Painter smiled, then shook his head. “You would’ve accomplished all kinds of things, no matter what.”

I raised the brush, studying the color. He was right about the ladybugs—if I tried to paint something on the wall, I’d give Izzy all kinds of nightmares. Biting my lip, I studied his face. Then I leaned over and drew a bright red line down the length of his nose.

Painter blinked.

“Why the hell did you just do that?”

“You painted me,” I said. “Remember? You practiced on me all those years ago. Now I think you should let me practice on you.”

Heat flared in his eyes, and then he dropped his hands to the hem of his T-shirt, pulling it up and over his head.

“All yours, babe.”

Biting back a laugh, I dipped my brush again and drew a circle around first one nipple, then the other. I followed this with a broad semicircle across his stomach.

“Look, it’s a smiley face.”

He rolled his eyes, but he didn’t stop me when I dipped the brush again, this time painting a line down the length of his arm. I loved his arms—they were strong, roped with thick muscle. If I had to fall in love with an asshole, at least he was a hot asshole.

“Glad you think I’m hot,” Painter said, and I blinked.

“I didn’t realize I’d said it out loud.”

He leaned forward and kissed me slowly. Oh, that was nice . . . I kissed him back and he caught me by the waist, dragging me over to straddle his body. I deepened the kiss, savoring his taste. How had I ever convinced myself I could live without this? Then Painter was pulling my scrub top up and over my head. Reaching around behind my back, I unhooked my bra without letting his lips go, launching myself back into him with enough force to push him over backward with a thump.

We both burst out laughing, which didn’t stop him from grabbing my scrub bottoms and shoving them down, too. I kicked them free, sitting up and reaching for his fly. He scrambled to help me, and then his cock sprang out, hard and ready to go.

This was what I wanted.

What’d been missing, all along. Painter. Admitting it was a relief. Lowering my head, I licked the edge of his dickhead, then let my tongue trail down his length.

“Jesus, that feels good,” he muttered. “But if—”

I shot a quick glare at him. “Less talk. If you don’t talk, you can’t say something stupid and fuck this up.”

“Gotcha.” He shut his mouth so I opened mine, sucking him down as I started pumping his cock with my hand. His head dropped back and he draped one arm over his eyes, groaning. His other hand burrowed into my hair, guiding me as I moved more quickly.

Eventually it wasn’t enough—I wanted him inside. Not that I didn’t enjoy the foreplay, but right now I needed to ride him fast and hard. Sliding up his body, my knee hit something and it fell over with a thud.

“Shit,” I said, realizing I’d knocked over the can of red paint. “Oh shit!”

I pushed off him as he tried to sit up, which set us off-balance. Grabbing for his shoulder, I missed, and then I fell over sideways, right into the bright red pool.

Painter started laughing.

I tried to push up again, but the tarp was slippery as hell and my hands slid out from under me. Painter laughed harder, so I scooped up as much paint as I could, throwing it toward his face.

It hit with a wet smacking sound.

Now I was the one laughing as he tried to wipe it away. Scooping up more, I flung it at him again, hitting his chest. He lunged for me and I shrieked, scuttling backward through the mess. Then he was on me, and we were wrestling. He was stronger, but I was slippery as hell and his pants were wrapped around his knees, hobbling him. I kept swiping at the paint and trying to rub it on his face, until finally he caught me, rolling me under him for a deep kiss.

Unfortunately, not even a kiss from someone that sexy is enough to overcome the taste of paint. On the other hand, his dick was still hard, and if I had to choose between kissing or fucking, the kisses weren’t my first choice. I reached down, grabbing for it. I wanted him inside me . . .

Shit.

Even his cock was covered in latex, and not the pregnancy-preventing kind.

“Condom,” I managed to gasp. “Do you have one?”

“Yeah, in my wallet,” he said, reaching for a rag. He wiped off his hand, then fished the wallet out of his back pocket. Pulling out a condom, he tossed the leather wallet across the room, presumably to save it from the paint. I watched anxiously as he rolled the rubber down over his erection, thinking back to the night before.

“We forgot to use a condom again last night,” I pointed out. “I don’t think it’s the right time of my cycle to get pregnant, but . . .”

Painter looked at me, his eyes fierce.

“If you’re knocked up again, we’re getting married.”

My jaw dropped.

“You’d marry me just because I was pregnant?”

He shook his head, giving me what I think was supposed to be a reassuring smile, but looked more like a zombie leer, given the red smeared across his face.

“No, we’re getting married anyway,” he said. “But if you’re knocked up, we should probably do it while you can still fit into a wedding dress.”

“Holy shit.”

He shrugged, then pushed me back down, centering himself between my legs. I gasped as he pushed in, savoring the stretch even as I realized we’d have to take it easier this time—I was still sore.

“Careful,” I warned. “You look like a vampire, did you know that? The paint on your face is like blood.”

“This whole place looks like a crime scene,” he said, winking at me.

“Oh, God. What a metaphor for our relationship.”

He laughed. “We’d better take a shower together just as soon as we finish up here. No help for it.”

“I think we can make that happen,” I replied, wrapping my arms and legs around him. He twisted his hips, grinding into me slowly, and I sighed.

This was good. Really good. Too bad we’d destroyed Izzy’s room to get here . . .

“You think this tarp will be enough to protect the carpet?”

He pulled back, then thrust into me again, hard.

“Absolutely not,” he said cheerfully. “I’ll probably have to pull it up and replace it. Totally worth the effort, no question. Now less talk and more fucking. Please?”

“You got it,” I whispered, closing my eyes and letting the sensation take me.

I wasn’t quite ready to marry him—not yet. I wanted to be sure we could go more than a week without trying to kill each other . . . But this had potential. Not only that, I’d never have to go on a blind date again.

Forgiving him was probably worth it, just for that alone.

PAINTER

I tiptoed out into the living room wearing only my briefs, because my jeans were soaked through. The paint was still smeared across my body, too, but I’d managed to wipe off my feet. Now I was on a mission to find paper towels.

That’s when the door opened and Isabella ran in, followed by Reese and London.

All three froze.

“What did you do?” London asked, her voice a hoarse whisper. I frowned—a little paint never killed anyone. Izzy screamed and started to cry. London gathered her up, staring at me in horror.

“Where is she?” Reese asked, his voice grim.

“Mel? She’s in the bedroom. I was just getting some towels to start cleaning up the mess. We’ll probably have to pull out the carpet, though.”

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” Reese said. “Loni, get that kid out of here.”

I frowned, then caught a glimpse of my arm . . . dripping red.

“Wait!” I said. “This is paint, not blood. What the hell did you think, that I killed her?”

London nodded slowly, and I realized she was serious.

“No,” I told them, outraged. “I love Melanie—I’d never hurt her.”

“Given how you treated her the other night . . .”

“No, no fuckin’ way,” I replied, raising my voice. “She might kill me, but I’d never kill her. Mel, get out here. Izzy’s home and she needs to see that you’re okay.”