Chapter 9 #2
She couldn't help it. She laughed, the sound bubbling up from somewhere deep and delighted, and reached down from her perch on the scaffolding to take a container from his arms.
"You're very susceptible to redirection when you're flustered."
"I am not flustered."
"You're holding my supplies because I said 'please' in a specific tone of voice. That's flustered."
He looked down at the remaining containers in his arms and looked up at her again. The confusion on his face shifted into something more dangerous.
"You manipulated me."
"I redirected you. There's a difference."
"What difference?"
"Manipulation implies malicious intent. I just want someone to hand me things so I don't have to climb down every thirty seconds."
She held out her hand. He passed her a small container of emerald green, the exact shade she'd finally settled on after three days of color theory arguments. Their fingers brushed, and both of them went still.
The touch was nothing, a millisecond of contact, but it sent electricity shooting up her arm and made his breath catch in a way she absolutely heard.
Interesting, she thought. Very interesting.
She turned back to the wall before he could see her smile.
They worked in surprisingly comfortable silence for almost an hour.
He handed her things. She painted. Occasionally she'd explain what she was doing and he'd listen with the intense focus he probably brought to game film review.
It was... nice. Companionable. Like they'd done this a hundred times before.
Which meant, of course, that she had to ruin it.
The brush was loaded with emerald green. She was ostensibly reaching for a rag. But her elbow was perfectly positioned, her timing immaculate, and when she "accidentally" stumbled, the brush dragged across his forearm in a thick, vivid streak.
"Oh no!" She pressed a hand to her chest in exaggerated dismay. "I'm so sorry! That was totally an accident!"
He looked down at his arm and the green smear bisecting the exposed skin below his rolled-up sleeve. At the evidence of her chaos now literally marking his body.
When he looked back up, his eyes had gone dark.
"That," he said slowly, "was not an accident."
"It absolutely was."
"You are a terrible liar."
"I'm an excellent liar, actually. You just can't prove anything."
His jaw tightened. That familiar tension rippled through him—the kind she'd learned to read over weeks of observation. The kind that meant his control was fraying.
"Edie."
"Tarmek." She mimicked his warning tone, unable to resist. "It's just paint. It washes off."
"Everything washes off eventually. That's not the point."
"Then what is the point?"
He moved fast—faster than she expected, even knowing what he was capable of.
One second he was standing there, green-streaked and glowering.
The next he had a brush in his hand, dipping it into the nearest container, and before she could scramble away, a stripe of bright gold arced across her cheek.
She gasped.
He smiled.
He smiled. That small, rare quirk of his lips that she'd only seen a handful of times. The one that changed his whole face from intimidating to devastating.
"You—" she sputtered. "You absolute—"
She grabbed another brush and lunged for the blue.
He caught her wrist before she could reload, his grip firm but careful, and suddenly they were grappling.
Laughing. Well, she was laughing. He was making a sound that might have been a laugh if laughs could come from somewhere deep in the chest and sound like gravel rolling downhill.
Paint smeared everything. Blue on his shirt. Gold on her arms. Green everywhere, somehow, multiplying like it had a life of its own.
She twisted, trying to get leverage, and ended up pressed against the wall beside the mural with his body blocking any escape. Her back hit the cold concrete, and her brush clattered to the floor.
His hands bracketed her head, palms flat against the wall, caging her in. They were both breathing hard. Her heart was racing, adrenaline and desire and something fiercer tangling in her chest.
"You," he said, and his voice had dropped to that register again, the rough one, the one that made her knees weak, "are impossible."
"I know."
"Infuriating."
"I've heard."
"I should walk away."
She met his eyes. She let him see both the need and the reckless certainty that she was exactly where she was supposed to be.
"But you won't."
His control shattered. This kiss was different from the kitchen. Harder. More desperate. He pressed her into the wall with his whole body, and she arched into him, her fingers finding his shoulders, his neck, the back of his head where his hair was just long enough to grip.
Paint marked every step of their journey. His hands cupped her face, leaving emerald fingerprints on her jaw. She wrapped her arms around him, smearing gold and blue across his back. The wall behind her was probably ruined, and she couldn't bring herself to care.
He kissed like he was starving for her. Like he'd been holding back for years instead of days. His mouth moved from her lips to her jaw to that sensitive spot below her ear, and she made a sound that echoed off the empty arena walls.
"Tarmek—"
He growled against her throat. Actually growled, a rumbling vibration she felt through her whole body.
"Tell me to stop."
"No."
"Edie." His forehead dropped to her shoulder. His breathing was ragged. "I'm trying to—"
"I know what you're trying to do." She pulled back far enough to look at him. His face was smeared with color, green on his cheekbone and gold at his temple. He looked wrecked. Beautiful. Mine.
Careful, a small voice whispered. Temporary, remember? This is temporary.
She ignored it.
"I don't want you to try," she said. "I want you to stop holding back."
His eyes searched her face. Looking for hesitation. Finding none.
"You don't know what you're asking."
"Then show me."
He groaned and lifted her into his arms, her legs wrapping around him instinctively as he held her against the paint-smeared wall. She pulled him in for another kiss. Slower this time. Deeper. Tasting the surrender in it, the way his resistance crumbled with every slide of her tongue against his.
His hands were everywhere. On her hips, her back, the curve of her ass.
When one huge palm cupped her breast, she moaned into his mouth and rolled her hips against him.
She'd never been kissed like this. Like she was precious and infuriating in equal measure.
Like he wanted to devour her and protect her at the same time.
When they finally broke apart, gasping, the silence of the empty arena pressed in around them. She could hear their mingled breathing. The distant hum of the building's heating system. The pounding of her own heart.
"We're covered in paint," she said.
He looked down at himself. At the riot of color streaking his clothes and his arms. Then he looked at her, equally destroyed.
"Your fault."
"Worth it."
Something shifted in his expression. Some last wall crumbling, some final resistance giving way.
"Yes," he agreed quietly. "It is."
He set her down gently, keeping his hands on her waist until he was sure she had her balance.
Then he stepped back and surveyed the disaster zone they'd created.
Paint footprints tracked across the drop cloths.
Her brushes were scattered everywhere. The wall she'd been working on had new handprints that definitely weren't part of the original design.
"This is a mess," he said.
"I know."
"An absolute disaster."
"Mmhmm."
"It will take hours to clean."
"At least."
He looked at her. His jaw was doing that clenchy thing again, but his eyes were warm. Warmer than she'd ever seen them.
"Worth it," he repeated.
She grinned at him, paint-smeared and disheveled and happier than she had any right to be.
"I told you painting was fun."
His laugh—an actual laugh, short and surprised like he hadn't meant to let it escape—echoed through the empty arena. And somewhere in the back of her mind, that small voice whispered again. Careful. Temporary. Don't forget what happens when I let yourself want things.
She ignored it harder.
Some messes, she decided, were worth making.