Page 84 of Tricked By Jack
I slide my paint-slick hands down his back, clutching his ass and hopefully leaving perfect handprints. I’m just about to reach for his cock when I think better of it.
“Wait,” I murmur. “Isn’t paint bad for the skin?”
He chuckles. “Normally, yes. But this is actually cosmetic-grade body paint.”
I arch an eyebrow in surprise. “Really?”
Shrugging, he explains, “I bought some when acrylics started giving me allergic reactions.”
That’s so not the answer I expected. It’s so normal and anticlimactic.
“It does mean the paint isn’t the best. It cracks and fades easily, but it’ll do for now.”
I pout, not happy that my pretty painting isn’t of the forever variety. “Oh, okay.”
Grabbing handfuls of my ass, he pulls me flush against him. The paint I’ve just smeared all over him easily transfers to my skin.
“Don’t worry,” he says, voice low and filled with gravel. “I’ll use proper acrylics or oil one day, wife.”
“Good,” I say, loving the sound of that.
His cock twitches against my stomach. “But tonight,” he rasps, “I’ll paint you with more than colors.”
His mouth claims mine, hard and consuming, while his hands slide between my ass cheeks to cup my cunt from behind. I gasp when his fingers find my wet opening.
“Fuck,” he groans, swirling my clit. “You’re my masterpiece.”
I claw at his shoulders, leaving streaks of color across his muscles as he pushes me backward onto the bed. The sheets stain instantly beneath me, handprints and smudges marking where I writhe under him.
He looms above, body streaked with color, cock gleaming with pre-cum at the tip.
“Jack…” I choke on his name as red-hot want courses through my veins. “Fuck me. Now.”
Either he hears the deep need in my tone, or he reads it on my face. No matter the reason, he doesn’t keep me waiting. He lines the head of his dick up against my opening and slowly thrusts into me.
He growls low in my ear as my hands find his ass again, pulling him deeper. Our bodies slap wetly, every thrust driving the mess between us into something primal. The sharp scent of paint mixes with sweat, musk, and sex until I can’t tell where he ends and I begin.
I arch under him, crying out as another wave builds inside me. His hand catches my throat, tilting my face toward the canvas propped on the wall. The woman painted there looks wild, defiant, terrifying—and I realize we really are one and the same.
“You’re fucking everything,” he groans.
I let out a sound that’s half moan, half sob. Because I think I finally get it now. The emotion spreading through my chest is… love. And if I’m honest, I’m pretty sure I’m not the only one who feels it.
The way Jack painted me isn’t how you paint a stranger, or even your enemy. Only someone you love can make you put pieces of yourself, of how they see you, into the paint. And that’s exactly what Jack did.
I open my mouth, almost letting the three little words slip from my lips. But then I clamp my lips together. I refuse to be the one to say it first.
Chapter 28
The Trickster
The skillet still hisses on the stove when I set the last plate down. Eggs, toast, a stack of pancakes so high she eyes them like they might collapse.
It’s too much for two people, but I like watching her fight through every bite I put in front of her. Like every forkful is proof she’ll take what I give, even when it’s too much.
Eve tears a strip of bacon, lips shining with grease, eyes narrowed on me like she’s trying to decipher the catch. “What’s the occasion?”
“Does there need to be one?”
