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‘It isn’t?’
‘Well, public sex with you could be,’ he says with a slow wink. ‘But not sharing you with other people. This isn’t an orgy.’
I’m relieved, though, ultimately, not surprised. He wouldn’t bring me somewhere like that. Not without talking to me first. I don’t know what came over me.
I smile, relaxing and surrendering to this once more.
It takes us a minute to get undressed. His trunks are black briefs that perfectly cup and display his impressive cock, his tight ass. I can’t help but stare, and he clearly notices, if his grin is anything to go by.
‘Let’s go.’ He takes my hand in his and I fight an urge to tell him I’d rather stay. Right here. The chair looks sturdy enough to take us both.
When we push into the next room, it takes my eyes a second to adjust, and then to compute what they’re seeing. We’re not alone, but it’s not some weird sex club thing—put your keys in the bowl. There’s low, throbbing music surrounding us, and about twelve other people are dotted through the room, paired off, and painting each other. The only light in here is a black light, and the paint comes up as neon, glow-in-the-dark, on their bodies. And they’re painted all over.
I’m bowled over. This looks fun. And different.
‘Welcome, Mr Rothsmore. Here’s your station, this way.’ Someone appears wearing a bright outfit so they’re visible, their teeth gleaming bright blue. He guides us across the room to a table with a shining line around it to delineate it is set up with paints. Each has an iridescent dot for accessibility.
‘This is seriously cool,’ I say appreciatively, after the waiter has gone through the rules and explained how it all works. A minute later, a bright bottle of wine is brought and two glasses, etched with paint so we can see them clearly in the room.
‘Who first?’ Nicholas teases.
‘You.’ I smile, and he returns it—I can tell because his teeth almost blind me.
I reach for one of the brushes and some paint, staring slowly, putting some paint on his cheek.
‘How does it feel?’ My eyes dart to his.
‘Cold and mushy.’
I grin. ‘It was your idea.’
‘I may need to rethink it.’
‘No, don’t. I like it.’ I smile again, dotting some paint over his shoulder. In just my bikini, my breasts are tingling, straining against the insufficient material. I work my way across his back, swirling paint—different colours throw different lights in here—and then lower, to the expanse of flesh just above the waistband of his bathers. I feel his breath grow shallow, and I can’t resist curving my hand around to his front, feeling his cock, secure in the anonymity the darkness of the room affords.
He’s hard, and I’m not surprised. Being this close, touching without touching, is seriously hot. There’s even something about the paint, its wetness, the sound of it against his body, the gentle persistence of colouring his skin, that has me aching for him.
I slip my hand inside his trunks and I feel his breath snag. ‘I thought you weren’t into public sex,’ he observes, sotto voce.
‘So did I.’ But I pull my hand out of his pants, snaking it over his chest, to a just-painted nipple. I tweak it and then pull away, laughing softly at the paint on my fingertips.
‘Caught, red-handed,’ I quip.
He grabs my hand in his and holds it towards my chest, running my fingers down my abdomen, towards my own bikini briefs. At the elastic, he steps closer, and drops his head so he can whisper in my ear, ‘Later tonight, I want to watch you get yourself off.’
Pleasure vibrates through my gut.
‘I... I haven’t ever done that before.’ I’m glad he can’t see the mad flush in my cheeks. ‘In front of someone else, I mean.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll be there to lend you a hand if you need it,’ he promises, and I want to go, I want to have him, now.
But he’s intent on torturing me, clearly, because when he starts to paint my body, he’s so much better, slower, more devastatingly sensual than I was with him. He drags the paintbrush but with a feather-light touch, so I want to beg him to press harder. He trails a hint of colour over my shoulders, my arms, then back up to under my arms and the flesh at the side of my breast, so I make a soft whimpering sound. I see his smile, but it’s just a flash, then he’s back to concentrating.
I reach for a glass of wine while he works, needing to do something to steady my fl
uttering nerves.
He kneels at my feet, his mouth so close to my clit that I ache to push forward, to feel him there, his lips against me—knowing that it will come tonight. Later. Soon.
