His feet shuffle against the plastic-covered floors. His fingers curve around my hip, traveling around to the small of my back. It’s sensual—a mere caress—and if it weren’t for the paint he trails with him, it would be difficult to make out.

The more he paints, the more desperate I become.

Desperate for him, and the way he makes me feel.

Desperate for us, and how everything else fades away when we’re fitted together.

One stroke, and I’d be done. I’d be his.

The cold paint he leaves in his wake makes me shiver, the coolness contrasting with the warmth I feel inside.

“And I think . . . no, I know I could slide right into this sweet little body. I can practically smell how wet you are. Am I right?” He brushes across my other hip, completing the perfect circle.

I nod, biting down on my lower lip to hold back a moan. I’m dripping for him . . . in need of him.

When he’s standing in front of me again, the heat of his body warms mine. His hand falls away long enough to be coated in more paint. I wonder what color it is. If it has anything to do with me, how he feels, or how he sees me.

When we reconnect, his whole hand is splayed across my stomach, covering almost the entire width of it. He keeps it there long enough to warm the liquid pigment between us. It’s sticky, causing friction as he slides back up between my breasts.

“Is your heart beating for me?” His fingers curl around my wrist, bringing my hand to his bare chest. His heart pounds against my palm. “Feel that? Do you feel what happens to me when I’m touching you?”

I’m hanging onto every word, inhaling and letting every one hit me with more sexual potency than the last. He’s wound me up so tight . . . he just needs to let me go. “Touch me, Blake.” My voice is desperate. There’s no hiding it.

“Where, baby? Show me where.” His voice is strained, husky, making me want him even more.

I remove his palm from my chest, utilizing the wet paint to slide it down between my legs. “Here,” I murmur.

He curls his fingers into me through the lacy material. It’s exactly what I wanted . . . what I needed. Then he suddenly pulls away, and I can’t help but open my eyes. Plastic crinkles under his feet as he picks up a white cloth to wipe his colorful fingers with. I fight the urge to scream out, to beg and plead for the feel of his skin on mine.

I hold back, rubbing my thighs together to sooth the ache.

As his eyes drink me in, the cloth falls from his hand. He steps closer, his shoulder brushing against me. My heart hammers, waiting. His soft lips tickle my ear, warm breath hitting me before words ever do. “Like this?” he asks, circling my swollen flesh with his fingertips. “Or did you want something more like this?” he adds, pushing my panties aside and inserting one of his long fingers inside of me.

The moans I’ve been holding in refuse to stay caged any longer. I close my eyes so all I can do is feel. He has me—inside and outside—I’m his. He adds another long finger, moving in and out of me while his thumb circles my clit. I just feel—the friction, the tension. Touch blacks out every other sense, and I come hard around his fingers.

He groans then kisses me hard, pulling me against him. His tongue presses between the seam of my lips, tangling with mine. It’s different than the ones we’ve shared in the past—full of its usual passion but also wrapped in undeniable want. He punctuates it by lightly kissing each corner of my mouth, even the tip of my nose.

As he pulls away, I dare to open my eyes, wanting to see him and what he’s created on my skin. He’s only inches from me, watching me adjust to the light.

“And those are my new favorite part . . . your eyes. If you could see them right now . . . the sated, content look of them, you’d never doubt how sexy you are.”

I stare, slowly believing every word because the same look he described is mirrored in his eyes. Somewhere along the way, I let him crawl into my heart. That was the easy part . . . letting him out, that’s not going to be so easy.

MY ALARM SOUNDS TOO SOON. If I count the time I spent tossing and turning in my bed after Blake and I finally got home this morning, I maybe had five hours of sleep. Every lost minute was worth it when I replay the events of last night. What he made me feel. What he made me see without even looking. Being with Blake is like dreaming while awake. I want to stay locked in those moments—the ones where his touch makes me forget everything else—forever.

I want more than what he’s given me. I want to know his history . . . all of it. I want so badly to know what goes through that head of his. I want everything . . . everything I know he’s not ready to give. Or, maybe it’s everything I’m too afraid to ask for.

After Blake took time to wipe the paint from my skin, he’d shown me a few of his favorite paintings. I saw them differently—more vibrant, full of color. Maybe it was because of the new way I viewed paint or the rasp in his voice while he spoke.

Behind the walls, he’s thoughtful, intelligent and kind-hearted. I want to know what made him construct them in the first place. Why does he guard himself? Why does he push people away?

I thought about it a lot while he drove us home. The sun was rising on the horizon—a perfect cap to a perfect night. I pictured us, what we could be like if it was always like that. If he always made me feel that way. But like most good things, it couldn’t last forever. We were both quiet when we entered the apartment, our eyes saying a silent good night. Maybe that’s how it had to be. Things went too far. I’d felt too much.

Now, as I stretch my arms up, my thoughts flicker between that and what’s in store for me tonight. If I’d met this Blake before Pierce asked me to accompany him to the benefit, I don’t think I could have said yes. It feels wrong, even if there’s nothing wrong about it.

My stomach growls as I roll off the mattress. It’s been hours since I’ve eaten anything. If I’m going to spend hours getting myself beautified, I’m going to feed the monster in my stomach. I tiredly make my way to the bathroom and splash some cold water over my face, trying to salvage whatever I can of my youthful appearance. I smooth over my gray cami and pull my hair up in a tight knot. Hopefully Dana will be able to make something out of my zombie self when she gets here. I need her to bring a magic wand to banish my dark circles and ashen skin. Cucumbers, cold spoons . . . anything.

As soon as I open the door to my bedroom, I see Blake sitting at the kitchen table with a full bowl of cereal in front of him. From this angle, he looks reflective, focused on the little o-shaped grains. His hair is tousled. Muscled arms showcased by the way his elbows rest on the table. It brings back memories of last night.

“What? No eggs today?” I ask, sneaking up behind him.

He turns to face me, a cocky half-grin playing on his lips. “I thought I’d follow the rules.”

“My birthday isn’t until summer, so what’s the occasion?” I tease, stepping closer.

He shrugs. “You followed my rules last night. It’s only fair.”

“That I did.” I smile just thinking about his hands on my skin. I grab a bowl from the cabinet and sit next to him, helping myself to some of the cereal.

He watches me between bites, clinking his spoon against the bottom of his bowl. “Did I say you could have some of my Fruit Loops?”

“Umm—”

“Relax,” he says, covering my lips with his fingertip.

I close my eyes and let my mouth curve into a smile again. “I knew you were teasing.”

“No, you didn’t.”

There’s something different about him this morning—more playful, light. He reaches out for my wrist, pulling me into his lap. He holds me close to his chest, arms wrapped tightly around my waist. It’s something Derek used to do when things were good, before success and time got in our way. It gives me hope that there might me more to this than mind-numbing sex.