Summer Son by Anna Martin

Author:Anna Martin [Martin, Anna]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Dreamspinner Press
Published: 2014-07-31T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter 10

IT WAS Oliver’s weekend with Harrison, so we dressed and took Harrison over to my mom’s fairly early, so he was there, ready for when Oliver arrived. I tried not to think about how much easier it would have been the night before if he’d picked his son up Friday afternoon, as was our previous agreement. Thinking about that just got me mad.

Zane didn’t have any work to do over the weekend, at least nothing that wouldn’t wait until classes on Monday, so we were free to do whatever we wanted.

It turned out whatever we wanted was going back to his apartment and taking all our clothes off.

By Sunday afternoon, we were yet to put them back on.

I stretched on his bed, enjoying how different it was from my own. Zane was pottering around his tiny apartment, making tea or something, bare-ass naked. It suited him.

There was music still playing from earlier, some indie crap I didn’t recognize and would not admit that I enjoyed. It was new, but it felt right.

He’d told me, late one night, that he sometimes acted as a life model for his drawing class. I was torn between amusement (that he had to stand naked in a room filled with strangers and friends—I wasn’t sure which was worse) and jealousy (that those strangers and friends got to see my boyfriend naked).

As far as I was concerned, he had the perfect body for nudity. It suited him in ways it didn’t suit other people, maybe because he was so at ease with wandering around without his clothes on.

When he returned to the bed he had a handful of acrylics and one long brush.

“Can I paint you?” he asked.

“You’ve already asked me this,” I said. “Sure.”

He grinned, flashing his teeth. “Excellent. Lay back for me?”

“Will you draw me first? Like one of your French girls?”

That sent him into a fit of giggles that took several minutes to recover from. “I don’t want to draw you at all,” he said.

I was a little confused when he swiped alcohol over my skin, my chest and shoulder and up my neck, cleaning away sweat and dirt with the circular cotton pad. Then he straddled my waist and squeezed a few blobs of acrylic onto my stomach.

“You want to paint me,” I said. “Not paint me.”

“Exactly.”

It was a strange sensation, the rough bristles of the paintbrush and the cold paint swirling around on my stomach, then over my shoulder.

“Tilt your head to the side for me?” he asked.

I couldn’t see what he was doing while he finished the section on my neck. The design licked over my collarbones and swirled around my nipple, making me shudder. He used blue and white and black, then yellow, which made me think of Van Gogh’s Starry Night.

“Not dissimilar to that, I suppose,” he murmured when I voiced the opinion. “Did you know you’re hard?” He rocked back against my erection as if to prove his point.

“Mm.”

I watched as his eyes darkened and his pink tongue, which had been poking out the corner of his mouth, darted out to wet his lips.

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