Page 109 of Painting Celia

A shiver tickled down his spine as she drew a line down his neck. Look at her, so playfully intent, her glee so different from his usual somber girl.

She paused, scanning him for another likely stretch of bare skin, and he eagerly pulled off his shirt. “Here, you need more canvas.”

“I need more paint, too.”

He was quick to hand her the closest tube, and she squeezed a huge glob of yellow into her palm. What?

Lowering her face and looking up at him through her lashes, she painted a stripe across each of his collarbones. “Beautiful,” she teased.

That spark under his skin ignited. He’d never imagined that night would lead here, and certainly had never pictured her so confident. She was incredibly exciting this way, lit up with whimsy! Had he ever seen her unreservedly happy? She was mesmerizing.

He needed to paint her like this, but first—he reached for her. She stopped him with the paintbrush, fending him off and leaving paint across his knuckles.

“No. I am the painter tonight. I direct you.”

His heart skipped. Jesus, look at the light in her eyes.

She held the brush high, like a magic wand, a conductor’s baton. A new giggle escaped her.

“Lay on the floor,” she said. “I will pose you.”

He scrambled down into her usual spot, the drop cloth rough against his palms. He leaned back onto his elbows, waiting.

She ducked behind his canvas a few times, popping her head out to look at him cheekily. Finally, she stopped and stared, her eyelids lowering lazily as her gaze slowly roamed every inch of him. Ha ha.

“Do I—”

“Shhh.” She pretended to consider him, amusement shining from pink cheeks. The little crinkles at her eyes were adorable. He could stare at her like this forever.

“Lay back.”

He did as directed.

“Arms out to your sides. Leg slightly bent. Back arched. Neck back.”

Like he was floating.

She left the canvas and brush, bringing the tube of paint. Devilish, imperious, she loomed. Then she slowly removed her blouse and bra with her clean hand as he watched from the floor, trembling with the effort of staying still.

Jesus, she was beautiful.

She lowered herself to the floor, sitting atop him, straddling his thighs. She squeezed more paint into a hand, then considered him. She chose to draw stripes up his ribs as he squirmed. The pleasure from her tickling touch might shatter him.

“Reinito,” she murmured. León couldn’t help it—a snort escaped him. “What?”

“It’s not right.”

She leaned forward, reaching to drag a stripe of cold paint onto an outstretched bicep. “How do I say it? I want a cute Spanish word to call you.”

“Traditionally,” he teased, “you’d call me papi.”

She sat up laughing. “Oh no! I am not calling you daddy!”

He had to smile along with her joy. The expressions on her face! The emotions! She was lovely, just goddamn radiant.

“How do I say ‘masterpiece?’” she asked.

“Obra maestra.”

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