Joy had just moved into his Laurel Canyon home two days ago. Unfortunately, no sooner had Everett helped her settle in than he had to take a prearranged visit to Death Valley with Rill, where they’d be moving production of the film to onsite location next week. Norman Cassavita, the author of the novel Razor Pass, was dead. For whatever reason, Rill considered Everett to have a better grip on the setting and nuances of the novel than anyone he knew—probably because Everett had been obsessed with the book since he’d first read it when he was sixteen years old. Everett had agreed to take the scouting trip with him to Death Valley before he knew that Joy would be moving in just days before.
This was his first time returning home to find Joy in the house, and it was a sweet experience indeed.
“Hi,” he greeted her as he walked into the large bedroom they’d converted into studio space for Joy. She stood before a half-finished canvas and was in the process of hastily rinsing off her paintbrushes. She dropped the brushes in a jar when she saw him and turned toward him, her face glowing.
“Welcome home,” she said before she flew into his arms. He lifted her feet off the ground, hugging her tight with his face pressed at the juncture of her neck and shoulder. He inhaled the smell of her floral shampoo, the singular fragrance of her skin and the slight hint of her paints—a scent combination he’d come to treasure as uniquely Joy’s.
“I like the sound of that,” he murmured as he lifted his head. He studied her face for a moment, gratified to see happiness in every nuance of her expression. He kissed her soundly.
“Did Rill finalize the set locations in Death Valley?” she asked when he lifted his head a moment later.
“Yeah. It’s going to be a brutal schedule. Rill wants to finish in ten weeks in order to keep down costs,” Everett murmured, touching her cheek softly. It’d grown pink and warm following their kiss. Her hazel eyes grew smoky at his caress.
“At least we’ll be together,” she murmured, turning her head and kissing his palm. Joy would be at the onsite shoot in her new capacity as partner of Hightower Special Effects. “It’ll be the first time we’ve worked together . . . officially, anyway.”
“What about the Vanity Fair cover?” Everett muttered distractedly as she pressed another kiss to his palm, and then tasted his skin with a warm, red tongue. He referred to a magazine cover they’d collaborated on several months ago. Joy had done a nude body painting of Everett that was already becoming a collector’s item. Joy had posed him in front of a background mural depicting a sunlit field of grapes. Everett stood in front of a trellis where ripe fruit hung, his body paint of sun-soaked leaves, vines and the weave of the trellis precisely matching the background so that he blended perfectly into the scene. She’d made him into a fucking God with that painting—a fertile Dionysus coaxed by her paintbrush into springing right out of the canvas.
The painting had been a private affair between Everett and Joy. The result had been stunning, Joy having caught his rising desire for her as she tortured him with her tickling paintbrush just as she had done that first day in the studio. His tense, rigid muscles, the flame of arousal in his eyes as he stared at her, a painful erection that didn’t entirely dissipate for three solid hours while she worked—all of it had been captured in the painting. When they’d finally made love afterward, it’d been like an inferno tearing through a fireworks storehouse.
All of it had ended up in the final photograph except his actual cock. For the cover photo, Joy had inserted a lush, large, juicy-looking bunch of grapes between his thighs in place of his raging erection.
“The Vanity Fair cover was hardly work,” Joy said before she slipped one of his fingers between her lips.
“You know, I never really got you back for that,” Everett mused as he watched her suck on his finger. His cock twitched when she began to slide it in and out of her warm mouth. He threaded the fingers of his other hand through her soft hair. It’d grown a few inches in the past few months. She wore it in a short bob that emphasized her cheekbones and large eyes. He’d been relieved and beyond grateful that Joy had been pronounced perfectly healthy at her last checkup. In the future, she’d only have to return every six months.
“You’ve gotten me back plenty of times,” she murmured around his finger, giving him a bewitching smile before she bit the tip of his finger gently and released him.
“Not in the exact same way.”
“Do you want to paint me?” she asked, amused.
“Yes.”
She blinked.
“Of course I won’t be able to do it with a thousandth of your skill, but my body paint will have its advantages.”
She arched her eyebrows, looking bemused but interested. He grinned and walked out of the room, only to return a few minutes later with the box that had been delivered with the mail.
“I ordered this for you,” he said, ripping open the box. “Well, for me, too.”
Joy read the label on the package.
“‘Erotic edible body paints—chocolate, strawberry, blueberry, peach and sweet cream.’”
Everett pumped his eyebrows. “Do you have any unused brushes?”
She laughed. “Yes.” She walked over to a large bureau and opened a drawer. “Here,” she said, handing him several brushes.
“Take off your clothes, little girl.”
She gave him a droll glance, but began to unbutton her cotton blouse.
He watched her fixedly while he tore off several sheets of the white paper Joy used to protect the carpeting while she painted, the result being that he didn’t make the paper long enough and had to start all over. When he’d laid several layers of the paper on the floor, he said, “Be right back.” He hastened to Joy’s and his bedroom and retrieved their favorite pair of padded leather cuffs from the bedside table. He grabbed a pillow from the hall closet.
“I didn’t handcuff you for the Dionysus painting,” she chastised amusedly when he reentered the room.
“Yeah, but I almost always cuff you. No reason to alter the tradition just because of a paint job,” he murmured silkily, approaching her. She looked extremely beautiful standing there wearing nothing but a tiny pair of pale pink panties. Her breasts looked firm, full and tender, contrasting markedly with her delicate, narrow rib cage. He caressed one of the soft globes, molding her to his palm. Her nipple stiffened so quickly, he leaned down and pressed his lips to it, so grateful for her responsiveness . . . her sweetness.