingers and spotted the label that confirmed what my brain had been screaming at me for the last thirty seconds.
I met Josh’s amused stare on the screen. “Body paint?”
“Yes, Lily.” His smile widened. “So shed that robe and get to work.”
A shudder of excitement tickled my spine. At last I understood what he wanted. I had a feeling I might like this game.
“Come on,” Josh said, “get to it, busy day over here.”
I lifted my chin in the air. “Art can’t be rushed.”
“I see.” He kept his glare on me and punched a key on the receiver on the desk. “Alice?”
The assistant’s voice came through crisp and promptly. “Yes, Mr. Lane?”
“I need a few,” he said. “Hold my calls.”
“Sure, Mr. Lane,” the assistant said. “But may I remind you that Senator Shuman is waiting in the conference room?”
“He can wait,” Josh said, “Tell Thomas to put on the dog and pony show until I’m done here. Lane out.” He clicked off the intercom and queried me with his eyebrows. “Satisfied?”
I cringed a little inside. All those important people, waiting for Josh. He’d put a senator on hold. To watch me.
Josh sat back in his chair and steepled his hands on his lap. “I’m waiting over here.”
“One more thing,” I said, feeling suddenly very bold. “A tiny detail. If I do this for you, I want something in return.”
Surprise brightened his gaze. “Are you trying to barter with me?”
“Well...um...yes, I guess... I was thinking...” My courage wavered and my tongue got tied up.
“You were thinking about what?”
“Inspiration... I may need some.” I stole a look at him. “You might be able to provide it.”
“Really?” He cocked his eyebrows. “How?”
“If you just...um...wanted to... I don’t know, perhaps...lower your zipper maybe?”
He stared at me for what seemed like a full century. His gaze clawed into my brain. My face might have been on fire. Would he mock me? Laugh at me? Had I gone too far, crossed a line that he’d somehow set for us?
He more or less growled. “I’m of a mind to drive over there right now, take off that robe myself, put you over my knee and teach you a thing or two about bargaining with me.”
My whole body smoldered beneath his glare and the temperature in my sex went from bake to broil. The shiver that weakened my knees came with a mental image. My overactive mind filled in the details. What would it be like to lie on his lap and feel his hand hot on my ass?
“You’re in luck, Lily.” His jaw tightened. “I can’t do that right now. Which means we’ll have to address your bargaining attempt later.”
I felt very small but also very excited.
“And, Lily?”
“Yes?”
“You should never be ashamed of an excellent idea.”
I gawked as he leaned back on his chair and zipped down his pants to reveal his black boxers, already vaulted over his erection. Keeping his eyes on me, he withdrew his engorged cock from his boxers and held it on his lap.
For an instant, the painting studio went dark and I traveled to an imaginary space, a black box theater where Josh sat on the stage and his show was about to begin. Like an actor stepping into the limelight, his penis stood against his boxers, commanding, graceful and larger-than-life, thick shaft flexing on a ribbed beam, a legendary superstar. His hefty balls spilled on his lap, corrugated swathes that contrasted like fine embroidery against the smooth black background.
“Satisfied?”
Josh’s voice yanked me back to the studio. My pussy flowed between my pressed legs. And my nipples. God. They squeezed so hard they ached. I lifted my eyes from his lap and met Josh’s stare. His eyes gleamed like obsidian. His nostrils quivered. His cock grew stiffer.
My hands undid the belt. The fabric slid over my shoulders. The robe parted like a curtain and dropped to the floor, and then it was me on the stage, under the limelight, displaying my body, flaunting my nudity in a performance that had me shivering with need.
I enjoyed the way Josh took me in, thoroughly, like an owner inspecting his property; greedily, like a patron who’d sampled the wine and wanted to guzzle down the whole barrel.
I don’t know why, but the words were a joy to say. “What do you want me to paint?”
“Portraits,” he said, fingering his cock distractedly. “Of your emotions, beginning with how you feel when I look at you.”
Hmm. So it was going to be a game of challenges. The first challenge was to tear my eyes away from his fingers, casually strumming his shaft. It should’ve been my fingers doing the job and yet the sight was as physically arousing as the memory of his tongue on my clit. One step at a time. You wanted to be inspired? You got it. I chewed on my lip and tried to contain my sexual excitement.
I looked through the supplies on the desk until I found what I wanted, a tall bottle standing next to the paint jars. I picked out a sponge and tilted the bottle directly onto it. I applied the sponge from my feet to my neck, a soft, delicious lathering.
Rubbing the sponge in little circles, I lingered over my lower belly and swirled around my breasts, smearing a cool coating of glimmer on my warm skin, tingling all over from the contrast. The most enjoyable part? Josh’s stare, glued to the sponge, following my every move with single-minded concentration.
I felt powerful guiding his eyes over my body. I felt beautiful. A little lewd too, but I was getting used to that. I worked the sponge until my body was covered with a gold metallic glimmer, transformed into a shimmering canvas.
“Christ, Lily.” Josh’s eyes widened. “You look like you’re made of light and gold.”
It was a simple but effective technique and it did the job, conveying exactly how I felt when he looked at me the way he was staring at me right now. I wondered: Would he apply a gold shimmer to his cock if I asked?
The glaze dried into a silky coat, a pleasant tightening of my skin. Josh wasted no time issuing his next challenge.
“Right breast,” he said. “I want to know how you feel when I kiss your nipples.”
I got to work examining the paint selection. It was amazing. The maker of the body paint that Josh had selected was a high quality outfit—no surprise there. The paints in the little jars were professionally labeled and behaved a lot like my acrylics, minus the skin toxicity. I crossed my fingers that the paint would come off as easily as the instructions said it would.
I picked out one of the cured wooden palettes and selected my colors quickly. Most artists followed the color wheel when arranging their palettes, but I arranged mine like my father had taught me, light colors on one side, dark colors on the opposite side, so there could be no contamination. With the palette ready, I looked down at myself, trying to figure out the logistics of being the painter and the canvas at the same time.
Of course I started with yellow. With a small flat brush, I glazed my right nipple with a basecoat of cadmium yellow, then dotted it with Naples yellow, Indian yellow and a touch of cadmium orange, building up the texture, edging my nipple with a neutral brown, elongating the appearance of it with color, perspective and technique.
Thick with paint and soft as velvet, the brush’s fine mink hairs teased my tight nipple and reminded me of the flicker of Josh’s tongue. My nipple was still a little tender from last night, but I didn’t mind it. The residual soreness enhanced the brush’s touch, sending waves of magnified pleasure to provoke every part of me.
I smothered the heat growing in me and gritted my teeth. Otherwise, I might never finish the task. With the center done, I moved on to outline the trumpet-like bloom that flared onto my breast, then filled out the outline with a mixture of yellows, oranges, umbers, reds and brown, playing with light and shade to give the flower its fiery hue.