I rub my palms together as I stalk her around the room. She tries to sidestep me, but she’s too slow. I manage to get my arms around her and press both hands to her belly, leaving behind two large handprints like some kindergarten art project.
“Mine,” I growl against the shell of her ear, nipping at the lobe.
She bares her neck to me—a blatant invitation. I happily oblige, pressing kisses along every inch of exposed skin I can reach, but it’s not enough. Sliding my hands up under her shirt, I tug it off over her head, taking her bra with it. My palms engulf her bare breasts, rolling her nipples to stiff peaks as I continue to kiss along her shoulderblade.
The paintbrush falls to the ground with a loud thud, and she lets out a quiet moan.
Her scent envelopes me, and I cradle her cheek in my paint-stained hand, turning her face to take her mouth in a languid kiss. Her tongue tangles with mine, slow and deliberate. Tasting and teasing.
She whimpers against my lips.
“Are you aching, baby girl? Do you need relief?”
She nods. “Please.”
Desire unfurls low in my gut at the sound of her breathy plea. I yank on the hair tie that’s keeping her jeans together, only then realizing my hands are still covered in paint. I can’t touch her like this.
But she can touch herself.
I grip her wrist and guide her hand between us. “Get yourself ready for me.”
Angie’s hand slips under her shorts, and I take a step back to watch the show. I’m hard as steel, my cock already leaking at the sight of her touching herself.
I groan. “Goddamn. My wife is a work of art.”
I pop the button on my jeans, releasing my straining erection. Angie’s tongue darts out to moisten her lips as she follows the movement.
“Are you wet for me, Angel?”
“Yes.”
I step back into her space. “Give me a taste.”
She holds up her hand, and I take her fingers into my mouth, the flavor of her arousal dancing on my tongue.
“Fucking perfect,” I murmur.
I tug her shorts down to pool at her feet, and she steps out of them, completely naked save for the smears of paint along her delectable curves.
“Get on your hands and knees,” I order her.
She doesn’t hesitate, sinking to the floor inperfect submission. With her ass in the air, I can see the evidence of her arousal dripping down her thick, dimpled thighs. The view makes my cock twitch, but I can’t bring myself relief. It’s pure fucking torture.
I sink to my knees and grip her cheeks. Spreading her open, I swipe my tongue along the length of her, lapping up the mess she’s made of herself. A low groan escapes my throat as I repeat the motion, stopping to swirl my tongue around her asshole before spearing it inside of her.
She gasps at the slight intrusion. “I need you.”
I straighten and line myself up at her entrance, reveling at the sight of the palm prints decorating her round ass. Angelina Hayes—my wife—the eighth wonder of the world, and the only one I give a damn about.
I slide home in one long thrust, unable to contain my feral hunger any longer. Her back arches as I watch my cock disappear inside her swollen pussy again and again. Her ass ripples with each hard thrust, pussy clenching around my rigid length.
I’ll never get enough of her lush body and the way we fit together. It’s like every delicious curve was sculpted for my hands by master artists.
She looks over her shoulder, and I nearly lose all composure. Her lips are still swollen from my kisses, her cheeks beautifully flushed. Blue paint adorns much of her body, from the tip of her nose to the globes of her ass—each mark like a claiming, evidence of where our hands and bodies have touched.
My hand trails up her spine to grip her hair. I give it a gentle tug, and a quiet whimper escapes past her parted lips.
“I know, baby. I know,” I soothe. “You’re taking me so well, my beautiful wife. Touch yourself. Wanna feel you come around my cock.”
