Proving Paul’s Promise(42)

“I was going to have him paint me.” I look down the hallway. “Maybe Sam could do it. Is he here?” I start in that direction, but Paul grabs my arm and jerks me back. I fall against him.

“There is no fucking way any man, even Garrett, is going to paint your naked body. No. Absolutely not.” He folds his arms across his broad chest and stares down at me like I’ve lost my mind.

“The entry fee was a hundred dollars and I spent a month working on the design. It’s perfect, and I think I can win. And just when did you become my father?” I ask. I pull back from him.

“Trust me,” he says. “The last thing I want to be is your father.”

“Then stop acting like one.”

He pulls me to him again, and I feel his dick pressed against my lower belly. “Trust me,” he says again. “I don’t feel like a parent when I’m with you.”

“Oh,” I breathe. My heart stutters, and I get this little flutter in my belly that only happens with him.

“Oh,” he mocks. “I’m acting like a jealous boyfriend because I am one.”

I close my eyes and say, “You haven’t even kissed me since I told you about Jacob.”

“You told me you needed time,” he cries softly. “I’ve been right here waiting. Patiently, I might add.” He chuckles.

“Well, quit being so patient!”

He brushes my hair back from my face with gentle fingers and doesn’t say a word. He just stares at me, his eyes soft and full of something I don’t understand. I wish I did. It would make this so much easier.

“So about this contest,” he says.

“Reagan and Emily are both busy.”

“There’s no one else you can get to model?”

“There isn’t enough time to teach them the position.”

“Position?” He grins.

I shove his shoulder.

“I’ll paint you.” His eyes bore into mine. “I’ll enjoy the hell out of it.” His dimple grows deeper and even cuter.

“No.” I shake my head. “You can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’ll be naked!” I cry.

“I know!” he yells back softly. “That’s why I don’t want anyone else doing it!”





Paul

This is a really bad idea, and I know it before I ever step a foot into her bedroom. “Close the door behind you,” she says. Her voice quivers, and I fucking love that she’s this torn up over me painting her body.

“Nobody else is here,” I remind her.

“Someone is always here, or on their way here, or thinking about coming here.”

She’s right, so I close the door. She has transfer sheets spread all over her bed. They’re arranged in a weird pattern, and I can’t quite make out what it is. “What are you going to be?” I ask.

She smiles and shakes her head. “You’ll have to wait and see.”

“What am I painting you with?” I ask, as she pulls her shirt over her head. My mouth falls open, but she just clutches her shirt to her chest and turns her back to me. She pulls her hair to the side.

“It’s that really thick latex paint. It’ll be like plastic when it’s dry.” She points to a sheet on the bed. “Let’s start transferring.”

This part I know how to do. She used the same transfer sheets we use for tattoos. So, I lay them on her body at her instruction, and then move on to the next one. I do her rib cage while she holds tightly to the shirt.

“Turn around,” she says, making a rolling motion with her finger pointed down.

“Do I have to?” I pretend to sulk.

“Turn,” she says again, more forcefully this time. I turn away from her and look toward her dresser. But she doesn’t realize that I’m facing the mirror. She drops the shirt and lays the transfers over her breasts.

My mouth goes dry. I know I shouldn’t watch her, but I can’t fucking help it. She’s perfect. Her breasts are big for her small frame but firm. Her nipples are hard and pointing directly out in front of her. Her areolas are as big as silver dollars and round and I want so badly to go to her and take one in my mouth. I want to hear her cry out.

She looks up, and I jerk my eyes from the mirror. “You can turn around now,” she says. She lifts the shirt back to her chest. Such a shame. I swallow hard and try to push down the lust that’s clouding my brain. She needs for me to paint her, not to fuck her.

Her brow furrows. “Are you okay?” she asks.

“Fine,” I choke out. I clear my throat because my voice sounds gravelly. “Fine,” I say again.

She shakes her head and turns her back to me. “All the spaces with a one in the center will be this fiery orange.” She holds a tray of paint in her hand until she sets it on a stool right beside us. “Are you sure you have time for this? It’s going to take a really long time.”