Chapter twenty-eight
Jay
Hercryofpleasurehits me like a punch to the chest. The sound of her giving me everything I asked for, and fuck, it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard.
She clenches around my fingers, tight and desperate, pulsing in time with each shudder that wracks her body. I keep the pressure steady, drawing it out, coaxing every last wave until she’s trembling and gasping, her nails carving half-moons into the bench.
“Muito bem,” I murmur, brushing my lips against her thigh as I ease my hand back, my voice rough with pride. “That’s it. That’s my girl.”
Her legs tremble against my shoulders, but I hold her steady, hands anchored at her hips. I don’t let her drift too far from me, not when she’s given me this. Not when I know I’ll never forget the way she looked in this moment—bare, painted, alive.
She slumps back against the bench, still trembling, her skin streaked with blue paint and sweat, her chest rising and falling in uneven pulls. And god, I’ve never seen anything like her.Messy, undone, trusting me to hold her through it. The sight of her like this should undo me completely, and in a way, it does. My cock is straining against my jeans, my body screaming to take her further, to bury myself inside her until neither of us can think straight.
But not tonight. Tonight, what she needs is gentleness.
I press one last kiss to the inside of her knee before helping her sit up, my hands steady at her waist. “Come on, gatinha,” I say softly. “Let’s get you home.”
Her lips curve, faint but teasing. “You keep calling me that. Am I supposed to know what it means?”
I grin despite the ache in my chest. “It means kitten.”
She laughs weakly, shaking her head, still breathless. “I like it when you say it.”
That admission makes my entire being vibrate. My body wants to take her again right here, but I steady myself, pulling her gently to her feet. “Good,” I murmur, tucking her against my side. “Because I’m not stopping anytime soon. I think it’s perfect for you.”
“It’s Portuguese?”
“It is.”
“I haven’t asked much about your family, but I’d like to know more, if you want to share.”
My smile is genuine. “I’d like that, another night, though,” I promise and stretch out my hand for her to take. When hers wraps around mine, that spark shoots up my arm and into my chest. It’s at this moment that I realize as small part of me has been bracing for her to retreat, to decide this was too much, too fast. Instead, she’s here, touching me with something as simple as her hand in mine.
And it feels good.
The drive home is quiet, too, and I don’t push her for words. She’s given me more than enough tonight.
When we reach the apartment, I settle her on the couch and head for the kitchen. The ache between my legs is nearly unbearable, but I shove it down, focusing instead on the simple ritual of clinking ice into a glass, filling it with the decaf tea I know she loves.
“Here,” I say, pressing it into her hands. She drinks slowly, eyes fluttering shut as if even this is a comfort. I watch her, chest full, wondering if she knows how easy it is to choose her, again and again.
When she finishes her tea, I set the glass aside and glance at her skin. Streaks of blue still cross her chest and shoulders, smudges trailing where my fingers held her steady. It’s messy, cracked in places. She looks down at herself, then back at me.
“Come on,” I say gently, offering my hand. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”
In the bathroom, I run a warm washcloth under the tap, wring it out, and kneel in front of her where she sits on the edge of the tub. She doesn’t speak at first, just watches me as I start with her collarbone, carefully wiping away the paint in slow strokes. The color fades, leaving bare skin behind, and I take my time, not rushing a single patch.
When I reach her shoulder, her voice comes out small. “Do you still think I’m beautiful?”
The question guts me. She says it like she’s bracing for me to disagree, like the paint was the thing that made her worth looking at. I still my hand and tilt my chin so she has no choice but to meet my eyes.
“Liv,” I say on an exhale, “you could be covered in paint, sweat, tears—it doesn’t matter. You’re beautiful because you’re you. Nothing changes that.”
Her eyes shine, uncertain, and I press a kiss to the newly cleaned skin at her shoulder. “You don’t need the paint for me to see you, Liv,” I murmur. “I already do.”
I keep wiping her clean, tender and gentle, until every streak of paint is gone and all that’s left is her.
“Will you…” She hesitates and can’t make eye contact, so I grasp her chin and guide her back to me.
