She paused at his waistband, fingers curling beneath the button of his jeans. Her painted thumb left a gold print on the pale skin above the fly. “Can I?”
All he could do was nod, voice gone to gravel.
She undid his jeans, then pushed them down over his hips along with his boxers. His cock sprang free, and she wrapped her hand around his length. The gold left a comet tail up the shaft as she stroked him once, twice, and his hips bucked.
“Fuck,” he managed, “I’m not going to last?—”
“I don’t want you to.” She tightened her grip on his shaft and started a measured rhythm, her gold-tipped fingers luminous even in the low light. The sight was obscene, holy. He tried to keep his eyes on hers, but every pass of her hand threatened to split him wide open. She was so focused, so calm, not looking away even as his body seized and he groaned, hips rocking up to meet her.
He lost himself in the sensation, in the heat and ache and the brutal sweetness of her gaze. When he came, it was with a violence he hadn’t known he still possessed, his vision going white for a second as his body locked and shuddered. It painted her hand, his stomach, all of it shot through with gold.
She slowed her strokes, coaxing out every aftershock. When he finally collapsed back, boneless against the mattress, she sat astride him and wiped her hand on the sheet with a laugh that was wild and relieved and gloriously unguarded.
“You,” she said, breathless, “are a work of art.”
He’d spent so long protecting himself from wanting too much, from hoping too hard, but her words stripped away the last barrier—the careful distance he’d maintained between himself and everything he wanted. His chest went tight, then opened, and it felt like taking his first real breath in years.
He sat up and reached for her. This time, it was easy. Natural.
“My turn,” he murmured against her mouth.
He tugged at the hem of her sweater, and she raised her arms, letting him pull it over her head. Her bra followed, and then he was cupping her breasts, thumbs brushing over her nipples until they hardened into tight peaks. Gold transferred from his hands to her skin, marking her as his.
“Beautiful,” he breathed, bending to take one nipple into his mouth.
She arched against him, fingers threading through his hair, holding him to her. “Yes. Touch me, Anson.”
His hands left smears of gold as he explored her—down her sides, across the small of her back, over the curve of her hip. He couldn’t get enough, couldn’t touch enough of her.
“Please,” she whispered, grinding down against him. “I need you.”
He flipped her onto her back, his movements sure now, confident. No more hesitation. No more fear. He helped her shimmy out of her jeans, tugging them down her legs until she lay naked beneath him, her skin glowing in the lamplight.
“You’re so beautiful, Maggie. So goddamn beautiful.”
She reached for him, and he went willingly, settling between her thighs as his mouth closed over hers. He was already hard again, and when she arched against him, the head of his cock dipped into her slick heat. He groaned against her mouth.
“Now,” she urged, her heels pressing into the backs of his thighs, guiding him. “I need you inside me.”
“Fuck, Maggie.” It took every ounce of control he had to pull back. “I want that too, but I’m covered in paint.”
“It’s non-toxic.”
“I don’t have a condom.”
She reached toward the bedside table, pulled open the drawer, and produced a ribbon of foil packets. “I do.”
He couldn’t help the incredulous laugh that burst out of him. “Planning this, were you?”
“Hoping,” she corrected and pressed a packet into his palm. “There’s a difference.”
He sat back on his heels and rolled the condom on. The sight of her sprawled across the bed, waiting for him, nearly unmanned him. Gold streaked her skin now, too, across her collarbone, down one breast, along her ribs. His marks on her.
He settled between her thighs, and she gripped his biceps, fingers digging into muscle. Her eyes stayed open, locked on his, as he pushed forward slowly. Slowly. So fucking slowly, he was shaking by the time he was fully inside her. Maggie’s eyes fluttered hard, her mouth going slack as she let out a sound that went straight to the bottom of him.
He savored every inch, every wet, hot inch. He barely remembered what this felt like—had almost convinced himself he was better off never knowing again—but the way she clung to him, the way her hands kneaded at his shoulders, and her legs locked around his waist, made him ravenous. He knew he’d need this, need her, over and over again forever.
If this first time didn’t kill him.
