Page 83 of Tricked By Jack
“Yes.” I push myself up on one elbow, holding his gaze. “If it’s honesty you put on the canvas, then I want to see how you see me.”
The corner of his mouth twitches, not quite a smile. “That only works if you’re bare, wife. No fabric between me and the truth.”
Heat rushes up my neck, but I don’t look away. “Okay.”
This man has already seen every part of my naked body, in various poses, so it shouldn’t be a big deal to let him paint me in the nude. Yet it feels poignant.
He studies me for a long moment before sitting up, reaching for the lamp, adjusting it so the shadows carve across the room like strokes of charcoal. Then he gets out of bed, pulling me with him.
Jack’s touch is uncharacteristically careful as he peels his t-shirt over my head and pushes my thong down my legs. Cool air ghosts over my skin, turning my nipples into hard peaks. But he doesn’t notice.
He reaches beneath the bed and drags out a battered wooden box streaked with paint.
When he opens it, brushes, tubes, and palettes come into view. I can’t believe this was hiding in the most obvious place I never thought to look.
“Where do you want me?” I ask as he pulls out a stretched canvas, the surface already smudged with fingerprints and streaks of old color.
He props it against the wall, then drags a chair forward and sets it against the wall. Next, he starts pulling out brushes and mixing colors, careful with how much he pours onto the palette. I marvel at the calm radiating from him while he prepares. It truly is a sight to behold.
Once he seems satisfied that he has everything, he comes back to me. “Lie back down on the bed.”
Jack’s hands are warm as he adjusts me. Cradling my jaw, he tilts my face toward the light. Then he drags my leg up higher, so it bends, exposing more of me.
His eyes go dark as he takes a step back and observes me. “Perfect,” he rasps, kissing my cheek before sitting down in the chair and hauling the canvas onto his lap.
The scratch of his brush fills the silence, broken only by the rough catch of his breath each time his gaze drags from the canvas to my body.
I hold the pose, though my thighs tremble from restraint, my nipples tight from exposure. His eyes eat me alive as much as his strokes capture me.
Finally, the brush slows, then stops. Jack sets it down, leaning back in the chair with the canvas balanced against his knees. His gaze lingers on me, then flicks to the painting.
“Come here.”
I push myself up, every muscle tingling and aching from being held in place. Then I pad across the floor, the heat of Jack’s gaze scorching every inch of bare skin. When I look down at the canvas, my throat tightens and my breath stutters.
Rather than being greeted by the me I see in the mirror, the woman on the canvas is the one he sees. She’s stretched out in shadow and light, every curve of her body alive. I raise my hand and move a finger close enough to almost touch the wet paint.
I wordlessly trace the strokes in the air, committing each one to memory. I’m in awe of witnessing the way Jack sees me. It’s intimate, powerful, and truly humbling. Every part of me is turned into something raw and defiant. Devastating. Beautiful. Terrifying.
My nipples are flushed in a tender pink, my cunt caught in strokes of shadow and light, more suggestion than detail—but enough to make my stomach tighten.
But what really gets me are my eyes. They’re not just gray—they’re soulful and… I don’t even know how to describe it. I’m both an enigma and known. A powerful foe and frail.
“You made me…” My voice falters. “…look like I matter.”
“You do.” His reply is rough, dragged from somewhere deep. And I believe him. Because of every stroke, every careful color blend, I believe that I not only matter, but that I’m coveted.
Something reckless takes over. I drag my finger through the thick orange paint on the palette, then swipe it straight across his chest.
Jack jerks, eyes flashing. “You want to play dirty, wife?”
Before I can answer, he’s on his feet, carefully leaning the painting against the wall. While he has his back to me, I dip both my hands into the palette—orange and pink slicking my palms before I press them hard to his bare skin, painting his shoulders and back with my handprints.
He lets out a playful growl and reaches for me, but I sidestep him. “Why am I the only one naked?” I complain.
He bares his teeth at me in a predatory smile as he lowers his boxer briefs, freeing his very erect and pierced cock. I lick my lips, momentarily distracted. That’s all the time he needs to advance on me, grabbing handfuls of my ass.
“Then let’s play,” he rasps.
