I want so badly to drop the brush and paint with my hands. I’m dying to feel his skin under my fingertips, not just by the side of my hand resting against him. I swallow as I sit back, getting green paint on my brush. I swirl the tip of the brush down the ridges of his stomach. His body jolts when I get too close to the side. “Sorry, I tried to tell you I was ticklish,” he says.
