Read The Kiss for Free Online

like I’m a layer of paint or a sheet of old wallpaper ripe for stripping.
    ‘You’re lovely,’ he says.
    Whoa, whoa, whoa. Not going there.
    ‘Now that I’ve got you standing still,’ I say, whipping out my phone, ‘can I message you this number or what?’
    He takes the phone from me and places it beside the long mirror. ‘Later. I was going to do my skull, but I’ve changed my mind. I’m going to paint you instead.’
    The jungle vine posing for photos is wearing pants and paint and nothing else.
    ‘No way,’ I say, horrorstruck.
    ‘I’m not asking you to take your clothes off,’ he assures me, pulling small pots of paint and different brushes
from the pockets on his jacket. He pauses for a beat. ‘Not yet, anyway.’
    I want to flirt back but the Cat of Mistrust holds me in its amber gaze. I glance around the room to regain my composure. I feel him grinning over his paints, opening lids and checking colours.
    ‘Does it wash off?’ I ask at last.
    He circles his face with his finger, reminding me that he was a skull less than an hour ago. It has the distracting effect of centring my gaze on his features: long-lashed eyes the colour of the sea at Brighton, a strong straight nose, a small scar on his upper lip.
    What choice do I have?
    ‘You can paint my hand,’ I say reluctantly. ‘But you have to promise you’ll call Tab’s boyfriend.’
    ‘Deal.’
    ‘You mean it?’
    He takes a packet of make-up wipes from his pocket and cleans the back of my hand. ‘Not everyone in this business uses wipes, but I prefer it,’ he says, blowing to dry the surface of the skin. ‘Paint is useless over moisturizer, and these make sure the skin is clean and dry. And I already told you that I always mean what I say. Keep still now.’
    This is the point at which I should relax. Job done, promise made. But I can’t. Him blowing on my hand has just sent me into orbit.
    He paints on a base layer and blows again, waggling my hand in the air like it’s a straw-filled rubber glove on a scarecrow’s arm. When the base is dry, he dips the point of a smaller brush into a pot of red paint and puts the tip of the brush on my skin. I bite my lip. It tickles, and is cold. It is also the sexiest thing anyone has ever done to me. Seriously. If hands could dribble, mine would be dribbling. Mesmerized, I watch him stroke the little brush between the veins leading from my fingers to my wrists.
    I do my best to sound cool. ‘What are you painting?’
    ‘Blood, bones, veins and arteries. The things that make us real.’
    I think about this, mainly because it stops me thinking about other more dangerous things. ‘You paint what’s real in the same way that you mean everything you say?’
    He pauses, as though surprised by what I thought was obvious. ‘Truth is a big thing with me,’ he says at last.
    ‘Get you, Gandhi.’
    I shut my eyes at the warmth of his breath on my fingers as he leans in closer. The brush sweeps up and down my skin. I have to say something else or risk bursting into flames.
    ‘Is this a hobby or a life plan?’
    ‘I’m not working in bars all my life. All those sci-fi lizard men and undead zombies you see at the multiplex? Some day they’ll be down to me.’
    ‘So much for keeping it real.’
    He laughs. ‘You may have a point.’
    As he blows on my skin again, my hand zings urgent messages all over my body. The Lust Labrador starts to drag me down dark and sultry paths.
    ‘Do your friends let you practise on them?’ I squeak.
    Blue paint next, following the tracery of my veins. ‘They’re generally too busy stealing cars.’
    I laugh in a mildly hysterical way. He raises his eyebrows.
    ‘You’re serious?’ I say, realizing.
    ‘You’re learning, grasshopper.’
    He keeps painting me as the rest of the artists and models take turns before Kev the bullet man’s camera lens. The smell of hash grows stronger; the music grows louder. I remain on my chair, lulled into a state of highly charged