Chapter 32
WESTON
Soft alternative rock floats through the air as I slip inside the warmly lit house. The coffee table has been pushed against the wall, and the plush, cream rug that used to accent the center of the living room floor is rolled up in the corner.
Willow’s back is turned to me, she’s on her knees in the middle of a canvas about three times her size, swiping a paintbrush over it.
In only a white tank and a pair of black panties, her hair thrown up into a messy blond knot, stripes of color covering her sun-kissed skin—the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
“Hey, love. I brought dinner.”
She peeks over her shoulder, smiling. “Thank you.”
“Wanna eat now or later?”
“In a bit. Once I wash this paint off me I won’t want to come back to it.”
I nod, setting the food on the counter before striding over to the couch and sprawling out, turning on my side so I can watch her as she swipes a long, thick stroke of teal across the canvas. “I have something to show you later too.”
She pauses, glancing up at me. “Really?”
“Yeah.” I bite my cheek, itching to show her now, but I don’t want to distract her further.
“Well, I have something to tell you.” She sits back on her knees, brows pinched as she studies the canvas in front of her.
As of now, it’s mostly untouched. Similar paint strokes to the one she just made are etched across it in varying colors.
It almost looks like some kind of abstract sunset, but for fear of being entirely off base and offending her, I don’t voice it.
“What’s that?”
“I committed to UC Irvine,” she says nonchalantly, eyes still fixed on her painting.
“Willow,” I gasp. “That’s huge.”
Her eyes dart to me, doing a double take when she realizes I’m radiating with excitement. “It is?”
“Yes.” I slink off the couch, dropping to my knees as I envelope her, laying her back on the floor beside the canvas, careful not to get wet paint on either of us. “You make me proud, Wills.”
Emotion shines in her eyes as she peers up at me through long lashes, cupping my face with her hands. “You make me proud too.”
I laugh roughly at that, I’m not sure what I’ve done to give her that feeling lately.
I’ll finish working with Leo through August, and he’s helping me find resources once I return to Santa Monica, but he’s barred me from competing anymore this season.
He doesn’t think I’m ready yet, and while we’ll reevaluate where I stand before the Championship Qualifiers this fall, there’s virtually no chance of me even attempting to reach the Olympics next summer.
Her brows pinch at my response. “I’m serious, Wes. Most people would’ve crumbled beneath the weight of what life handed you, but you carry it with grace. You somehow made room to carry me too, and I’ll never stop being awed by you.”
I’ll never stop carrying you. Never stop loving you.
The words linger at the tip of my tongue, but I swallow them down, I don’t know if Willow is there yet.
I don’t know if she’s ready to hear the true depth of my feelings for her, the lengths I’d go to carry her for the rest of time.
I’m new to this entire realm of existence, and part of me wants to wait until she says the words first because I’m not sure I can recognize the signs of whether she’s ready.
Willow licks her lips, eyes cast downward, breaking contact as she twirls the fabric of my T-shirt between two fingers.
“The university has counseling for students, so I . . . I registered to meet with someone once I begin classes next month. I’m going to start talking to someone about what happened. You inspired that.”
I tip her chin up, forcing those ocean eyes to mine. “You make me so proud, Willow,” I say again, ensuring each word is laced with the conviction that matches the warm expansion happening inside my chest. “My brave, strong girl.”
Her lashes flutter as she draws me in, tangling her fingers with the hair at my nape, brushing her lips over mine in a tender kiss full of everything neither of us can seem to say yet. The soft beginning strums of “Iris” by Goo Goo Dolls filter through the speakers in the house.
My mouth moves over hers, tongue slipping through to taste her, drowning myself in her sweetness, swallowing her whimper as I kiss her deeper.
She presses against my shoulder, and we rise together—a cohesive unit.
There is no ending for her and no beginning for me, only what we become when tied together like this.
Rolling me over, Willow pins me on my back, settling herself over my legs.
Her knee slides over the canvas, through the streak of wet paint, knocking over her palette and the cups of paint she had lined up along the top of the canvas.
“Shit, Wills,” I murmur, though she continues to kiss me thoroughly. “We’re going to ruin your painting, baby.”
She sits up, straddling me, hair falling from her bun and framing her face in gold, cheeks flushed the most beautiful shade of pink, a perfect complement to her shimmering eyes. “I was lost with this piece, anyway,” she breathes. “I want to create something new. With you.”
Crossing her arms across her stomach, she grasps the hem of her tank and pulls it over her head, leaving her in nothing but her scrap of black panties.
Her rosy nipples, peaked and puckered, matching the blush spreading across her chest, breasts bounce with every sharp inhale and Willow’s movement as she unbuttons my jeans. She raises her eyes to mine—lust and a request for permission swirling within her gaze.
My cock springs to life at the sight of her, and I nod as I lift up and peel my shirt over my head while she tugs my jeans down my legs. She’s so focused on getting them off me, she doesn’t notice until she’s tossed them across the floor and turns back to me.
Raking over my body, her gaze quickly snatches on my thigh, eyes expanding with shock. “Wes, what is that?” Willow points at the tattoo, covered by that transparent second-skin material August promised would help it heal faster.
“It’s a . . . stained-glass window,” I stutter, grinning sheepishly. “A tattoo.”
She raises her eyes to me—bursting with astonishment. “You’re afraid of needles.”
“I think I was afraid of being afraid.” I shake my head. “Your uncle said I should consider exploring art that makes me feel alive, rather than focusing on scarring myself with what I’ve already lost.”
“Stained glass makes you feel alive?” she asks softly, tilting her head as amusement dances across her face.
“No, but you do. I told you . . . you’re like the sun shining through the window. Your presence creates color. You’re the art. To me.”
Her lip trembles, gaze cast downward as she brushes her fingers over the ink with a feather-light touch, studying the design. I went with something simple. A gothic shape with basic borders and lines cut through it, creating geometric flowers within the panel. Black and white.
“Sunflowers,” she says with a disbelieving laugh, an astonished smile spreading over her face.
“You seemed to like painting my skin, Willow.” I bite my lip, shrugging. “Now, you’ll always have a place to color in. As many times as you’d like. Any shade you want. A piece of me to make your own.”
Her eyes flicker between my face and my leg, rapidly blinking away the emotion misting over them.
Willow’s chin quivers, head shaking rapidly, as if trying to make sense of the gesture.
Trepidation plucks at the strings of my heart like I’m an instrument waiting to see how Willow’s going to play me.
“This is the most beautiful thing anyone has ever done for me. I think . . . the most beautiful thing any person has done for any other person ever,” she whispers, voice breaking. “Weston, I . . .” She inhales swiftly, raising her gaze, pinning it to me as a tear drips over her cheek.
“I know,” I breathe. “Me too.”
I don’t need to make her say the words—I can taste them on her lips. I don’t need to make her tell me how she feels—I can hear them with every soft breath exhaled into my mouth. It’s happened, we’ve fallen. Bared ourselves to each other—skin and soul.
We jumped together, hand in hand—though each of us still holds pieces of our past untold. It’s almost as if we can’t voice the love we’re feeling until we find the courage to voice our darkness too.
Though, when Willow pushes against my chest, laying me down and crawling over me again, I feel blanketed in understanding. Acceptance. When she places a hand behind my head, softening the landing as I fall back against the canvas, and brushes her lips over mine—it feels like being caught.
We jumped, and even tangled in our trauma, this moment is like crash-landing among the clouds together.
Her breasts scrape against my chest, and I’m aching as she grinds down, only the fabric of our underwear separating our flesh.
The paint she spilled across the canvas seeps beneath my body.
Willow pulls away, sitting up on me—half-lidded eyes radiating with need. The commanding goddess I’m worshipping.
“Can I have you like this?” she asks, a sultry silk to her tone that drips along my skin like heated honey. “Right here?”
“Yes, love,” I hiss as she palms my cock. My hands slide through the paint beneath me as I search for something to grip—coming away in shades of blush and lavender, they land on her hips, smearing prints across her skin as I drown in her touch.
She lifts, pulling my underwear down just enough to free my length before reaching between her legs and pulling her panties aside. Rocking her hips forward, Willow notches me at her entrance, gaze anchoring to mine as she slowly sinks down.
We let out a simultaneous moan at the mind-altering feel of our connection. That familiar sensation of no end and no beginning, only the cord that tethers our souls, humming fierce and glowing bright when we’re joined this way.