“Give me your hand,” I demand, and the bewilderment on his face makes me laugh.
He gives me the hand that isn’t holding the palette, and I pause a moment to admire it. Tyler has long, strong hands, and I’m plagued with images of them groping my body. Remembering those hands firmly gripping my ass while we made out in the janitor’s closet makes me clear my throat uncomfortably.
I grab some white paint off the palette in his opposite hand and mix in some black to create a light gray. Placing my hand under his, I begin gentle strokes around the bones beneath his skin, creating thin white striations that make up the cartilage and tendons around them.
When I’m finished, I smirk at him, giving him a clean brush and offering my hand for him to work on. Admiring my work, he quirks an eyebrow at me, “I’m not normally so easy to outwit.” He gives me the palette and takes my palm in his. Dabbing some green paint onto his brush, he leans over my hand and applies it to my pale skin in slow strokes.
“It seems you may have met your match.” I smile at him, jumping slightly when the cold paint touches my skin.
He chuckles to himself, but I don’t miss the desire flooding his gaze when he glares back at me. “I’m no painter, so don’t you dare laugh.”
I giggle as he swirls the start of a green vine onto the back of my hand. He’s so focused on his work that he barely takes a moment to look up at me through his thick lashes. “I said don’t laugh.”
I hide my smile from him as he finishes the job, and we take turns painting our opposite hands. I move on to his right side contemplating where to start, and I run my fingers lightly down the full-length of his arm. Starting at his shoulder, I end my stroke over the pulse at his wrist where I absently rub a circle over his warm flesh, envisioning the direction of my design.
His skin is warm and smooth, and I can’t help but notice that I’ve left a trail of goosebumps with my touch. I’m lost in thought when he interrupts.
“Like what you see, Princess?” His words come out in a husky whisper that makes the hair on the back of my neck prickle.
I meet his gaze, teasing him, “A good artist always gets familiar with her subject.”