The second I entered the room, his eyes became even darker than usual, and he let his eyelids close for a brief moment. When he opened them again, he nodded, his voice tight. “Thought I’d get a head start on the day.”
“Don’t start without me. Painting the walls is the one home improvement task I actually like doing.”
He swallowed and gave me a quick nod, breath hitching. “Sure.”
I headed back to the bedroom and changed, my mind turning over and over his reaction to me. I liked it. A lot. Once I was dressed and ready, I rejoined Mason in the back bedroom. He had a ladder set up and ready to cut in the walls, a bucket of paint on the ladder’s tray with a brush balanced carefully on top of it.
“You want to cut in around the ceiling and edges or should I?”
I took a moment to imagine Mason on a ladder, me standing behind him, watching those muscular arms drag a paintbrush back and forth over the walls. “You can do it,” I said, my throat tight.
He grabbed the paintbrush and climbed the ladder to get to work. I stood back and watched for a few moments, mesmerized, my jeans getting a little tight in the groin area, before Mason shook his head and laughed. “You could be helping, you know.”
“Oh right.” I jumped into action, grabbing a second paintbrush and starting to work on the edges of the wall along the baseboard.
We painted quietly for a while, Mason moving the ladder every few minutes so he could work on another section. Eventually, he put his brush down, made his way to the floor, and stood back to check out his progress.
I sat my paintbrush in the tray and joined him, standing so close I could feel the heat radiating from his body. I forced myself to look at the wall, rather than Mason. “Looks good.” I didn’t know if I was talking about him or the paint job.
“Almost time to roll.” He glanced at me. “Oh, you’ve got…” He gestured to his face.
I frowned and stepped back a bit, wiping my face with my hand. “Did I get it?”
He chuckled and shook his head. “Not really. I think you made it worse.” He stepped close to me again. “Here.” Gently, Mason swiped at my cheekbone with his thumb. “That’s a little better, anyway.”
I swallowed, my body aching with desire to touch him. “Thanks.”
We were both quiet for a few seconds, standing there without moving, just looking at each other.
Mason opened his mouth to speak and as he did, something in me snapped. It was turning out that Mason was my weakness. I closed the gap between us and stepped in, sliding a hand onto the back of his neck and pulling him down to me.
He made a noise of surprise in the back of his throat as our lips met, but it didn’t take long for Mason to get on board with what was happening. The next thing I knew, he was devouring my mouth with his, dipping his tongue into my mouth, his hands gripping my waist firmly.
I groaned softly as we kissed and pulled him closer. My jeans tightened as my cock swelled. I was desperate for more. As I pulled him in, I inched back and my foot connected with something that made a scraping noise as it slid against the floor. Ignoring it, I shifted my foot and kept holding tight to Mason. My heel connected with something as I stepped backward—the paint tray I’d been using. Before I could react, the tray tipped up on its side, splattering the paint that was left all over the back of my jeans and onto the floor.
We were startled apart, Mason stepping back and breaking the space between us, chest heaving. I glanced down to see a small puddle of paint spreading across the wood floor.
“Shit,” I hissed. “Fuck.”
“I’m sorry,” Mason said immediately. “I shouldn’t have—”
“Not your fault.” I held up a hand. “Do we have any spare rags or towels anywhere?”
“Yeah.” He grabbed a box of rags he’d bought at the hardware store and we began mopping up the mess. After we’d gotten the bulk of it up, Mason shooed me away. “I can finish this. You should go get cleaned up. Get those jeans in the washer. It’s latex paint so it should come out if you wash them right away.”
I nodded and left him to get the rest of the paint off the wood floors before it dried. My heart was still racing as I stripped my jeans off, my cock aching with the disappointing shift in priorities.
A few minutes later, I was cleaned up and my paint-splattered jeans were in the washing machine. I made my way back to the bedroom. Mason had just finished getting up the paint with a soapy, wet rag, and he was wiping the floor dry.
I closed my eyes for a second. “I’m sorry.”
He shrugged. “All good.”
“Should we—” I started.
As I spoke, Mason crossed the living room and kissed me again. I groaned, deep in my chest, my heart racing. I reached for him and gripped the fabric of his shirt at his waist. I desperately wanted to yank it over his head.
At that moment, Mason’s phone began to vibrate in his pocket, an unfamiliar ringtone playing loudly. He broke the kiss once again, stepping back and taking his phone out. I couldn’t stop the whine that escaped me.
