Doing It for Love(8)

"Well," he says, moving my body toward the drums. A worker is placing new paint on top while a few clubbers start pounding the instruments, spattering everyone within range. Landon's scruff tickles my neck as he says, "There are the drums." He moves me a few more inches. "Or the paint balloons." 

Paint balloons.

Paint balls.

Balls.

Landon's-

"Or we could paint each other," Landon suggests. He nods up the stairs to several curtained-off areas. Friends and couples go in paint free and come out with designs, handprints, and other various art over their skin and clothing. I turn to Landon with a big grin, resting my chin on my shoulder. He laughs at my smile and wraps his hand around mine.

"Come on." He leads me up a few sets of stairs, above the main dance floor, and over the paint drums. The beats continue to thump through my chest, making me want to grab Landon and dance some more. A couple passes us as they leave one of the curtained areas, freshly painted and holding hands. I squeeze Landon's fingers twice. He squeezes back once.

One of the club workers pulls back a curtain. Landon ducks in first, pulling me behind him. The club worker says, "If we're out of any color, let us know."

Landon nods and brings me in front of him. I lean against his warm chest and look around the room.

There's a table with all the neon colors of the rainbow in big cereal bowls. Sponges and brushes sit next to each color, and two chairs are placed across from each other next to the table. Landon pulls the curtains closed behind us, encasing us in darkness, minus the paint and our clothing.

"You want to go first?" he asks.

"Don't get any paint on this." I hold up my hand, twirling the ring with my thumb.

"Here," he says, leaning up and grabbing his wallet from his back pocket. "I'll hold on to it."

I hesitate, but only because I love the new weight on my hand. After eyeing the paint one more time I slide the ring off and let him settle it into one of the wallet pouches. My hand already feels way empty. Weird. I've only had it for a day.

We sit and Landon scoots his chair forward so his knees hit mine. "Pick a color."

"All of them."

He squeezes my knee, and then taps his chin as if debating what to use first. I settle my hand on his leg.

"So, Fiancé"-yep, love that word-"why are we wearing white?" I ask as he dips a sponge into the orange. He swipes the excess paint on the side of the bowl and leans in close.

"Blank canvas." He grins. The first cool stroke hits my neck. He curls it down over my chest in a swoop. I like this. Really like this. My skin feels electric and my jitters won't settle and my smile won't go away. My heart pounds beneath his fingers, and my grip tightens on his knee. I start inching my hand up, and right when I reach his upper thigh I remember I'm not supposed to go any farther. Bad hand. Knock that shit off.

His eyebrow rises, and he dips another sponge, this one blue, and he sweeps it over my cheek. A low moan erupts in the back of my throat. What is wrong with me? It's been one day since we had the metaphorical beast with two backs. I've gone much longer, and suddenly cold paint and Landon and dancing and drumbeats are already changing my mind on the Bahamas thing.

No. Not thing. It's my honeymoon! And I'm not losing a day in. I'm not losing the warm vacation over one night of paint sex. Granted, while that visual has me moaning out loud already, I want to wait long enough that our sex will be toe-curlingly amazing night after night for the rest of our lives.

And then Landon grins, leans down, and kisses the spot right under my earlobe.

Seductive devil.

I move my hand-mistake-because now I visualize a vat of paint and passion and his tongue on my neck, his teeth on my bottom lip, his groans echoing mine, and hopping on every ride there is in Chocolateville until I'm completely satiated.



       
         
       
        

His hands are on my waist now, pulling me into his lap, sponge forgotten while he moves his mouth to mine. Blue paint from my cheek transfers to his skin, glints of orange from my neck stain his hands as he moves them across my body, expertly avoiding the off-limit areas.

I keep my butt planted firmly on his thighs, desperately wanting to slam into his hips, match the beat of the drums in the room, but I can't. I can't lose now. It's starting to feel like strawberries and whipped cream, and if that happens within the first day, imagine what it'll be like in five months.

His tongue slides over my bottom lip, and I know if I let him continue I'll lose. I'm already inching on his lap. I can't breathe, so I rip myself away to get air. I need air. Lovely, nonseductive air. But he's still kissing and licking and devouring my skin, leaving me so hot and hungry and pained that I lose all sense and grab the first bowl of paint my fingers can reach … and dump it on his lap.

He jolts underneath me, completely breathless. His eyes drift to his pants now covered in bright green. A small laugh tumbles out of my mouth, and a wicked glint appears in his gaze. I jump off his lap just as he reaches for the red paint.

"I'm sorry!" I squeal, backing up with my hands raised. "I didn't mean to."

"Didn't mean to?" He gestures at his green soaked pants. Dribbles pour down his legs when he stands. Laughter escapes me, and I know more than one bowl of paint will find itself on me.

I pause in my tracks, eyes flicking between the table and Landon. He better not start. We'll wreck the entire club with bowls of paint. And I'm about to tell him that, but it happens in a flash of paint spatter and tangled limbs. I dive for the table, knocking over a chair and slamming into Landon's torso. He pours the red paint down the front of my dress, sliding it in between my cleavage. I'm screaming and laughing as I plunge my fist into the pink bowl and manage a good swipe all over the right side of his face.

"Wait, wait!" he says, and I pause. Did I get it in his eye? But he just gives me a wicked grin, and I turn and run through the curtains. Mother-effing trickster! Cool paint splashes across my upper back as Landon chases, bowl of yellow in hand. I duck into another painting section and grab the pink from a very confused couple. Then I emerge and get Landon across his chest, splashing handprints all over his torso as he covers my shoulders and arms.

"Wait, wait!" I scream this time. Landon wraps his arms around my waist and laughs.

"Not falling for it," he says, and pours the yellow down the back of my dress. I gasp and shiver, and then dump the bowl of pink over his head.

His arms tighten on my waist, and I'm lifted from my feet in a fit of giggles. He carries me over his shoulder to the paint balloon section, tickling the back of my knees as he does. Alec and Jace start cheering Landon's name, and like a good best friend Theresa starts the girls chanting mine as he sets me down next to the balloon coolers. The pink paint dribbles from his smile lines, and he smashes a balloon against my stomach. I grapple for my own balloon and press it into the small of his back. 

He takes another, pops it in his hand, and runs the paint over my neck. My laughter subsides, but my smile is permanent when he pulls me up, pressing his lips against mine. He tastes like paint and fun and laughter and forever.

A loud shout comes from the drum section, and when we part we both catch Theresa standing on top of a railing, shot glass raised high in the air.

"Cheers to the couple who found love when they're just babies. May you guys last longer than a year!"

Laughter and cheers surround us along with a few jokes that should piss me off, but don't because Landon takes my face in his hands again and looks into my eyes as if I've been plucked from the sun. His thumbs stroke my paint-stained cheeks, and he kisses me as if he can't believe he's caught this sundrop. But he has. He's totally caught me, and I'm never letting him toss me back.

His hand runs down my neck, over my shoulder, down my arm, landing in my own hand.

He squeezes twice.

And I squeeze back once.





Chapter 6


When I fell in love with Landon, I was too afraid to tell him. We had just made love for the first time and there was this moment in his bed, staring at the moonlight across the ceiling, listening to his heartbeat and his heavy breathing when it almost fell out. But I didn't want to say it first. It had only been a few weeks, and at the time, I had no idea if he was one of those guys who freaks out with the L-word or not.

But he squeezed my hand twice as I rested it on his chest. Out of instinct, I squeezed back once.

I started noticing the two-time hand squeeze after certain moments or looks he gave me. Once when I quoted Edward Scissorhands to him. Another when I stole one of his hats and wore it during our date. More squeezes when we'd say goodnight. One night I finally asked him about it.

"What?" he whispered in the dark. I tucked my cold toes up against his shin.

"You always squeeze my hand twice."

"Yeah." It's all he said … at first. And we both drifted into sleep.

But at some point during the night, he woke me, hovering over me, looking as wide-awake as the moon. I asked what was wrong, and he took my face in his palms, rested his forehead against mine, and said, "Two squeezes mean I love you."

His fingers snaked down my body, leaving chills in their wake. He grasped my hand and pumped it twice.