“I’m a felon, Mel,” he said. “I don’t think they’d want me there.”
“A lot of people are felons,” I said earnestly. “Spending time in prison doesn’t mean you can’t do any volunteering for the rest of your life. Well, aside from sex offenders, I guess, but that’s not you. Why couldn’t you volunteer? Aren’t you friends with Bolt? It’s his old lady—Maggs—who runs the program. He’s helped out a bunch of times. The club even did a fundraiser for the program last year.”
A thoughtful look crossed Painter’s face.
“I met Bolt in prison, have I told you that?” he asked. I shook my head. “The first time I was inside. He helped me figure shit out, hooked me up with the club. Good brother.”
“Well, your good brother is going to be there tomorrow, so I guess if he’s okay, you’re probably okay, too. And I know they can use the help—I mean, if they’re desperate enough to have me painting, you know it has to be bad.”
He gave a low laugh.
“Point taken. You win. Happy now?”
Yes. Yes I was.
“Thanks,” I said, smiling widely. Then I lost the smile as he scowled at me.
“Don’t move your face—I’m working.”
“Yes, sir,” I said, trying to relax. I didn’t know what he was painting on me and I didn’t care. Every stroke was like a finger running over my skin, sending chills through me while sparking a slow-burning need deep inside. He leaned in closer, eyes searching across my features, then darting back down toward the colors, utterly absorbed in his work.
This seemed a little unfair, because ten minutes later he’d covered most of my face (which I didn’t have a problem with) and I’d seriously soaked my panties (big problem). So far as I could tell, Painter hadn’t even noticed that I wasn’t just another mural board.
“Lift your chin,” he said, his voice soft. I lifted, shivering as the cool brush stroked down the length of my neck.
“What are you doing?”
“Expanding the picture,” he said, sounding almost detached. “This is fun and I’m not ready to stop yet. In fact, why don’t you unbutton your shirt and take it off? Gives me more room to work.”
I pulled back, staring him down.
“That sounds like a pick-up line from a bad porno,” I said, torn between laughter and frustration, because deep down inside I wanted nothing more than to strip down in front of him.
Well, actually what I wanted was him stripped in front of me, but you know what I mean.
“You wanted me to show you how to paint,” he said, frowning. “I’m doing that. And you’ve got a bra on—trust me, I’d know if you didn’t—so it’s not like you’ll be naked. And you should stop watching bad porn. The good stuff is harder to find, but it’s worth it.”
I opened my mouth to reply, then snapped it shut because no way in hell did I want to discuss the varying quality of porn across the spectrum. But he made a good point about the bra . . . I had no issues with wearing a bikini top down at the beach during the summer.
(And yes, I knew I was rationalizing—I was in heat, not stupid.)
I started unbuttoning my shirt, pretending his eyes weren’t following my fingers like his life depended on it, because if I had to suffer, it seemed only fair that he should, too.
Painter’s breath caught when I pulled my shirt apart, then slowly pushed it back and off my shoulders. I had a decent body—I knew that. It wasn’t as great as Jessica’s, but when I made the effort I could definitely hold my own. Even so, I wasn’t used to the kind of appreciation I saw in his eyes.
The shirt dropped back down behind me, and I found myself sitting up straight. Thankfully, I’d put on a decent bra that morning. Black and lacy, dipping low between my breasts. It wasn’t a sexy push-up, but it wasn’t plain white cotton, either.
Painter reached out, running the brush down my neck and along my collarbone, sending shivers through me. When he did the other side, I felt the first goose bumps breaking out, all along my arms.
“Are you cold?” he asked, his voice a husky whisper.