Chapter 10
SLOANE
The morning light slipped through the tall windows like a secret, spilling golden across the floorboards and casting long shadows over half-finished canvases and open jars of paint. The studio was quiet, still breathing in the hush of dawn, and for once, Sloane didn’t mind the silence.
She lay half-covered in the sheets, her limbs tangled loosely in warmth and the delicious ache of the night before.
At first, she thought maybe she’d imagined Catherine’s presence, her softness, the way she’d given in not just with her body but with something far more guarded.
But when Sloane shifted, turning onto her side, there she was.
Still here.
Still sleeping.
And god, she was beautiful like this.
The light hit her just right, illuminating the line of her bare shoulder, the delicate rise and fall of her breathing.
Her hair was a little wild from sleep and sex, glossy brown strands spilling onto the pillow, framing her face in a way that made Sloane ache.
She looked…human. Soft. Not the woman who shut down conversation with a glance or wore her control like a uniform.
Sloane didn’t move, didn’t speak. She just watched for a moment, trying to memorize the exact curve of Catherine’s spine, the way her brow softened when she was truly at rest.
It felt like holding something sacred.
Catherine stirred with a quiet sigh, her brow furrowing slightly before she shifted closer, her hand drifting across the sheets and brushing against Sloane’s arm. Not fully awake yet, but instinctively reaching for her.
It was the kind of unconscious intimacy Sloane wasn’t used to, certainly not from Catherine.
Slaone smiled, soft and slow, leaning in to murmur near her ear. “Didn’t take you for the type to stay.”
Catherine made a vague sound in her throat, something between a scoff and a hum, and Sloane could feel the moment her body caught up to her brain. Her fingers paused, and her muscles tensed just slightly.
But then she blinked open her eyes and didn’t move or get up.
She just looked at Sloane, her gaze bleary but alert, her mouth opening slightly like she might speak, then choosing not to.
Sloane cocked her head. “Morning, Doctor Ice Queen.”
Catherine rolled onto her back, letting out a soft breath as her eyes drifted up to the ceiling. “You’re entirely too awake.”
“Mm.” Sloane turned onto her side, propping her head on her hand. “And you’re entirely too still here.”
Catherine’s lips twitched into something dangerously close to a smirk. “Should I be gone?”
Sloane leaned closer, dragging a finger lazily across Catherine’s stomach, just where the sheet clung to her waist. “Depends. Are you planning on disappearing again?”
Catherine looked at her, not with ice, but with something careful. “Not today.”
That, more than anything, sent a thrum of heat through Sloane’s chest. “Well,” she said, sitting up slightly, “in that case…”
She threw the sheet off her own body and stretched, naked and unapologetic, the morning air cool against her skin. Catherine’s eyes flicked toward her, but she didn’t speak, only watched, her jaw tight, like she was thinking something she wasn’t quite ready to say.
Sloane caught the look and grinned. “You’re staring.”
“You’re stretching,” Catherine deadpanned, though her gaze lingered.
Sloane turned, drawing the sheet back over herself and settling beside her again. “Don’t pretend you’re not enjoying the view. You know, I could paint you like this.”
Catherine arched a brow, the covers shifting as she moved. “Didn’t you already?”
Sloane gave a theatrical sigh, brushing her fingers lightly over the ridge of Catherine’s hip.
“Those were impressions. Abstract suggestions. But this”—her hand flattened slightly, tracing upward toward her ribs, where the rise and fall of her breath had quickened—“this is detail work. This is brushstroke by brushstroke.”
Catherine’s expression didn’t change, but her eyes darkened slightly, her breath catching just so.
Sloane smiled. “You should be painted just like this.”
Catherine huffed, but it wasn’t harsh. There was something in her gaze, something open. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I know.” Sloane leaned in, letting her lips brush the corner of Catherine’s mouth, light and teasing. “But you like it.”
“Debatable.”
“Then why are you still here?” Sloane whispered, lips now ghosting against her jaw.
Catherine didn’t answer right away. Instead, she turned, her body pressing closer, her breath warming the space between them. “Because,” she murmured, “I don’t have anywhere better to be.”
Sloane’s heart gave an odd, stuttered beat.
No declarations. No promises. But from Catherine, that was everything.
She tucked herself against her side, arm draped over Catherine’s waist, letting the quiet settle in around them again. Paints waited, canvases were still drying. There was an entire world downstairs.
But for now, there was only this.
And Sloane didn’t want to be anywhere else.
Sloane’s hand trailed idly across Catherine’s side, fingers drawing faint circles on her skin. She could feel the subtle shift in Catherine’s breathing, the way her body remained relaxed but alert. Present. Still here.
A wicked grin tugged at her lips as an idea bloomed. She slipped out from beneath the covers in one fluid motion, ignoring Catherine’s grumble of protest.
“Where are you going?” Catherine’s voice was still rough with sleep, but amused.
Sloane padded barefoot across the studio floor to a nearby table, grabbing one of her paintbrushes from a jar. She held it up like a sword, then turned and gave it a theatrical spin between her fingers.
“Let’s try something,” she said, eyes glittering.
Catherine didn’t move. She simply lifted one brow, the sheet pulled casually across her chest, her hair spilling over her shoulder like a silk curtain. “I don’t trust that look.”
Sloane winked. “It’s not dangerous.” She strolled slowly back to the bed. “Well…” She dipped the brush into a pot of deep crimson, the bristles soaking it up greedily. “Maybe a little.”
Catherine opened her mouth to argue or warn her off or maybe just make one of those sharp remarks she always had ready, but then Sloane placed one knee on the edge of the mattress and slowly leaned over her.
The first touch of the brush against Catherine’s skin made her inhale sharply.
It was light, teasing, the paint trailing a ribbon of red down the slope of her shoulder.
“That’s cold,” Catherine said through gritted teeth, though she didn’t move away.
“You’ll get used to it.” Sloane’s smile was pure mischief.
She dipped again and followed the curve of Catherine’s arm next, tracing a jagged little lightning bolt that ended at the crook of her elbow.
Another breath hitched. Catherine glared.
“You know,” she muttered, “this is not how civilized people spend the morning.”
“Mm.” Sloane ran the brush in a slow line down her side. “It’s art. You’re the one who keeps saying I’m uncivilized.”
Catherine looked at her, narrow-eyed, then reached up and snatched the brush from her hand in one graceful motion.
Sloane laughed, sitting back on her heels. “Oh, it’s on now.”
Catherine dipped the brush into a soft gold, then reached out, brushing a single, shimmering line along the ridge of Sloane’s collarbone. Her touch was delicate, almost reverent.
Sloane’s breath caught. She hadn’t expected that.
“Gold suits you,” Catherine murmured, her voice low.
Sloane tilted her head. “Are you seducing me with my own paint?”
Catherine gave her a look that was somehow both innocent and completely predatory. “Maybe.”
Sloane leaned in, brushing her lips near Catherine’s ear. “Good.”
It spiraled quickly after that.
Sloane grabbed another brush, this one loaded with cobalt blue, and painted a swooping arc across Catherine’s stomach. Catherine laughed—a rare, unrestrained sound—and retaliated with a streak of silver up Sloane’s thigh.
Paint smeared. Colors blended. Brushes clattered to the floor as fingers took over, dragging pigments across bare skin, mixing with heat and sweat and the unmistakable hum of something electric building between them.
Sloane straddled her, knees bracketing Catherine’s hips, their bodies already flushed with exertion and laughter. Her hands, slick with reds and violets, slid up Catherine’s torso, leaving a streaked trail that made her shudder.
Catherine’s hands gripped her waist in return, her nails digging slightly into her skin as she pulled Sloane down. Their lips met again, hot and open, mouths sliding together like they couldn’t quite get close enough.
It was messy and perfect.
At some point, they fell sideways, laughing into each other’s mouths, tangled in the sheets Sloane had pulled down from the bed and the canvas drop cloths that littered the floor beneath them.
The gallery upstairs would open in a few hours. There were emails Sloane was supposed to respond to, paintings to finish, and calls to return.
None of it mattered.
All she could think about was the smear of red across Catherine’s throat, the way her chest rose and fell beneath streaks of blue and gold, the gleam of paint clinging to the line of her collarbone.
Sloane kissed her again—slow, deep, reverent.
And Catherine didn’t resist. She pulled Sloane closer with surprising urgency, her hands now trembling slightly with whatever she was feeling and refusing to say.
Sloane slowed.
She shifted, hovering above Catherine, her breathing shallow but steadying as she looked down at her.
Catherine’s dark lashes were still damp from sweat, her cheeks flushed in a way Sloane wanted to memorize.
The woman who usually wore her restraint like armor was here, beneath her, breathless and real, and so breathtaking Sloane forgot everything else.
She didn’t kiss her hard. She didn’t claim.
She explored.