Tommy: Yeah?
Me: I think I found something that might change your mind.
I can practically see him cringing while reading my text. The dots come and go twice before his reply shows up.
Tommy: What’s that?
Me: Come and see.
I set the phone on the dresser of my studio and stand in the middle of the room. Tommy had the guest bed taken over to Mom and Gran’s place yesterday, so the room is now officially my studio. I’ve laid out a heavy-duty drop cloth to cover all the carpet, though my supplies are all still stacked in a corner of the room. I’ll get it sorted one of these days, but at the moment, I’ve got a much more enjoyable project in mind.
I’m standing in the middle of the room when Tommy rounds the corner. A fire ignites in his eyes the second he sees that I’m not wearing any clothes.
“What do we have here?” He stalks closer.
“I got some new paints I thought you might like to try.” I point my toes toward the set of edible finger paints off to the side. “I got some brushes out for you, in case you prefer not to use your fingers.” After living with him for the past few weeks, I’ve noticed he washes his hands the second he gets anything on them. It seems to be more of a texture thing than germ-based, but I haven’t had the opportunity to ask him about it. I figure there’s no rush.
His hungry gaze surveys my body as he circles me like a king touring his lands. “I see you’ve been digging in my things, as well.”
He’s spotted the scrunchie. I used the pink hair tie to secure my red waves in a messy bun on my head. I thought it’d be a fun touch.
“I hate to correct you, but I believe that was mine. And if we’re going to talk about hidden items, you’re welcome to explain the camera in that flower arrangement on the dresser.” My heart thrums with excitement.
Tommy stands behind me close enough that his clothes graze my sensitive skin. The teasing touch sends a wave of need crashing over me. Goose bumps blossom like spring flowers all down my arms and legs.
“You’re being rather belligerent, Mrs. Donati,” he says in a rakish purr close to my ear.
“I suppose that’s what you get for marrying the woman who broke into your house.” I’m fighting a grin, feeling wickedly clever, when his fingers unexpectedly snake around to pinch my nipples. Not too hard—the puckered flesh sings with a perfect mix of pleasure and pain that has me clenching my inner muscles in the need for more.
“Close your eyes,” he tells me in a husky whisper.
My lids clamp shut so fast I almost lose my balance. I strain to hear what he’s doing, and before long, he’s back at my side,telling me to sit. He’s placed the old wooden chair I use when I paint behind me. I feel it’s cool, hard seat against the back of my legs and lower myself to sit.
“Now, hands behind your back.”
Here I thought I was running this show, but I was clearly mistaken. Tommy has taken the reins. Ice-cold steel circles my wrists, and I grin at the memory of our night cuffed together.
“Oh, Dani. You are a vision.” His voice circles to my front. “Open your eyes.”
Tommy stands in front of me. He’s removed his shirt and stands in jeans hung low on his hips. My mouth goes dry as the Sahara.
“Spread your legs, little thief. No hiding yourself from me.”
I don’t know what it is about opening myself to him like that, but it makes me feel like a queen. Like I possess the key to heaven and am gifting my husband with its glory. I know. It sounds dramatic and maybe a little egomaniacal, but that’s what happens when Tommy’s worshipping gaze sets me high on his altar.
He picks up the red jar of paint and a brush. Every inch of my skin tingles with the need to be his chosen canvas. He starts at the base of my neck and paints a line down the middle of my chest all the way to the top of my slit. I wonder if he’ll stray to my breasts next, but he doesn’t. He uses the same red to paint lines from my knees up to the apex of my thighs. Blue paint makes arced lines, tracing my ribs, then lines down my arms.
Every few strokes, he stands back and admires his work.
“You may be onto something. I had no idea art could be so … titillating.”
He drags the brush along the underside of my breast and slowly snakes from one side to the other before circling just outside my nipple, then repeating with the other breast. When he swaps out brushes to use a new color, I’m desperate to knowwhere he’ll paint next. My nipples are practically singing for his attention.
Thankfully, their chorus does not go unheard. He coats the new brush with yellow paint, then flicks my nipples in short, rapid strokes with the coarse bristles, igniting tiny fireworks of pleasure shooting from my chest to my core. By the time both peaks are bright yellow, I’m writhing with need.
“Tommy, I can’t take much more,” I admit breathlessly.
“You can. You just don’t want to. My wife has a greedy little pussy, doesn’t she?”
