Five minutes later, we’ve swapped the studio for the main house, both squeezing into the same cubicle.
“We were going to get clean, you said,” I faux complain as Zane’s fingers delve between my legs, unheedful of the warm water spraying against our naked bodies.
There’s a lot more room than in my bathroom at home, but it’s still confined enough that we’re constantly touching. A situation I grow fonder of with every passing second.
“I am getting you clean,” he rumbles in my ear, driving a surge of wetness from my core, briefly competing with the showerhead. “You filthy, filthy girl.”
Despite having been the recipient of his focused attention before we fell asleep, I’m eager for him again.
And when I stretch my hand behind me, I find him eager, too.
“Spread your legs. Show me you’re ready to take me.”
A naughty imp takes control of my brain and immediately slams them shut. “You haven’t even shown me the next painting.”
“Because you kept distracting me with your pretty face and your perfect tits and this arse.” He takes a handful and squeezes, groaning in my ear until my clit throbs with anticipation. “But the moment we’re done here, I promise to show you anything your heart desires.”
He twists me, flattening me face forward against the wall until my breasts crush against the slick porcelain. My nipples are so sensitive from our last round, they throb in protest, then with renewed ambitions as Zane’s fingers slide up the back of my legs, trying to work between them as I clamp them shut even tighter.
“Are you trying to be disobedient?”
I sputter with laughter, shaking my head. “It just comes naturally.”
A slap on my right arsecheek jolts me, the sting light and immediately soothed with the rush of water, but still enough to take me by surprise.
“Why am I being punished when you’re the one who hasn’t kept their side of the bargain?
“Because the world is monumentally unfair.”
“I thought royals were charitable. I’m declaring myself a republic with immediate effect.”
He squirts shower wash over a plastic loofah and the thought of him meticulously cleaning me switches my brain into overload.
“Out,” I order. The sponge stays in the shower with me as he stands on the mat, dripping and making sad eyes like a puppy left outside in the rain.
It only takes a minute to actually wash myself, then I’m stepping into a towel lined hug to be dried.
Once we’re dressed, we head back to the studio, and I try not to blush crimson at the sight of the paint-stained sheets.
“I’ll put them in the wash, later,” Zane assures me, carefully placing a cloth-covered painting on an unused easel and holding a finger up in warning when I try to unveil it. “Just a moment.”
I shift my weight from side to side, humming with impatience. As he hunts through the largest workbench drawer, searching for god-knows-what, I release a long, aggrieved sigh.
“Such impatience.”
“Such slowness.”
He flashes me a smile so flirtatiously charming that my knees practically spill me to the floor. “Haven’t you heard; good things take time?”
Eventually he must find what he’s looking for because he returns to my side, arms behind his back. I eye him with caution. “And what do you have back there?”
“A surprise.” He nods towards the canvas. “Do you want to do the honours?”
About time. I step forward, carefully lifting the cover from the artwork. It’s an image of a woman staring in the mirror, her beautiful face partly visible, the reflection she sees broken into a dozen different shards, each of them a distortion.
Too fat. Too thin. An arrogant tilt to one eye, suspicious squinting with the other. Mouth curled in a snarl, pinched together, curved in a foolishly happy smile.
With a sinking feeling, I realise we haven’t left this conversation behind like I hoped. “This isn’t the same.”
