Doing It for Love (All About Love #1) (5 page)

His warm body feels so good against mine. He’s never danced like this before. Hands exploring but not overstepping, breath hot and heavy in my ear, keeping my ass close enough to feel the explosions between us, but far enough away to not actually
touch.

What were we talking about?

Asses.

No.

Backdrop. Playback. Oh! His movie…

“Did you use the special neon paint for your zombies?” Yes, zombies. Let’s talk about gross makeup and dead people coming back to life.

“Of
course
,” he teases. “That’s what makes them scary.”

The music tempo changes a bit, or maybe it’s not the music at all, just Landon dancing behind me. One of his hands grips my hip while the other strokes my ribs. I tangle my fingers into his hair, enjoy the scruff of his chin against my cheek, and rub against him as much as I can without breaking any rules. But damn, this is harder than I thought it’d be.

Lots of things are hard.

I’m sure it’s hard.

But I’m not going to feel it.

Nope.

“I want paint on me,” I blurt. Hips are knocking and the waves are reverberating in the Land of Liz, and I am not proving Landon right on “Flakey Lizzie.”

“Well,” he says, moving my body toward the drums. A worker is placing new paint on top while a few clubbers start pounding the instruments, spattering everyone within range. Landon’s scruff tickles my neck as he says, “There are the drums.” He moves me a few more inches. “Or the paint balloons.”

Paint balloons.

Paint balls.

Balls.

Landon’s—

“Or we could paint each other,” Landon suggests. He nods up the stairs to several curtained-off areas. Friends and couples go in paint free and come out with designs, handprints, and other various art over their skin and clothing. I turn to Landon with a big grin, resting my chin on my shoulder. He laughs at my smile and wraps his hand around mine.

“Come on.” He leads me up a few sets of stairs, above the main dance floor, and over the paint drums. The beats continue to thump through my chest, making me want to grab Landon and dance some more. A couple passes us as they leave one of the curtained areas, freshly painted and holding hands. I squeeze Landon’s fingers twice. He squeezes back once.

One of the club workers pulls back a curtain. Landon ducks in first, pulling me behind him. The club worker says, “If we’re out of any color, let us know.”

Landon nods and brings me in front of him. I lean against his warm chest and look around the room.

There’s a table with all the neon colors of the rainbow in big cereal bowls. Sponges and brushes sit next to each color, and two chairs are placed across from each other next to the table. Landon pulls the curtains closed behind us, encasing us in darkness, minus the paint and our clothing.

“You want to go first?” he asks.

“Don’t get any paint on this.” I hold up my hand, twirling the ring with my thumb.

“Here,” he says, leaning up and grabbing his wallet from his back pocket. “I’ll hold on to it.”

I hesitate, but only because I love the new weight on my hand. After eyeing the paint one more time I slide the ring off and let him settle it into one of the wallet pouches. My hand already feels way empty. Weird. I’ve only had it for a day.

We sit and Landon scoots his chair forward so his knees hit mine. “Pick a color.”

“All of them.”

He squeezes my knee, and then taps his chin as if debating what to use first. I settle my hand on his leg.

“So, Fiancé”—yep, love that word—“why are we wearing white?” I ask as he dips a sponge into the orange. He swipes the excess paint on the side of the bowl and leans in close.

“Blank canvas.” He grins. The first cool stroke hits my neck. He curls it down over my chest in a swoop. I like this.
Really
like this. My skin feels electric and my jitters won’t settle and my smile won’t go away. My heart pounds beneath his fingers, and my grip tightens on his knee. I start inching my hand up, and right when I reach his upper thigh I remember I’m not supposed to go any farther. Bad hand. Knock that shit off.

His eyebrow rises, and he dips another sponge, this one blue, and he sweeps it over my cheek. A low moan erupts in the back of my throat. What is wrong with me? It’s been one day since we had the metaphorical beast with two backs. I’ve gone much longer, and suddenly cold paint and Landon and dancing and drumbeats are already changing my mind on the Bahamas thing.

No. Not
thing
. It’s my honeymoon! And I’m not losing a day in. I’m not losing the warm vacation over one night of paint sex. Granted, while that visual has me moaning out loud already, I want to wait long enough that our sex will be toe-curlingly amazing night after night for the rest of our lives.

And then Landon grins, leans down, and kisses the spot right under my earlobe.

Seductive devil.

I move my hand—mistake—because now I visualize a vat of paint and passion and his tongue on my neck, his teeth on my bottom lip, his groans echoing mine, and hopping on every ride there is in Chocolateville until I’m completely satiated.

His hands are on my waist now, pulling me into his lap, sponge forgotten while he moves his mouth to mine. Blue paint from my cheek transfers to his skin, glints of orange from my neck stain his hands as he moves them across my body, expertly avoiding the off-limit areas.

I keep my butt planted firmly on his thighs, desperately wanting to slam into his hips, match the beat of the drums in the room, but I can’t. I can’t lose now. It’s starting to feel like strawberries and whipped cream, and if that happens within the first day, imagine what it’ll be like in five months.

His tongue slides over my bottom lip, and I know if I let him continue I’ll lose. I’m already inching on his lap. I can’t breathe, so I rip myself away to get air. I need
air
. Lovely, nonseductive air. But he’s still kissing and licking and
devouring
my skin, leaving me so hot and hungry and pained that I lose all sense and grab the first bowl of paint my fingers can reach…and dump it on his lap.

He jolts underneath me, completely breathless. His eyes drift to his pants now covered in bright green. A small laugh tumbles out of my mouth, and a wicked glint appears in his gaze. I jump off his lap just as he reaches for the red paint.

“I’m sorry!” I squeal, backing up with my hands raised. “I didn’t mean to.”

“Didn’t mean to?” He gestures at his green soaked pants. Dribbles pour down his legs when he stands. Laughter escapes me, and I know more than one bowl of paint will find itself on me.

I pause in my tracks, eyes flicking between the table and Landon. He better not start. We’ll wreck the entire club with bowls of paint. And I’m about to tell him that, but it happens in a flash of paint spatter and tangled limbs. I dive for the table, knocking over a chair and slamming into Landon’s torso. He pours the red paint down the front of my dress, sliding it in between my cleavage. I’m screaming and laughing as I plunge my fist into the pink bowl and manage a good swipe all over the right side of his face.

“Wait, wait!” he says, and I pause. Did I get it in his eye? But he just gives me a wicked grin, and I turn and run through the curtains. Mother-effing trickster! Cool paint splashes across my upper back as Landon chases, bowl of yellow in hand. I duck into another painting section and grab the pink from a very confused couple. Then I emerge and get Landon across his chest, splashing handprints all over his torso as he covers my shoulders and arms.

“Wait, wait!” I scream this time. Landon wraps his arms around my waist and laughs.

“Not falling for it,” he says, and pours the yellow down the back of my dress. I gasp and shiver, and then dump the bowl of pink over his head.

His arms tighten on my waist, and I’m lifted from my feet in a fit of giggles. He carries me over his shoulder to the paint balloon section, tickling the back of my knees as he does. Alec and Jace start cheering Landon’s name, and like a good best friend Theresa starts the girls chanting mine as he sets me down next to the balloon coolers. The pink paint dribbles from his smile lines, and he smashes a balloon against my stomach. I grapple for my own balloon and press it into the small of his back.

He takes another, pops it in his hand, and runs the paint over my neck. My laughter subsides, but my smile is permanent when he pulls me up, pressing his lips against mine. He tastes like paint and fun and laughter and forever.

A loud shout comes from the drum section, and when we part we both catch Theresa standing on top of a railing, shot glass raised high in the air.

“Cheers to the couple who found love when they’re just babies. May you guys last longer than a year!”

Laughter and cheers surround us along with a few jokes that should piss me off, but don’t because Landon takes my face in his hands again and looks into my eyes as if I’ve been plucked from the sun. His thumbs stroke my paint-stained cheeks, and he kisses me as if he can’t believe he’s caught this sundrop. But he has. He’s totally caught me, and I’m never letting him toss me back.

His hand runs down my neck, over my shoulder, down my arm, landing in my own hand.

He squeezes twice.

And I squeeze back once.

When I fell in love with Landon, I was too afraid to tell him. We had just made love for the first time and there was this moment in his bed, staring at the moonlight across the ceiling, listening to his heartbeat and his heavy breathing when it almost fell out. But I didn’t want to say it first. It had only been a few weeks, and at the time, I had no idea if he was one of those guys who freaks out with the L-word or not.

But he squeezed my hand twice as I rested it on his chest. Out of instinct, I squeezed back once.

I started noticing the two-time hand squeeze after certain moments or looks he gave me. Once when I quoted Edward Scissorhands to him. Another when I stole one of his hats and wore it during our date. More squeezes when we’d say goodnight. One night I finally asked him about it.

“What?” he whispered in the dark. I tucked my cold toes up against his shin.

“You always squeeze my hand twice.”

“Yeah.” It’s all he said…at first. And we both drifted into sleep.

But at some point during the night, he woke me, hovering over me, looking as wide-awake as the moon. I asked what was wrong, and he took my face in his palms, rested his forehead against mine, and said, “Two squeezes mean I love you.”

His fingers snaked down my body, leaving chills in their wake. He grasped my hand and pumped it twice.

“I’ve been too afraid to say it,” he admitted with a small smile. “But I’ve been saying it to you for a long time now.”

I remember my heart pounding, my sleepy smile widening. And I squeezed back, saying, “I’ve been saying ‘I love you too’ for a long time now.”

It’s been our silent expression ever since. So when we’re in a crowded room, half asleep, or arguing, whenever he squeezes my hand twice I know he still loves me. I’ve always squeezed back.

I blink out of my daze, rubbing my hands under the shower stream. The paint mixture pours off my skin down to the drain, and I keep giving myself extra squeezes, imagining Landon’s hands around mine. Thank heavens I had the good sense to shower at Theresa’s. His wet body is tempting a few doors down; I can’t imagine what a hormonal mess I’d be if we washed off together.

After rinsing the neon from my nooks and crannies, I shut the shower off and grab at a ratty towel Theresa keeps under her sink. Her counter is completely cluttered with hair products, makeup, and perfumes. Long brown hair covers the floor, and I towel-dry my head, adding blond strands to the pile.

Landon takes longer showers than I do, so I take my time getting dressed, borrowing some of Theresa’s pajamas. She’s still at the club, probably completely wasted by now. She was maintaining a balanced buzz when I left, but that was an hour ago. I asked Jace to make sure she got a cab. Hopefully, he stays coherent enough to listen.

I make her bed because it drives me crazy that the comforter is hanging off the edge and the sheet is matted at the bottom. Just as I’m fluffing her pillows, I hear a key struggling to get in the lock.

Theresa giggles as the door creaks open. I tuck my phone in my back pocket with a laugh, ready to put her to bed and set some Advil on the nightstand for her in the morning, but a crash, thud, and low grunt stops me in the bedroom doorway.

My eyes bug out, staring at the hallway pictures, when I hear her say, “I want you in me.”

“Theresa,” a male voice answers. I think I know that voice. “You’re drunk.”

“Yep.” She attempts to purr. “Take advantage, because this won’t happen when I’m sober.”

Something shuffles across the floor, and I dive for the closet. I should’ve known she was going to bring someone home. Theresa has more bedpost notches than I’d like to know about.

As soon as I’ve confirmed “male voice” is long gone I’ll slide out. Unless he tries to take advantage while she’s passed out. Then I’ll grab a wire hanger and slice off his man jewels.

I keep the door open a crack, but I don’t catch anything but two very painted figures. The one covered in bright blue takes the towel I used and spreads it across the bed, fumbling with holding Theresa up at the same time. He finally huffs in defeat and ends up dropping her to the mattress.

“Wait,” she says.

“What?”

“It feels good. You on top of me.”

Oh, sweet mother. I hear kissing. Lots of it. And breathing and groaning, and as close as I am with the girl, I do not want to hear her drunken sex noises.

“Theresa…” Male Voice groans. He says something else, and I start singing “Itsy Bitsy Spider” under my breath, hoping to drown out the sloppy kissing sounds.

Slurp.

Went up the waterspout.

Thump.

Down came the rain.

Mmmmm.

And washed the spider out.

“Take them off.”

“Theresa…,” Male Voice says again.

“Stay,” she mumbles. I hear a zipper, and I reach for a hanger.

“You need…you need to sleep,” he argues back. I shoot upright, peeking out the crack because it’s clicked. I know who that voice belongs to.

He tucks another towel around her, and by the light snoring I know she’s passed out. I drop the hanger, knowing she won’t be fondled in her sleep with present company. I notice him tucking her pink stained hair behind her ear, looking at her like I’ve only seen Landon look at me. A small tug at the corner of his lips looks like both a smile and a frown. Like he’s gaining and losing something. It seems such a private moment I duck back into the closet. I’ll just wait till he leaves, but who knows how long that’ll be. So I take my phone out, make sure it’s on complete silent mode, and tap a text to Landon before my battery dies.

Theresa’s drunk. Might be a bit before I get back to you.

Landon responds so fast it’s like he had the joke saved on his phone.

Don’t get too friendly with the showerhead.

I am NOT a cheater,
I tap back
. Besides, I don’t need it ;)

Liar. I was sexy as hell tonight.

Not as sexy as me.

You are tough competition. But I look better in pink.

He sends me a picture of the two of us in the middle of our paint fight. I grin at the fact that he’s more covered than I am.

Who took that?

You were tagged on Facebook.

I raise my eyebrow and turn on my Wi-Fi. But before I can jump over to Facebook, my screen goes blank as my battery quits. Damn it. I just hope people had the sense not to announce my engagement yet.

Letting out a very bored sigh, I wiggle around the closet, shaking my head at the disorganization in here. Theresa needs to start putting her autumn clothes up front. It’s almost September, so I move the sundresses to the back of the walk-in and hang the cardigans up by color near the front. After that I slouch to the floor and rearrange her shoes. None of the pairs are together, just sort of tossed in. No wonder she’s always late.

After I’ve straightened every inch of her closet—she’ll pitch a fit about it, but I know she’ll secretly be grateful—I peer through the crack and let out a relieved sigh. Just Theresa, sound asleep with her mouth open and her painted hair stuck to the pillow.

I tiptoe across the carpet, startle at the shape on Theresa’s towel-covered couch, but he too is asleep, mouth wide open and painted hair mashed into a rolled towel. I allow myself a silent laugh, because I never ever considered these two together. Now it’s all I can think about.

Holding my breath, I slowly twist the doorknob and sneak into the hallway. Once it’s clicked shut I allow myself to breathe and race to my own door twenty feet down.

Landon’s leaning against our card table, laptop open, glasses sliding down his nose as he taps away. He’s got several windows open—movie footage, an Excel spreadsheet, iTunes, and an editing program. I smell his body wash and shampoo, and I absolutely love that fresh manly smell. Setting down my phone, I sneak up behind him and put my head on his shoulder.

“Bedtime,” I say. If I don’t, he’ll be up all night editing.

“Five more minutes.”

“Now, mister.”

He saves everything and shuts the laptop, encasing us in darkness. But I can still see the reflection of the moon in his glasses.

“Did you have fun?” he asks, taking my hand and leading us to the bedroom.

“Mmhmm. Can I have my ring back now?”

He nods and tucks me into our bed. He sets his glasses in their case, and when we get snuggled under the covers he pulls the ring from his wallet and reaches for my hand. It takes him one, two, three shots to finally get it on the right finger in the dark. I’m laughing at him when it slides into place.

“I’m blind. Give me a break.”

His body molds to mine, his belly button to the small of my back, leg tucked between my calves, chest pressed against my spine, and hot breath spreading on my neck. My heart thumps unevenly as he laces our fingers together and sets our hands on my hip.

I’m so tired I feel like I could sink through the mattress and stay there forever. But Landon’s lips start to graze over my neck, sending goose bumps up and down my sides. My grip tightens on his hand, and I press my knees together, trapping his leg. I feel his teeth against my skin when he smiles. Damn him.

I wiggle to the very edge of the bed, but like a smart-ass he follows. The scruff on his chin is driving me wild, and as tired as I was five seconds ago, that’s how
not
tired I am now.

“Lizzie?” he says in a deep voice. His sex voice. I squeeze my eyes shut and pretend I’m immune to his charm.

He pulls on my pajama top, uncovering my shoulder. He presses a warm kiss there. “You called me your fiancé tonight.”

“You bet your sweet ass I did.”

“I liked it.”

“Fiancé,” I say in a seductive lilt. His kisses trail across my shoulder and neck. I take a deep breath and lift my shoulder, cutting him off.

“You knock that off.”

“What?” he says, running his fingers over my arm. He squeezes my elbow twice.

I reach back and squeeze his thigh.

Oh, how easy it is to thwart Elizabeth Fanning when you have muscles like Landon Wangford. How can I forget how much I love the tone of his legs, the feel of his boxer shorts, the manly hair sprouting from his skin? I snatch my hand away before it squeezes his ass—his perfect ass—and before I dip my hand under his waistband, I dig my nails into his toned-as-hell flesh, let him thrust up against me, feeling just how hard he gets because of
me
.

Seriously…it hasn’t even been twenty-four hours since our bet and I’m ready to change my mind. I’m kind of relieved it’s proving to be difficult to keep my hands off him. After four years and the quickies and the meh times, I thought we’d lost that spark, but my screaming lady parts say otherwise.

Utah won’t be that bad. I mean, there’s skiing, and we won’t want to leave the hotel for long anyway.

Well, Landon will. He’ll be doing the film festival thing and talking “movie tech” stuff I don’t understand. I can handle it, but…it will be our honeymoon. How long is the festival? Will he have time for me if we’re there?

Doesn’t matter. He’ll love it, and that’s important. I go to wiggle my butt against his erection—because I’m sure he has one—but I stop.

He’d never let me live it down if I broke the rules first. I can hear him now. “See, Liz, you get excited about new ideas, then change your mind. It’s okay. I like that about you.”

Not this time, buddy.

Landon bites my earlobe, and I growl, roll out of bed, and snatch up my pillow.

“What’d I do?” he asks. I ignore him. He knows damn well what he’s doing.

“I’m going to the couch till you fall asleep.” I yank on the extra blanket, and he grabs it and pulls me forward.

“Don’t leave.”

“I have to.”

“Why?”

“Because if you keep kissing my neck, I’m going to lose.” A smile forms on my lips. “And that’s not going to happen.”

He gives me a victorious grin. “Stay.” His hand comes up to cup my face, his thumb runs over the apple of my cheek, and he leans in. My whole body buzzes and buzzes, and I know if he kisses me that’s it. I’ll jump on top of him and take it all the way.

“Good night, babe,” I say, lightly pushing his sexy face away.

He whines into the sheets while I bump the door with my hip on my way out. I can’t even walk straight.

A chill goes up my spine when I settle on the couch. I wiggle around and tuck a blanket under my legs to warm up. Then I turn the TV on and put it on the bloodiest channel I can find. After stopping on Saw number who-knows-what, and seeing a guy get doused in pig guts for twenty minutes, I’m completely turned off.

Light snores filter into the room, so I sneak back into the warm bed. Landon’s back is to me, rising and falling with deep breaths. I kiss his shoulder, then turn my back to him, cuddling with my pillow and our comforter. Oh, just imagine the rides I’ll get to experience on our wedding night. A victorious smile hits my lips now. I am the master of my own libido.