Even still, all hopes of having a relaxing, fun evening with Mateo are gone. Instead I’m overcome with need for the man who’s only an arm’s length from me.
Mateo pulls out a photograph from the folder on his supply table and gives an annoyed click of his tongue as he thrusts it in my direction. “Let’s do this, babe. It’s go time. I have to turn you intoAlmond Blossomsin under two hours.”
Mateo doesn’t have an artistic bone in his body, and he’s been tasked with recreating Van Gogh’s iconic art piece on my skin. I suspect this is going to be a royal disaster…especially now that we’re both under the watchful eye of my very sexy, very distracting husband.
Luka shifts his position again at the direction of his artist, a serious young man working to duplicateStarry Nightby covering my husband in a base layer of cobalt blue paint. I imagine the bright crescent moon, the soft yellow circles of stars that will soon grace my husband’s skin, with the most impressive swirl of dark blue curling right over his—
“Brooklyn, for God’s sake. Look this way.” Mateo grabs my chin and turns my head. I didn’t realize I’d been staring so long at Luka’s cock. My mouth is watering.
“Sorry,” I mumble, and try to focus on following Mateo’s directions.
Soon the room fills with the laughter and chatter of artists and models. Mateo covers most of me with a faded teal blue. Then he hesitates, brush poised at the apex of my thighs.
“Well this is awkward,” he says.
“You don’t want to paint my lady bits?” I tease.
“I mean, I do…but…” He nods subtly in the direction of my husband. Who happens to be watching us.
“Ninety minutes!” someone calls out.
Mateo’s expression turns to challenge. He dips his brush into the well of paint and presses it against my pubic bone. I jump at the coolness of the paint and try to hold perfectly still as he swipes lower and lower, finally working the brush in quick strokes across my labia.
“Oh my God, that’s cold. And it tickles. Hurry up!” I yelp.
I have the urge to swat the paintbrush away, but I force myself to hold still. At that moment, I see Luka’s artist going for the same region, only with a dark navy paint. He uses a wide brush to slick the color down Luka’s shaft, gently stroking the bristles over the impressive length of it. My mouth goes dry as I watch the paint glisten in the fluorescent lighting.
“Okay, time for some blossoms on these branches,” Mateo says. “Maybe I should start with your nipples. Get the mostsensitivepart out of the way first.”
His tone is so pointed and direct, it takes me off guard. Luka whips us another look.
“What do you think, Luka?” Mateo asks, turning toward my husband. “If I paint her nipples with blossoms, then I can make the tree branch run between them.”
Luka doesn’t respond right away, but I can see his jaw clench. “Sure. Good idea.”
Then he looks away with a grumble that I can’t make out as an actual word. He shifts a little, and I watch his artist begin painting yellow circles in the center of Luka’s hard abdomen.
God, he’s so perfect. He’s the perfect canvas for something like this. As I watch each dip and rise of the brush, the flicker of lust inside me gets stronger. Luka keeps stealing glances at me too, his eyes burning with a heat I know well. Mateo leans back to inspect his work on me.
“Mmm, girl, your breasts look amazing with those flowers. Don’t you think so, Luka?”
“Mateo,” I whisper-hiss. “Quit it.” Things are strained enough between me and my husband at the moment. I don’t need my best friend adding fuel to the fire.
“Why?” He shrugs and dabs his brush in more paint. “Someone has to appreciate you.”
Is the tension that noticeable? Then again, Mateo knows me so well it probably didn’t take him long to pick up on it. He can also probably tell how hot I’m getting just watching my husband get painted. I can’t take my eyes off him. My nipples stiffen with a sharp ache.
I watch the bristles stroke his skin, wishing they were my fingertips instead. Luka catches me looking and his eyelids flicker, the fingers of his left hand flexing. And then his gaze drops to where Mateo is creating a branch between my breasts, taking his time to get all the different colors of the bark just right. Or maybe he’s purposely torturing Luka. It wouldn’t surprise me.
The way my husband has his eyes locked on mine is torturing me, though. He shifts slightly again, causing his artist to pull the brush back. I can tell he’s getting turned on by watching Mateo paint me, just as I am by watching him. This is hot. And infuriating.
Mateo says something, but I’m not listening. He says it again—something about making sure the paint on my lower lips is thick enough. No doubt he’s amusing himself by trying to get another rise out of Luka. But it’s not working.
Because my husband and I can’t take our eyes off each other.
Brooklyn
Chapter 9
