“Logan!”
“What?” I gesture to him with an open palm. “He’s a dog. He doesn’t know what I’m saying.”
“Yes, he does.”
“Well, in that case, I hope you took notes, buddy. Tell your friends.”
She covers my mouth with her hand, so I bite her palm.
“You’re more of an animal than he is.” She giggles and shakes her head. “Could you bring me my phone?” she asks, her voice raspy. “I want to document this.”
Grinning, I walk over to the easel to pick up her discarded leggings, then fish the phone from the pocket. I walk it back over to her, flopping down next to her again. She snuggles up to my side and unlocks her phone, passing it to me with the front-facing camera ready.
“Your arms are longer than mine,” she says.
I hold it above us and snap a few pictures of our work, then send the copies to my phone as well. I want to look at them whenever I like.
“We destroyed your sheets.”
I chuckle. “Nah, we made them better . . .” I glance down and lift a lock of her hair with paint on it. It’s already one a.m.So much for that sleep.“Go have a seat in the bathtub, and I’ll meet you in there to get cleaned up.”
I roll to my side, propped up on an elbow, taking a moment to appreciate the way her ass sways on her way to the bathroom. After gathering supplies from the kitchen, I meet her in the en suite with a glass of water, her favorite licorice, and a bottle of olive oil.
“Drink this,” I command, handing her the glass of water. Her eyes grow wide when she spots the licorice while gulping down the water. I wait for her to finish drinking, then reward her with her treat.
“These are my favorite!” she says, tearing into the bag while sitting in the empty tub.
I know.
When I drizzle the olive oil over everywhere she’s been touched by paint, she shivers. I climb in next to her and massage her flesh, loosening the paint until it thins and pulls away from her skin. She’s putty in my hands. Her thighs, arms, breasts, neck, and countless other spots carry smudges. It’s a time-consuming process to get it all.
By the time I’m finished, she wears a relaxed expression on her face, almost like she’s drunk. She happily sighs, relaxed after the nearly full-body massage.
“Your turn,” she says, slowly rotating.
I shake my head. “No, let’s get you to bed?—”
She pushes me away from trying to help, her eyes finding mine. “Let me do this, please.”
I nod, allowing her to continue. She repeats the process on me, and I groan. Seeming quite satisfied with herself, she smiles. I understand the sleepy look on her face now; the way her thumbs dig into my muscles feels incredible. Come to think of it, I don’t remember the last time I was taken care of like this. Even half asleep, she insists on pampering me.
She has me stand and turn around to make sure she’s gotten everything. Then we turn on the faucet but don’t bother filling the tub. We suds our skin with soap, then rinse off the oil and paint with the handheld sprayer, watching the blue-purple pigment circle the drain, and we repeat until the water coming off us is clear.
When we’re dried off, I nab a fresh set of linens from the closet while she strips off the soiled ones and carries them downstairs; a garbage bag rustles as she stuffs the stained sheets inside. We work in tandem. By the time she returns, I’ve remade the bed.
I wash the paint off brushes, then turn off the Bluetooth speaker, pausing to look at the canvas propped on the easel, grinning at the colors and the way her hand smeared themtogether when she lost balance and reached out for purchase. The utter horror on her face afterward was adorable.
With a smile on my face, I flip the easel lights off, turning around just as she lands on the top step. Her gait is slow and deliberate. Then I realize she’s carrying a cup, doing her best not to spill it. She gingerly sets it next to my glasses on the nightstand, then returns to her side of the bed and burrows under the covers.
I stare at her, then the cup, then back to her again.
She made me tea.
“Come to bed,” she says, a yawn interrupting her words.
I climb in beside her, sitting up and resting my back against the headboard.
“You made me tea?”
