And there it is. The thing we’ve been dancing around. In ten minutes, we’re going to be on stage, performing for hundreds of people. They’ll be watching us touch, watching us movetogether, watching us pretend to make art when really, we’ll be trying not to come in our thongs from proximity alone.
“Hey.” I reach out, not caring who sees, and take his hand. His fingers immediately interlock with mine. “We’ve got this. Just follow my lead and try not to think about the audience.”
“Easy for you to say.” But he squeezes my hand, and some of the tension leaves his shoulders. “You live for this stuff.”
I want to tell him the truth—that I’m terrified, that performing with him is different from any game I’ve ever played. That I love him back. I open my mouth to do it, to finally own up to everything, when the PA system crackles to life, making everyone jump.
“Ten minutes to showtime. Please make sure your paint cans are open, and your hands are coated.”
“Shit.” Jackson glances down at the paint cans by our feet. “This is really happening.”
I squeeze his hand once more before letting go. “Ready to make some art, Jacky?”
He takes a deep breath, squares his shoulders, and gives me a smile that’s half nervous, half determined. “Let’s do this.”
Through the glass,faces blur into a sea of anticipation. A group of girls with BSU hoodies clutch each other’s arms, giggling as they veer left toward the rugby wing. Two guys in backward caps disappear down the corridor marked BASEBALL. At the same time, a professor I recognize from one of my psych classes pretends to study a wrestling poster with scholarly interest. But the crowd thickens directly ahead, phonecameras already raised like periscopes, hungry eyes scanning the hockey team’s display cases as if we’re exotic animals at feeding time.
The lights dim suddenly, plunging us into near darkness. My heart hammers against my ribs as the opening notes of “Black & Gold” pulse through hidden speakers. That synth line slides into my bones, and everything else—the crowd, the other performers, the absurdity of this whole situation—fades away.
There’s only Jackson. Only the paint. Only the music building in my blood.
I dip my hands into the black paint first, the cold liquid coating my palms and fingers. Jackson stands frozen, watching me with wide eyes as I approach. The beat thrums between us, and I let it guide me as I drop to my knees in front of him.
“Drew—”
“Shh.” I place one paint-covered hand on his ankle, and he jumps at the contact. “Just feel.”
The cold paint coats my fingers as I kneel before him. I trace a circle around one ankle, then the other, leaving black streaks against his skin. My thumbs press into the hollow behind his ankle bone. He shifts his weight, muscles tensing beneath my touch as I work upward, following the firm curve of his calf. The paint catches in the fine hairs, clumping them together in tiny black spikes that drag against my palms.
Sam Sparro’s voice fills the space between us as my hands slide higher. The paint leaves cold, wet trails up the tender skin behind his knees. Jackson’s chest rises sharply, his exhale catching in his throat as my thumbs press into the soft hollow there. His thighs tense and release under my palms. I circle my fingers over the thick muscle, pushing deeper with each rotation until a sound escapes him—half-breath, half-moan—barely audible over the music. The thong leaves his ass completelyexposed, and I force myself to save that for later. Delayed gratification and all that.
I rise from my knees, leaving midnight trails along his obliques. The paint catches on the fine ridges of muscle, pooling in the valleys between them. His breath hitches as my palms glide higher, his ribs stretching the skin taut, then yielding beneath my touch. At his chest, I fan my fingers across the canvas of him. The paint’s chill tightens his nipples to hard peaks. My thumbs circle them with deliberate slowness.
“Fuck,” Jackson whines.
I’m rock hard in my thong already. But I don’t care. Can’t care. Not when I’m dismantling Jackson piece by piece.
I circle behind him, reloading my hands with paint. “Hands on the glass,” I murmur in his ear.
He obeys immediately, bracing himself against the front of our case. The position arches his back, every muscle standing out in sharp relief. I start at his shoulders, my palms leaving paint smears across the taut muscle. His trapezius jumps beneath my touch, a quick flutter. When I drag my thumbs down either side of his vertebrae, a visible tremor races from his neck to his tailbone. His fingers curl against the glass, leaving smudged half-moons as I trace the twin dimples at the base of his spine. His ass is right there, perfect and unmarked, the black thong disappearing between his cheeks.
“Drew,” he whispers, and it sounds like a prayer.
I shove my hand into the cans of gold paint and finally, finally, let myself touch. My hands cup his ass, the gold dripping between my fingers as they sink into flesh that yields enough before pushing back. Jackson’s answering moan tightens everything below my navel. The bass throbs through the glass floor as I work the paint in slow, circular motions, leaving metallic streaks that catch the spotlight. His muscles tense and flex beneath my touch, a living canvas responding to every pressand pull. I dig my fingers deeper, thumbs sliding along his center until his spine arches. The music crescendos, percussion pounding, and before I can think, my right hand lifts, hovers for one suspended heartbeat, then lands with a wet crack against his black- and gold-slicked skin.
“Oh God,” Jackson moans, his forehead dropping to rest against the glass.
I do it again on the left side, marking him as mine for everyone to see.
“Turn around,” I command, my voice rough.
He spins. The thin black fabric stretches, barely containing him, a darkening circle of moisture blooming at the tip. His ribcage expands with each ragged breath, black and gold handprints smearing across his skin like ancient war paint. His pupils have swallowed the brown of his eyes, leaving only a thin ring of amber around bottomless black. His lower lip trembles, teeth marks still visible where he’s been biting down. The spotlight, the glass walls, the dozens of phone cameras—all of it fades to nothing but background noise.
“Your turn,” he says, and before I can process what’s happening, he’s dropping to his knees.
Jackson’s paint-slicked palms hit my ankles with a cold slap, and my skin prickles with goosebumps. My breath catches as his fingers dig in, thumbs pressing hard enough to leave crescents under the paint. He doesn’t linger—his hands scramble upward, fingertips skidding across my calves, leaving zigzagging rivulets of black and gold that drip down to my feet. His breathing comes in short, hot bursts against my knee as he works, paint splattering onto the floor with each urgent sweep of his hands.
His hands slide inward, leaving gold trails that narrow to a V. Paint drips down my inner thighs as his thumbs trace the ridge where muscle meets pelvis. The thin black fabric strains, visibly pulsing. My teeth sink into my lower lip, copper floodingmy mouth as his fingertips skim dangerously close to my most prized possession.
