“How did that get there?”
Picking up the brush from the pan on the floor, I reached up and painted over it. Unfortunately, this also meant I was now committed to making sure there weren’t any other spots that needed extra work as well, so I went around touching them up so that we had a good first coat down.
Finally, I took a step back to look around again and stood right in the stupid pan of paint I’d left behind me.
Why would someone do something so stupid? Because I was too lazy to walk five steps to the right, that’s why.
I was only wearing socks, too, so I felt the paint almost immediately and screamed.
This was a disaster. If I took my foot out, I’d get paint all over the plastic sheeting, which Prince and Doyle would then track through the house.
What if it didn’t dry overnight and I walked through it in the morning? I was going to have to take my sock off and drop it in the pan until I could get a bag to throw it into.
It might have sounded like a dramatic reaction, but the frustrated, wailing scream that came out of me was warranted given the circumstances.
I was so focused on my tragedy that I didn’t even hear Logan running down the stairs.
In fact, the only warning I had that he was reacting to my screams was when he ran into the living room—wearing only a towel and with shampoo still in his hair—and his bellow, as he put his foot in the paint pan he’d been using on the other side of the room.
I looked up just in time to see physics work against him.
His forward momentum meant that the pan skidded forward, separating his legs as it shot forward, leaving a trail of paint behind it. Then, his arms came out and windmilled around to try and balance him, but as he put the now paint-covered foot down, it slipped on the plastic sheeting.
With the toes of his paint-free foot on the ground, his blue-footed leg came up into the air before he fell onto his back. Almost like it happened in slow motion, his body hit the ground, the towel came undone, and I stood open-mouthed as his penis lifted then dropped back down.
I wish I could say there was a noise that accompanied it, but the air leaving his lungs followed by the gasping breath he took and his limbs all connecting with the ground kind of drowned it out.
Nothing would ever drown out the visual I’d likely have for the rest of my life of his dick dancing, though. Oh hell no, nothing would get rid of that.
It was like watching those Newton’s Cradle balls hitting off one another on a desk.
Finally, once everything had stopped bouncing—outwardly, not inside my mind—he rolled onto his side and gasped, “Fucking hell, Bex. What the fuck?”
“That’s a lot of fucks.”
And a lot of penis, but I was too much of a lady to say that out loud.
I wasn’t too much of one not to make a mental note of it, though.
Still panting, he pushed himself up to sitting, with one arm braced on the floor to support him. I’d like to point out—not to him—that his towel remained open, but at least his leg was supporting his cock and balls now.
“Why the hell did you scream?”
Who could think about whatever he was talking about with what he had going on right now in front of them?
Then I remembered my foot. Looking down at it, I groaned. “God damn it.”
Seeing it, he scowled at me. “That’s your issue? A blue foot?”
“And what would you have done in my socks? Walked on it? Hopped on one leg to the trash can, dripping paint on plastic sheeting that’d get tracked everywhere else?”
“I wouldn’t have made that mistake in the first place. You need to look where you’re going.”
“Remind me how you fell again?”
Unfortunately, with that reminder, he looked down at his own blue appendage. Well, technically, one blue one and one pretty pink one with a darker pinked head that was waving at me.
Being too much of a lady to wink back at him, I made a point of looking up at the ceiling while he covered himself up.
“I only stood in the paint because I thought someone was attacking you when you screamed,” he clipped, and when I looked back down at him, he was easing his way onto his feet, doing his best to stop his paint-covered foot from slipping on the plastic. “Now, how am I going to get this cleaned without making a mess everywhere?”
Sticking my foot out, I asked, “See the problem yet?”
Tipping his head back, he glared up at the ceiling. It seemed that between us, this tended to be our reaction of choice. Interesting.
Then, not saying a word, he limped out of the room, only putting pressure on his toes to keep his balance instead of placing his whole foot on the ground.
I’d just leaned down to pull my sock off, figuring that it would probably slip more on the plastic than my foot would, when there was a manly squeak and thud in the hallway.
From where they were sitting in their corners, Prince let out a mewling noise, and Doyle grumped.
“Oh, don’t you worry, I already knew to watch it on the corners. He was the one who was so sure having paint on your foot wasn’t that big of a deal.”
That was a tiny lie, sure, but in my defense, I was kind of rattled still from the whole falling penis log that I’d witnessed.
Once you saw the dick of the guy you liked, was there any going back?
Eight hours later…
I was in the middle of a great dream, one where I was safe, warm, and comfortable.
And then the ground moved, and
