“This mean you’re mine for the night?” I ask, hoping I get the fucking answer I so desperately want.
Her own hand slides up to hold the back of my head while the other gently pulls on the chain around my neck.
“Something like that.” She licks my cheek before completely pulling away from me, a smug look on her face when she can see the growing tent in my pants even in the dim light.
“Take off your shirt,” she now tells me—not asks.
“You’re already asking quite a lot of me tonight, Stryker,” I say as I’m actively taking off said shirt.
“I want to see if you’ll listen, Callahan.”
Fuck.
Baby, I’d crawl to you on my hands and knees if you asked.
Denise grabs another bottle of paint, pink this time, and squirts it onto one of her hands before tugging me along by my belt loop, so we’re no longer standing near the paint table, but instead the hallway near the front door.
It’s still dark and there’s still people around but most are either too drunk or too preoccupied to care when Denise presses me against the wall.
My grip on the shirt in my hand tightens.
She presses the palm of her hand that’s covered in paint to her lips and brings her other hand to the side of my neck, pulling me closer.
Then she starts kissing my neck, down my shoulder, and across my chest. When the paint on her lips begins to fade, she goes back in and repeats the process.
My hands rest on her hips, trying to not start grinding into her but she seems to want to make this hard on me by purposely pressing herself further into me.
She pulls away, taking a look at her progress, her head cocked to the side.
“Happy with your artwork?” I chuckle, breathlessly.
The tip of her index finger that doesn’t have paint on it, travels from the center of my chest and stops right at the top of my jeans. She shakes her head.
“Not yet.”
And before I can ask her what else she has in mind, she presses more paint to her lips but instead of my neck and chest, she begins leaving kisses down my stomach, traveling further and further down.
I think she’s going to stop right at the top of my jeans but then she drops to her knees in front of me.
I don’t bother to look around at anyone else.
Not when she looks up at me like that. Pink paint starting to fade on her lips, trouble written all over her face.
Denise has the power to completely destroy me and I’d be perfectly fine with that.
At least I’d die a happy man.
Like she knows all of this, she brazenly presses her lips directly on my crotch, leaving orange marks of her lips on the black fabric of my jeans. When her lips purposely press harder against me, I throw my head back, a strangled groan vibrating in the back of my throat.
Only then does she pull away, leaning back on her knees, staring up at me with a certain hunger that makes it really hard to think very gentlemanly thoughts.
I try, I really fucking do because I see the way people look at Denise.
The way they touch her like she’s free real estate.
Like what she wears and the skin she shows, is an invitation for unwanted comments and hands and even though I see the way she tells people to fuck off, I never want her to have to do that with me.
Sure, I tease and maybe sometimes I step a little too close just so I can smell the strawberry scent of her shampoo, but only because Denise allows it.