“Let me find something for you to practice on.”
I dipped the brush into the paint, letting the bright red drip slowly from the bristles back into the can. So much had happened over the years together—hard to wrap my head around all of it.
“I’d do it again, you know,” I said suddenly. Painter glanced at me, a question in his eyes.
“All of it,” I clarified. “I’d do it all over again. Us. I can’t imagine life without Izzy. Having her made me stronger—I don’t think I’d have gotten this far if it wasn’t for her. It was worth it, even all the fighting with you.”
Painter smiled, then shook his head. “You would’ve accomplished all kinds of things, no matter what.”
I raised the brush, studying the color. He was right about the ladybugs—if I tried to paint something on the wall, I’d give Izzy all kinds of nightmares. Biting my lip, I studied his face. Then I leaned over and drew a bright red line down the length of his nose.
Painter blinked.
“Why the hell did you just do that?”
“You painted me,” I said. “Remember? You practiced on me all those years ago. Now I think you should let me practice on you.”
Heat flared in his eyes, and then he dropped his hands to the hem of his T-shirt, pulling it up and over his head.
“All yours, babe.”
Biting back a laugh, I dipped my brush again and drew a circle around first one nipple, then the other. I followed this with a broad semicircle across his stomach.
“Look, it’s a smiley face.”
He rolled his eyes, but he didn’t stop me when I dipped the brush again, this time painting a line down the length of his arm. I loved his arms—they were strong, roped with thick muscle. If I had to fall in love with an asshole, at least he was a hot asshole.
“Glad you think I’m hot,” Painter said, and I blinked.
“I didn’t realize I’d said it out loud.”
He leaned forward and kissed me slowly. Oh, that was nice . . . I kissed him back and he caught me by the waist, dragging me over to straddle his body. I deepened the kiss, savoring his taste. How had I ever convinced myself I could live without this? Then Painter was pulling my scrub top up and over my head. Reaching around behind my back, I unhooked my bra without letting his lips go, launching myself back into him with enough force to push him over backward with a thump.
We both burst out laughing, which didn’t stop him from grabbing my scrub bottoms and shoving them down, too. I kicked them free, sitting up and reaching for his fly. He scrambled to help me, and then his cock sprang out, hard and ready to go.
This was what I wanted.
What’d been missing, all along. Painter. Admitting it was a relief. Lowering my head, I licked the edge of his dickhead, then let my tongue trail down his length.
“Jesus, that feels good,” he muttered. “But if—”
I shot a quick glare at him. “Less talk. If you don’t talk, you can’t say something stupid and fuck this up.”
“Gotcha.” He shut his mouth so I opened mine, sucking him down as I started pumping his cock with my hand. His head dropped back and he draped one arm over his eyes, groaning. His other hand burrowed into my hair, guiding me as I moved more quickly.
Eventually it wasn’t enough—I wanted him inside. Not that I didn’t enjoy the foreplay, but right now I needed to ride him fast and hard. Sliding up his body, my knee hit something and it fell over with a thud.
“Shit,” I said, realizing I’d knocked over the can of red paint. “Oh shit!”
I pushed off him as he tried to sit up, which set us off-balance. Grabbing for his shoulder, I missed, and then I fell over sideways, right into the bright red pool.
Painter started laughing.
I tried to push up again, but the tarp was slippery as hell and my hands slid out from under me. Painter laughed harder, so I scooped up as much paint as I could, throwing it toward his face.
It hit with a wet smacking sound.
Now I was the one laughing as he tried to wipe it away. Scooping up more, I flung it at him again, hitting his chest. He lunged for me and I shrieked, scuttling backward through the mess. Then he was on me, and we were wrestling. He was stronger, but I was slippery as hell and his pants were wrapped around his knees, hobbling him. I kept swiping at the paint and trying to rub it on his face, until finally he caught me, rolling me under him for a deep kiss.
Unfortunately, not even a kiss from someone that sexy is enough to overcome the taste of paint. On the other hand, his dick was still hard, and if I had to choose between kissing or fucking, the kisses weren’t my first choice. I reached down, grabbing for it. I wanted him inside me . . .
Shit.
Even his cock was covered in latex, and not the pregnancy-preventing kind.
“Condom,” I managed to gasp. “Do you have one?”
“Yeah, in my wallet,” he said, reaching for a rag. He wiped off his hand, then fished the wallet out of his back pocket. Pulling out a condom, he tossed the leather wallet across the room, presumably to save it from the paint. I watched anxiously as he rolled the rubber down over his erection, thinking back to the night before.
“We forgot to use a condom again last night,” I pointed out. “I don’t think it’s the right time of my cycle to get pregnant, but . . .”
Painter looked at me, his eyes fierce.
“If you’re knocked up again, we’re getting married.”