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Chapter Eight
Point of View: Narrator


“You have paint on you,” he whispered, and he moved toward her, his hand outstretched. His thumb carefully swiped the paint on her cheek, smearing yellow across her delicate face, like war paint on a Native American squaw. He leaned closer, “Oops,” he said, his voice dropping low, “I made it worse.”

His breath and mouth tasted like the tequila shots they’d done, and it gave her a heady rush. Her heart was pounding so hard in her chest that she was certain he could hear it. His body curved around hers, and she wrapped her arms around him. She could feel his pants bulging against her. He lifted her up, tugging her into him and she leaned into the kiss at this new elevation in his arms. He stumbled backwards and tripped, knocking over the small table of paint tins.

Colors ran everywhere, like melting rainbows as Nick fell backwards onto the floor, the colors covering them. Krystal yanked his shirt off and threw it and it hit the wall, leaving a splotch of blue where it struck. His bare back hit the paint and his hair sponged it off the floor as she wrangled with his pants and he slid his hands along her sides, hiking up her bohemian style dress, his hands hungry to touch her. She grinned and knelt over him, sitting on his chest, turned to work on his jeans. He reached around her, his hands and arms dripping reds and oranges and his fingers working her nipples, coloring them as he touched and felt under her dress. She groaned as her hands shoved away his jeans, leaving him laying in the pool of color in his boxers alone.

“Oh God, Nick,” she groaned as he pinched and rubbed. She couldn’t believe this was happening at all… let alone here, like this, in a pool of spilled paint…

But it was also totally perfect. She could almost hear them talking about this story one day, when they were older, sitting in rockers on a porch of some big farm house in the country with a collie at Nick’s feet.

“Uhhnm,” Nick moaned as she bent low and pressed her mouth against the cotton that separated her from him. She shoved his boxers down greedily, and started kissing his thighs. Nick’s hands tightened across her breasts, squeezing them and his eyes slipped closed. He moaned each time her mouth connected to his skin. “Oh God, Krys…” his voice was low, husky, and caught somewhere in the back of his throat.

When her mouth actually wrapped around him, his back arched beneath her, and he let out a breathy gasp that made her entire body tingle with anticipation. She drew in a breath around him and his breathing became heavier and heavier as she worked at him, making him writhe beneath her in the paint covered floor. “Fuck,” he whispered, “Krys, oh god.” His hands shook against her breasts.

She slid her mouth off of him and looked at what her handiwork had produced, her heart racing. She looked over her shoulder and slowly lifted her dress off her body. “Can you help me with my bra?” she asked, reaching for the clasp. His hands snapped up and he unhooked it eagerly. She slid it off and half-turned toward him, a grin on her face. Nick could just see the orb of her left breast as she turned, peeking around the line of her back. Krystal smiled, reached up over her head and let her bun free, her hair cascading like a water fall across her bare skin.

“Nick,” she whispered, “Love me.”

He didn’t answer, but he sat up and pulled her hair aside gently and started kissing her neck. Paint dripped from his hair and slid down his back. He grabbed hold of her and pulled her to him and they rolled over in the paint, colors sticking all over her now, too, and their mouths connecting. Her hair splayed out in a pool of green and his hand prints were covering her every inch across her front as he touched her and rubbed her, a rainbow of caresses being left behind on her skin.

Then, when they’d explored every inch of each other, he carefully crawled off of her and lifted her up, gently laying her paint-covered body across her futon, regardless of the brilliantly white bedspread. The colors bled into the fabric, leaving a print of her body on the soft cotton. She reached overhead and gripped the fabric tight in her fists, balling it up and stretching her arms across it – long streaks of orange and blue and green covered the white like a firework explosion in the map of a white sky.

Nick slowly slid himself into her and her legs wrapped tightly around his waist. Her mouth fell open as he thrust and pulled. He watched her breasts move with his every motion and her chest heave as she breathed. The paint dripped from his chest onto her and his knees left prints like butterfly wings coming off her body, his hands resting over hers, creating red auras around her green prints.

When they were done, they stood up carefully, the paint on the quilt was abstract, a blurry shape of what looked like a human being with low slung wings and antennae, about to take flight.