Page 42 of Wicked Design
Sounded as if those subjects might be strangers. “I’m sure you would have impressed them with your talent.”
“You haven’t seen the oils yet.”
“Or your bedroom. When do I get a showing?”
“Finish your stuff, and I’ll take you on the full tour.” Arousal tightened his features. “Top to bottom and everything in between.”
Heat flowed to her pussy. “I’d like that. It’s a date. But I need a few days to finish this.”
“Three? Four?”
“Two.” She’d give up sleep and taking time to eat to speed up the process. Being away from him was too damn hard. “Send me your selfies in the interim, and I’ll do the same.”
“Not as good as the real thing, but it’ll have to do. Bye.”
“Wait.”
“Nope. Get to work so we can be together.” He killed the call.
He wasn’t getting away that easily. She sent him a partial boob selfie that showed the edges of her nipples, no tips. He matched it with one displaying his pecs. She took a pussy shot. He reciprocated with a photo of his stiffened cock and heavy balls followed by a text.
Want this in the flesh? Then get 2 work.
Clover threw her phone on the bed. She focused so hard on her designs, she gave herself a headache. Putting the air conditioner on full blast didn’t help the pain or her shitty financial situation. When apple juice failed to give her an adequate sugar buzz, she swilled a beer and paced until her legs hurt. Slumped in her chair, she rubbed her temples.
Ideas popped up, evolved, and solidified.
She drew feverishly and broke out her paper clay, a medium she ordinarily used for her flower jewelry, but employed it for the cuffs instead. Getting the designs right took too long, but by the following evening she was well on her way to fantastic. Good thing. Her heavy-metal band clients had called. That conversation had given her more ideas.
Wanting to share them with Van Gogh and get back into his arms, she sent him a text the next day.
Done. When?
His text popped up.
With a customer till 10. Meet me 10:40 my place.
He gave her the address and directions.
She had enough time to launder her red underwear and primp, except for her nails. They were too short, her hands a mess from working with tools and hot metal. Her latest burn practically glowed.
Thankfully, Van Gogh was a boob-and-ass man. Her body parts weren’t voluptuous, but they got him off. The only thing that mattered.
She raced through her grooming, packed her cuffs in a tissue-lined box, and left at a run. Panting, she reached a fast-food stand and bought two deluxe cheeseburgers for herself and three for him, along with supersized fries. At his apartment, she rang his bell then pounded on the door.
Footfalls rang out on the steps behind her.
She spun around.
Van Gogh pointed. “You’re late.”
“Early. I beat you.” She threw her arms around him and claimed his mouth. He gave tongue first, tasting minty from mouthwash or toothpaste and hot from longing as deep as hers was. She suckled him until they both needed air.
He patted her backpack. “What’s in here?”
“Cheeseburgers with everything, fries, and cuffs. Not the ones you bought. Prototypes I made. What’s in here?” She touched the large white bag he carried.
“Beef burritos, chips, salsa, and candy bars.”
