Caroline
While Killian orders dinner, I take an everything shower.
Everything gets shaved, plucked, exfoliated, buffed, until my skin is red.
I wash my hair and properly condition it.
The whole process takes about an hour. I use a lavender scented bath oil and cream to lock in the moisture and hydrate my skin.
The last time I sat for a painting was a family portrait my mother insisted she wanted hanging in the foyer.
It’s still there. I was twenty-three and I’d just recovered from a terrible bout of flu.
My skin had been pasty, eyes still puffy, and I had lost a bit of weight.
I looked like a sickly Victorian child compared to my family’s healthy complexion.
That’s not going to happen this time. This time, I get to decide how I want myself painted.
I step out of the bathroom in my pajamas—proper pajama pants and a top this time—and a towel wrapped around my hair. A billow of steam blooms out around me.
Killian turns to look at me from where he’s sitting in the living room. The food’s been delivered and he’s got the boxes stacked on the table along with our plates.
“Did you take a shower on Mars? You’re all red.”
“My skin will calm down in a bit, don’t worry.” I take a seat next to him.
“Do you have to shower with water hotter than the seventh circle of hell?” Killian asks, amused.
“You honestly don’t even feel it,” I say.
“How can you? Your skin is burned off.”
I giggle as he looks me over, probably trying to find burn marks. Honestly, the shower isn’t that hot usually. I prefer mild to hot water rather than scalding hot water my seven generations are going to feel the effect of.
Shaking his head, Killian dishes out our food. We eat quietly, a comedy police procedural playing on the TV. The show is good, but I’m distracted by what’s going to happen once we’re finished eating.
“If you don’t finish all your food, I’m not going to do this,” Killian says.
“I can’t eat more,” I protest. “There’s only so much room.”
He puts a dim sum and a spring roll on my plate. “Eat these, and then you’re good.”
He usually doesn’t push me when it comes to food. As long as he knows I’m eating he doesn’t care what it is, how much of it I’m eating, and when I’m eating. Maybe he’s just as nervous as I am if he wants to delay this a bit more.
It takes me no time to eat the dim sum and spring roll. I get up and carry my plate to the kitchen, washing it and setting it aside to dry.
When I turn around, Killian is still sitting on the couch. He’s not eating and he doesn’t look away from the TV, not that I think he’s actually watching it.
I clear my throat gently. “I’m going to get ready.”
Turning slightly, he looks at me over his shoulder. “I’ll meet you up in my studio.”
I tell him I’m going to be up in thirty minutes. I already know what I’m going to wear so that just leaves me thirty minutes to do my hair and hope that it sits exactly the way I want it to. I walk back into the bathroom and grab my roller brush and hairdryer and get to work.
Once my hair is up in my curlers and I’ve sprayed enough hairspray to last me through the apocalypse, I step out of the bathroom. The TV is off, the lights are dim, and Killian is nowhere to be seen.
My heart is in my throat as I walk to my room and close the door behind me. I’m taking a huge risk here. Possibly even bigger than running away in the middle of the night.
I have a lot of second thoughts as I change into the outfit I chose for this. What if Killian asks me to leave once he sees it? What if it makes things awkward between us? What if it changes everything, and not in the way I want it to?
I look in the mirror hanging on the back of my door. My hair is bouncy and curly, my clothes make me look beautiful. More than that, they make me look desirable. That’s not something I’ve ever felt in my life.
I think back to earlier, and the way Killian had looked at my mouth. The almost hungry look that crossed his eyes, almost longing. Now that I think about it, I can’t decide if it was my feelings or his.
I don’t have the time to second-guess the decision. Killian is waiting for me and I don’t want him to think that I’ve changed my mind.
Taking a deep, bracing breath, and willing my heart to calm down, I open my door and walk out into the quiet living room.
I take the stairs up to the second floor.
The sun has completely set now, the sky dark.
The city shines in the distance. I haven’t been to the second floor since my first day here.
As I turn the corner to the hallway leading to the three rooms, I notice one of them is slightly ajar, light spilling out into the darkened hallway.
I hear Killian setting up inside. Music is playing softly through the speakers. It’s not the loud rock music from before. This one is more pop and I can’t help but think he’s done it for my benefit.
I stand at the door breathing in and out. Once I feel like my breath is steady and I won’t pass out, I walk through the door.
As soon as I enter the song changes and The Weeknd’s Moth to a Flame starts playing. Killian’s back is to me and he must hear me enter because he turns around. As soon as his eyes land on me, the brushes he’s holding in his hand drop to the floor.
“Fuck,” he breaths softly, his eyes raking over my body. I feel his heated gaze along my bare skin, burning a path across my body.
The only thing I’m wearing is a pair of lacy panties and a long silk robe in blood red.
I have the robe resting off my shoulder and dipping low enough to reveal a hint of cleavage.
It’s got large bell sleeves and lace along the edges.
I kept my makeup light, but I added a blood red lipstick to match the robe.
“Fuck,” Killian says again. “This is what you’re going to wear?”
A part of me wants to shrivel up and I don’t let it. With all the confidence I don’t feel, I nod. “This is what I’m going to wear. Is that a problem?”
Killian’s heated gaze meets mine. “Fuck yes, it’s a problem. You can’t do this to me.”
I tilt my head curiously. “What am I doing to you?”
“You’re going to sit in front of me like that and you expect me to do nothing but paint? I’m not even sure I’ll be able to focus enough to paint.” He sounds almost angry when he says this.
My lips tilt up into a coy smile. All the doubts and the questions disappear. I move further into the room, my bare feet padding softly on the floor until I’m standing directly in front of him.
His jaw is clenched tightly, veins popping up in his neck and through his arms because of his clenched fists. Slowly, I reach up and set my hand gently on his cheek. Instantly, his jaw relaxes and he breathes out, his head tilting slightly into my touch.
“Who says you can’t do anything?” I ask in a quiet whisper.
His eyes flare with heat and this time there’s no mistaking the desire in them.
“Caroline,” he growls. He thrusts his hand into the back of my hair, pulling me closer. Our lips hover inches from each other. “Don’t push me. You’re not ready for that.”
“How do you know?” I demand.
“You need time to heal, butterfly,” he whispers, his eyes focused on my lips. If I tilt my head forward a little, I can kiss him. His response to my outfit made something open inside me. Something I’ve buried deep.
“I’m not injured,” I protest.
He smiles softly, his eyes leaving my lips and moving up to mine.
“You’re making too many sudden changes, butterfly. I know you want to put everything behind you and take every opportunity. I don’t want you to regret anything.”
I hear his concern and also what he’s not saying. He doesn’t want me to regret him. As if I ever can.
“I think you worry about me more than anyone else,” I say.
“Somebody has to,” he says.
Tilting my head, I lean forward and softly press my lips against his cheek.
“Thank you for taking care of me,” I say. “But I wouldn’t have regretted this.”
He eases his fingers out of my hair and releases me. “Maybe I need more time.”
I nod in acceptance. I might have barely been in the relationship, but we can’t deny the fact that I was engaged to his brother. He didn’t even want me living in his apartment let alone…whatever this is now.
“Where do you want me?” I ask, changing the subject. I do it for my benefit as much as his. I don’t want to wonder if he just doesn’t want me enough. I’m used to being an afterthought, but I’d rather not be with him.
Pushing a hand through his hair, Killian breathes out. He walks to a chaise which is set up against the wall and pulls it to where he wants it in front of his easel.
It’s a blue velvet chaise, which is going to mix perfectly with the red of my robe. I walk towards it softly and Killian grabs my hand.
“Wait,” he says. “Just give me a minute.”
I nod, and he leaves the room, giving me the chance to look around.
The windows here have the same view as the living room; they are high and set deep into the wall.
Canvases line the wall, some blank, some with paint on it that looks like Killian was just trying to scribble.
They’re also canvases which are facing towards the wall.
There are drops of paint here and there on the floor.
Killian walks back into the room and asks me to turn around, which I do.
“I’m going to pull your hair up,” he says.
His fingers brush against my bare neck and shoulders as he grabs my hair and pulls it up. He deliberately lets some strands fall messily out of the bun.
“You’re not going to showcase these, right?” I voice the thought I’ve been worried about.
I feel his bare feet against mine, his shirt, brushing the silk of my robe. His breath fans across my neck as he leans down, his lips brushing my ear.
“You’re just for me, butterfly,” he whispers. “For my viewing pleasure. I’m not willing to share.”
A shiver chases down on my back. I want to lean back into him and let him do whatever he wants with me.