He flattens his front to my back, moves my hair aside and brings his lips to my ear. A chill moves through my entire body when his warm breath hits. “I want to paint a guitar on your belly.” He grabs my left hand and stretches it out. “And the frets on your arm.” Lyle nibbles my lobe while lightly feathering his fingers along the sensitive skin on the inner side of that arm. Suddenly this all seems very sensual. “And play it on your body along to the recording.”

“Are you trying to seduce me, Mr. Livingston?” I ask, looking back at him over my shoulder with fireflies dancing in my chest. My voice is breathy. “Because if you are, it’s working.”

“Always,” he says, nibbling from my ear along my neck and finally placing a tender kiss to my shoulder.

His touch has me tingling all the way down to my toes. Excitement buzzes in the air. “I can’t wait to hear it.”

His grin is reminiscent of the boy I grew up with as he whips a stool out from behind the counter, motioning for me to sit. “You’ll have to lose the shirt.” My husband’s tone is less than apologetic. A Boy Scout, he is not.

“But I’m not wearing a bra.” I bring a hand to my chest, feigning innocence.

His head shakes. “You usually aren’t wearing a shirt either.”

“Touché.” I shrug, dipping my head side to side before ripping his threadbare tee over my head, leaving me in just a pair of pink cotton panties. If I’d have had any clue I’d be put on display like this, I’d have worn something sexy. But the fire blazing in his amber eyes says he’s not the least bit deterred by my less than impressive undies. “Everything okay?” I ask when he just stands there staring.

“Sorry.” He reaches out to tweak one of my nipples, causing my breath to catch, “you’re very distracting.”

“Should I go put on a bra?” I offer, though the idea is not very appealing.

“No, of course not.” His brow furrows. “I can control myself.”

I snort, because that remains to be seen.

“I said, I can…I just usually choose not to.”

“Then by all means, paint me.” I wave both hands in the air, motioning to his canvas.

“I’m not much of an artist,” he volunteers as he rubs my belly down with alcohol wipes to remove any oil from my skin. “So, don’t laugh at my elementary painting skills.”

“I will try my best.” I smooth a hand through his mop of brown hair when he crouches before me and brings the tiny face-painting brush to my belly.

“Just gonna do a simple round body. It’ll look better on your belly than the traditional shape.” His entire face is taut, his focus absolute.

“Okay,” I say, trying not to giggle.