The way my husband has his eyes locked on mine is torturing me, though. He shifts slightly again, causing his artist to pull the brush back. I can tell he’s getting turned on by watching Mateo paint me, just as I am by watching him. This is hot. And infuriating.
Mateo says something, but I’m not listening. He says it again—something about making sure the paint on my lower lips is thick enough. No doubt he’s amusing himself by trying to get another rise out of Luka. But it’s not working.
Because my husband and I can’t take our eyes off each other.
Brooklyn
Chapter 9
Finally, Mateo finishes painting me. I thought it would never end.
I couldn’t take much more of Luka’s heated eyes on me. Each glance jacked up my desire until I was so edgy and needy that I had a hard time standing still. Mateo definitely knew it, but the ass didn’t do anything to stop fanning the flames with all his little comments and flirtatious remarks. I don’t know who wanted to kill him more, me or Luka.
With a light cotton robe wrapping my dry paint, I hurry backstage with the other finished models and try to calm myself. We don’t have long before the runway show gets started. Sounds from the audience filter through—people talking and laughing, music playing. I wish I was nervous. It might distract me from how much I want to fuck my husband.
I shiver as I recall how erotic it was to watch the paintbrush press against his perfect body and work its way over the hard ridges of his abdomen…the length of his strong thighs, the perfect mounds of his biceps.
“Brooklyn.”
A quiver goes through me at the sound of Luka’s voice. I turn and he takes my hand lightly. The contact is enough to send my heart rate skyrocketing and renew the eager desire pulsing between my legs. He doesn’t say anything else as he pulls me deeper backstage, then down a short hall with a row of dressing rooms along it. He stops beside a door, turning into me as he cups my jaw with one hand and takes my lips with his.
I groan and lean into him, barely aware of the click of the door until he pulls me inside the dimly lit room, his lips never leaving mine. He kicks the door shut, turns me so my back is against it, and locks it. Hope and relief come to life inside me. I knew it would just take time for him to come around. And now here he is, back in my arms again.
My triumph is short-lived as he deepens the kiss and slides the flimsy robe off my shoulders, robbing me of my thoughts. I lean eagerly into his mouth, taking all that he’ll give. My hands itch to touch him, but I’m wary of mussing his paint. I’ve been aching for him ever since he took his clothes off to get painted. I want him to touch me, to stroke his fingers over my clit until I come in his hand. Tilting my pelvis to give him easier access, I let out a needy pant. He smiles against my lips. Of course he knows what I need. Luka always does.
He lets his own robe slip to the floor and his cock springs free against my thigh, hot and hard. Excitement courses through me as I wrap my hand around him. It feels like forever since I’ve touched him, tasted him. My mouth waters as I imagine taking the plump tip between my lips. I want him in every way possible, but the damn paint…
Suddenly, Luka’s hands are around my waist and he’s lifting me. I loop my thighs around his hips and arch back against the door for support. He takes his cock in his hand and slides the tip between my pussy lips, teasing up and down. I cry out as he rubs my clit with it, and within seconds, sweet tension grows as he sweeps shallow strokes over my sensitive flesh.
“You want everyone to think you’re such a good girl, don’t you?” He growls the words against my ear.
I’m consumed by his touch. I don’t want to talk. I only want to feel. He doesn’t seem to notice or care that I don’t answer him.
“If only people knew what a dirty girl you are,” he goes on. “Look at you. Messing up your paint right before you take the stage, because you couldn’t wait to get fucked.”
“Mmm,” I groan, grinding against him. I need him. I can’t stand it. But he doesn’t indulge me. Instead he starts tapping my swollen clit with the tip of his cock, making me gasp.
“You need to remember your place, Brooklyn. Your image. The public can’t know what a cock-hungry little slut I married.”
“Mm-hmm,” I agree, threading my fingers in his hair. His dirty words are sending me right to the edge, and my chest swells with emotion at the welcome feeling of having his body against mine again. It’s been so long…so, so long.
Without warning his cock slides all the way into me, filling me completely.
“Oh my God,” I murmur, leaning my head back against the door as I sigh with pleasure.
Before I can catch my breath, his hips move, thrusting his cock in and out hard and fast as I grab his shoulders to brace myself. The dry paint on his skin is thick yet smooth beneath my fingers. I have to resist the urge to dig my nails into his skin and drag them through the art.
“You like to tease, don’t you, Brooklyn?” he goads, fucking me as he does. “Did you like having Mateo’s hands all over you? Did it feel good?”
The taunting does little to drag me from my lust—if anything, it only serves to fan the flames of my desire. A whimpering sound comes out of me as our bodies find a rhythm. It’s the only response I can muster as my orgasm builds with potent demand.
“I know it’s hot for you, to let other men touch you like you do. It makes me hot, too.” His breath is hot against my ear. “But you don’t fuck around with anyone but me. Understand?”
He thrusts deeper, as if punishing me for not saying anything. I cry out again…so close. So damn close. I’m so relieved that the fire between us has reignited, that he’s here in my arms.
“Remember, wife: I’m the only one who gets to touch you. To fuck you. To make you feel this good.” He nips the tender juncture of my shoulder and neck. I gasp, the pain pushing me closer to release. “Sure, it’s not real. But we both know you’re good at pretending.”
“I don’t care,” I pant, riding his cock. “Just keep pretending with me.”
Suddenly his thrusts slow, and he pulls back to look down at me. We’re both breathing hard. My nipples are pebbled, my breasts begging to be cupped in his hands. “You just want to get what you want, don’t you, Brooklyn? That’s how it’s always been.”
I tilt my hips, trying to urge him back to me. “I want you.”
“Is that all?”
“Yes. Luka, please—”
He slams into me with new ferocity and my words turn into moans. My body pushes against the door with every stroke, rattling it. I cling to Luka harder, loving every second of this. I have the barest glimpse of my lower body where we’re joined and see my paint has smeared. He’s literally fucking Almond Blossoms right off me.
I don’t care. He can fuck me clean, as long as he makes it last. I never want it to end. His lips find mine again and he kisses me until my head is spinning, my body wound so tight that it hurts. I’m so wet it’s dampening my thighs, and I swear I feel paint smearing with each thrust.
Suddenly, my body bursts with pleasure and released tension. The shock of my orgasm rippling through me again and again as I struggle not to cry out from the ecstasy of it. Luka groans and shoots his own release into me, his cock pulsing so hard it prolongs my pleasure.