Melt For Him(38)

“I trust this washes off easily?”

She rolled her eyes. “Of course. And it’s nontoxic and all that.”

She opened a jar and dipped a paintbrush into it, swirling the bristles into the charcoal color. “Take your shirt off,” she said. He reached over his shoulder and removed the blue shirt easily in one swift move, revealing the broad chest that would now be her canvas.

Her breath fled as she took in the sight of his muscled body. The rippling abs, the carved pecs, and the beautifully broad shoulders. She reminded herself she had a job to do, so she moved closer, considering the best position for painting him. Should she stand between his legs, straddle a thigh, or paint from the side leaning over?

“Um, I kinda think I need to get a little closer.”

“Be my guest,” he said, and waited for her to make a move.

She opted for straddling him, inching closer so one strong thigh was between her bare legs. He wore the heavy beige turnouts, but even through the thick fabric, she could feel the flexed muscle of his quad between her legs. Why had she thought painting him would be a good idea? Why had she picked this deserted location? Was it subconscious or had she deliberately done this so she’d fall into another moment with him without a soul around to see them?

She hadn’t been doing such a good job resisting him these last twenty-four hours. Even when she texted him the other night, she could pretend that interaction was safe, since it consisted only of words. But words started everything. Their whole connection began with a conversation that had unfurled into more. She loved the effect she seemed to have on him, how he seemed freer, happier, less tightly wound with her. She’d never been able to do a thing for Jason. But in a mere week in town, she’d already felt like she mattered. She wanted that—she craved that.

Even so, more contact would be dangerous. It would be stoking the fire that was all too ready to roar. She could already see herself with him in so many ways, but being with a man like him would only ever amount to getting hurt.

Right?

Or maybe it wouldn’t, a tiny little voice suggested.

She shushed that voice as the hem of her short skirt inched up farther. Focus, she told herself.

Starting at his belly button, she painted a faint line of gray up and over the hard ladder of his stomach, the brush moving and bending with the planes of his body. She dipped the brush into another jar and edged the color with a darker hue. He pressed his hands against the rock, gripping it as she painted more color over his muscles. This time, she started at his pecs, swirling the slate gray downward, farther, until she stopped at the waistband of his pants. He inhaled sharply and dug his hands into the rock as if he could rip off pieces of it.

She leaned back to consider her work, then sighed heavily. It was all wrong. It looked affected, like stylized plumes of smoke. She’d envisioned a realistic look, as if he’d truly just emerged from battling a smoky forest fire.

“I need to mix it in better. I need to use my hands.”

He didn’t reply. He only nodded as she laid the brush on the rock. This time she settled over both his legs, sitting across them, his firm thighs holding her. He bit out a curse when she placed her hands on his chest.

“I just want it to look right,” she said breathily.

“Yeah,” he said, staying still. He was a wall, immovable. He was the embodiment of rigid resistance as she feathered a hand over his chest. But two things gave him away. His breathing that grew louder, more intense. And the huge bulge in his pants that pressed against her inner thigh.

The feel of his hard-on was almost enough to cloud her brain and make her toss her paints and makeup and camera somewhere behind her, letting them fall amid the crisp leaves and fallen twigs. To say: fuck me now, please. Fuck me now and put us both out of our misery. Bring us both to the edge, and then shove me over the cliff into ecstasy.

Just the thought of what his hard length could do to her threatened to annihilate all her self-control. Because whatever she had left was draining away as the throbbing between her legs increased. She was so close she could rub against him. She could press the damp triangle of her white thong underwear against his pants and probably get herself off just from the friction.

But she had a job to do, and she needed to do it well, so she could move on to Portland and begin her dream job. She rubbed her hands across his steely frame, smudging the body paint until it at last looked a bit like the remnants of smoke, like a brave man had beaten back raging flames. Protected the forest, protected the people, protected the whole damn town and emerged unscathed, with just the dust and dirt sticking to his sweaty, hot chest.

Tension roiled between them like an electrical wire as she worked. The tightness in his body was a magnet. She breathed deeply, holding in all her desires, all her instincts to press her body against his. When she finished, she scooted back, held up her charcoal-smudged hands, and pronounced, “Done.”