Two Worlds Crossed

Chapter 56

RACHEL

As getting to the restaurant, Lauren begins my arm to lead me to the buffet of food and all my favorite, bacon burgers, baked Mac and cheese then Lauren opens up the cake box, "It's tripe fudge chocolate, your favorite," she tells me, and I hug her, "Thank you, I love you" I tell her, dip my finger into the cake a little, "Umm, delicious. Did you do this yourself?". She shakes her head, "No, I help Ezra. He did everything, even blowing up the balloons himself, I think him at least two days to figure out that the balloons had an air pump—-"

"Haha, so funny, you probably hid it from me so I can die of no air," Ezra comes behind me with glasses of champagne, "I got us with champagne," he hands me a drink, and I take a sip; Lauren rolls her eyes, "You don't have enough air in your ego," she jokes around as he sticks the middle finger at her and I laugh.

...

Three hours later, I'm dancing on the dance with holing. I think my gift glass of champagne can barely feel my feet, I don't know if it's the alcohol or the dancing, but I feel so amazing. I look around where people are either dancing or such, and then I see my mother talking to Ezra, so I try my best to go over there without falling in my face.

"What are you guys talking about?" I ask, leaning against Ezra, he looks at me then looks away from smelling the alcohol in my breath, "Birthday girl? I think it's time to go, and nice to meet you, Angie," he tells my mother and begins to laugh nonstopping from him messing up her name.

"BYE, MOM!" I scream out that people look at me as being scooped away from Ezra over his shoulder and carried me out of the restaurant; I look down at his ass, touch, "YOU HAVE A NICE ASS," I admit, smack it, and he laughs, "You have told me that." Once getting to the car, I'm ready to kick him if I can, "PUT ME DOWN, YOU PARTY POOPER! WOO! WOO! WE HAVE A PARTY POOPER OVER HERE!" I continue shouting out, get down, he puts my hand over my mouth, "Would you be quiet? Please!" he begs me a little, I do a childish thing to lick his hand, and he pulls away.

Ezra opens the door, carefully puts me in the car, seatbelt me in, "Stay seated, please?" he begs, and I nod okay.

While driving to the apartment, I sing any Christmas that comes on the radio like if I was one of the annoying Christmas carols you get every Christmas time. One year, my dad had too much whiskey eggnog that he started singing with the melodies, and I started laughing.

We get to the apartment without me falling in my face, open the door; I immediately walk to the couch, pull a fluffy pillow onto my chest then suddenly Ezra bends down to my feet, take off my heels, and starts rubbing them, "You like that?" he asks, and I nod yes. "What's so funny?" he asks when taking off his suit jacket with one hand still on the wheel and handing it to me, "Nothing. I just remembered something about my dad and wish he would have come," I admit, slip my arms in the sleeves; it's so warm like a warm blanket after a cold day.

As rolling my head around, something catches my eye on the table, "What are those?" I wonder, look at them and smile when handing them to me, "Open them," he tells me, I glare at him with a smirk, and I grab and start ripping the wrapping paper up, and it's something written.

"Did you umm write," I try to speak, open it, and it's so beautifully handwritten, "A love letter!" I ask him and tear up a little.

"It's a letter, no mushy love letter," he says, trying to take it away, but it pulls away, "Can you read to me?" I ask as wiping my tears, "Yes, my love, but," he answers, holds my face between his hands as they are still cold. I will take all of the heat and burn along with the cold and freeze in the world with him, but only if he doesn't hurt me. How can someone who has freezing hands but can still burn into your soul by just gazing into your own eyes?

"I will read it to you when you are sober enough," he says, putting the letter behind him, and I pout, "You are no fun. Can I at least get one of my presents?" I question in a sarcastic tone.

...

Moments later, Ezra drags me to the loft upstairs that he bought when buying the apartment but blindfolds me again for another surprise as much I can't handle another shock, I still get excited for each one.

"Are you ready?" he whispers, rubbing his hands on my shoulders, "Yes," I say with excitement and still tasting alcohol. He takes off the blindfold, the first thing I see is the humorous canvas next to the cans of paint, "Are we going to paint? What are we going to paint?" I wonder as running towards the color, and he laughs, "It's body paint, and our bodies are the art so strip," he demands, walks me with taking off his shirt, and instantly my legs feel like jelly.

I try to reach behind me, but the zipper is already undone, "Strip down until you are wearing nothing," he tells me as unbuttoning his shirt, I turn around, "Wow," I utter out without knowing, staring at every tattoo on his now built body, he looks at his torso, "I have been working out recently," he answers when I trace his scalped abs, "I can tell and how often?".

"Three times a week, tops after work when I have a chance to but let's stop stopping about my routine shit and make some art," he answers, walks in front of the canvas, and throws his pants to the side along with his boxers, "Are you going to join or stare at me like I'm a piece of meat?".

I shrug my shoulder and smile, "C-can you umm," I stutter my words when distracted by how good he is when naked, and my cheeks grow redder, "Please turn around?" I ask nicely, beg him with a pouting lip he can't resist but rolls his eyes and turns around; I throw my dress across the room along with my underwear, the dress I wore didn't have room for a bra, so I just lay down on the canvas and thank god to myself that I shaved this morning, "Okay, turn around now," I yell out. As turning around, he immediately drops his mouth walks over to me.

Seconds later, Ezra pulls the purple paint aside him, each hand grabbing a handful of color and starting smearing them all over my cheeks and dragging them down to my breast, "You are a piece of my, my art," he says, then dip his hands in the red, and make purple as continuing painting my skin, "My muse," lifts my arms, pin them with his arms above my head, "And my definition of raw beauty," he leans closer to my ear, "Lift your ass," he asks with a smirk.

"Why?" I ask as doing what I'm being told and feeling his painted hands on my ass, "I'm marking you as mine," he grabs each cheek and slightly squeezes before flipping us over. I'm covering every inch of ink with the paint and making new colors, "Having fun there?" he props his head with his arm. I nod before he flips us over once again, "Let's make something before everything dries up?" he questions; I nod yes as agreeing when he grabs another handful of paint. I smile when holding the last paint can of his favorite color, black, and draw some little hearts on torsos when the tattoos are already shaped of art.

After two hours of forming a new kind of paint, we are covered in paint in different colors, so we go back to the apartment without leaving footprints, luckily the loft at a sink to wash up.