Page 157 of Charlie

"Just paint in blobs of color. It's easier than blending and looks surprisingly good when hanging on a wall."

"If you say so," he mutters, pulling my shirt over my shoulder and kissing my bare skin before releasing me.

I stand in front of my canvas, knowing precisely what I want to paint but not sure if I have the courage. Fuck it. I swap the canvas on my easel for a larger one and then start my sketch. This will be rudimentary at best since we have time restraints, but I can always add the finishing touches later. It takes me a few minutes to get a rough sketch down, and then I head to the supply wall, grab a paint pallet and squeeze on the colors I need.

I start to walk behind the guys to see their progress but quickly alter my course when they cry foul. I walk the long way around, settle myself into my chair, and get to work. First, I cover everything with a sepia wash, giving the canvas the golden tones I need, and then I start laying down the paint little by little. I'm not even close to finishing when the guys' shuffling and fidgeting pulls me out of the zone.

"The three of you sound like a herd of elephants. All of you are finished?" They nod as one. "Can I see now?" They nod again, and I walk to Cam, standing behind him to put a little distance between me and his painting. The canvas is covered in a multitude of greens, crystal blue waterfalls ending in frothy white, delicate purple heather dotting the hillside.

"Look." He points to the car, and I see a tiny hand pressed against the foggy window. I choke back a laugh. "Now that day is memorialized forever," he grins, lifting my hand to his lips.

Lach motions for me to skip him and move on to Jack. Jack's painting is a little more rudimentary, but there is no mistaking the feeling behind his brushstrokes. It makes me wonder what we'll do against that rock during the next party. I lick my lips, trying to keep the huskiness out of my voice when I tell him how amazing it is.

"Thank you, Charlotte."

"Lach, are you ready to show me?" He nods, color blooming in his cheeks. I keep my eyes on the ground until I'm standing directly behind him, slowly lifting my gaze. "Fuck," I breathe, my core clenching. The insides of my thighs frame the sides of the canvas, the slope of my belly in the center. My back is arched, pebbled nipples atop the soft peaks of my breasts. It's his view when he's eating me out. "Holy shit, Lach. How?"

"Art classes through high school and university. Drawing and painting always came easy. I guess some of it stuck with me."

"We're hanging that in the fucking gallery," Jack says, clapping Lach on the back.

"Let's see yours." Lach pushes away from his canvas, leading the way over to mine.

"Before you guys look at it, just know that I still have to add a ton of detail." I look at my painting, seeing all the imperfections, where the color isn't quite right, where there's not enough highlight or shadow.

"Holy fucking hell," Lach rasps. "You're a goddamn genius with a paintbrush."

His words wash through me, pride swelling in my heart. I look at the canvas and try to see it through their eyes. I painted my favorite moment from this morning. Cam and I are locked into a kiss, one of his hands wrapped around my neck and the other gripping Lach's thigh. His muscles are bunched, his ass flexed as he fucks Lach. Jack's head is against my shoulder, his hand snaking over my stomach, only the tip of his cock inside me as he pushes back onto Lach's thumb. Lach looks devastated, his head thrown back in a world-shattering orgasm.

"I would love to live a day as a guy just to know how it would feel to fuck someone while being fucked," I muse, looking away from the painting before the throbbing between my legs starts.

"There are toys for that," Lach says, adjusting himself.

I raise my eyebrow. "To make me a guy?"

"No, but it'll give you a dick to fuck someone with."

"But I won't feel that."

"My sweet innocent lamb. I know where we're going next."

"Where?"

"We're going to see Ann Summers."

"Who's she?" I ask, Cam's smirk making me suspicious.

"Oh, just wait, Carebear. You'll love her."

89

With repeated assurances from the store clerk that nobody will see our paintings, we head out in search of Ann Summers. I assume from the previous conversation that she has something to do with sex. A therapist, maybe? When I ask Lach for more information, he smiles and tells me I'll see when we arrive. I push the mystery to the back of my mind, instead focusing on the displays in the windows of the shops we're walking past. I resist the urge to browse until we reach a tiny bookshop with crystals burned into its wooden sign. Bells ring as we pull open the door and walk into the dim interior. Sun shines through the windows, dust motes lazily dancing through the rays. I take a deep breath. This has to be what heaven smells like.

I browse for about twenty minutes, picking out several books and bringing them to the resister. The woman takes the books from me, eyeing me and the guys, a mischievous twinkle in her eyes. She's beautiful. Her deep tawny skin glows against the purple of her headscarf. Layers of ethereal clothing float around her as she moves, jewelry tinkling as she works.

"Girl, I don't even need to do a reading to know you're the luckiest bitch alive." She laughs and grabs my hand, flipping it over. Her fingertips tickle as she traces the lines over my palm, her full lips pulling into a smile. "You must have done something right in the last life. Enjoy it." She drops my hand, and I shove it in my pocket, still feeling the tingle of her touch. "You have something important in the near future." It's not a question.

I nod. "Several somethings."

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