Page 75 of Will to Run

“Okay,” he says as he puts the dishes we used away. “Where is this painting you were so caught up in?”

“You want to see it?”

“Tatroe, have I ever not wanted to see what you made? You’re the best artist of all time.”

It’s a preposterous claim, but the way he says it with such conviction makes me believe in that possibility, and without letting go of his hand, I take him to my painting room. It’s a mess that isn’t helped by the fact that I pretty much dumped everything out when I got home, and it’s scattered all over the floor. He bypasses all of it and walks straight to the easel.

“It’s far from done,” I blurt out before he can say anything, but he holds up his hand as if to shush me.

“Look at the way you capture light, my God.”

I give him a face.

“What?” he defends himself, mirroring my expression. “I’ve been trying to learn more art terms, but I know I would sound foolish if I started dropping terms like negative space and leading lines. You’d know I was full of shit.”

The words he’s saying get lost because all I’ve heard is that he is trying to learn something for me. “With all your free time?”

He just shrugs as if it’s no big deal, “I will always find time for you, Della. I know I told you before that this is the craziest time you could have come into town, but that holds. Even when the season really gets going, things will lighten up. But yeah, as I’m shoving food in my mouth at my desk, I may or may not have looked up some beginner art YouTube videos.” He looks around like he’s almost embarrassed at his admission. “What’s all that paint? And beads? And a black light? You dipping your toe into the rave scene?” he asks, pointing at the things spilled out of the bags, trying to take the attention off of him.

Now it’s my turn to be a little embarrassed. “Well, remember how I told you that Luke spoke to me on Sunday, and it was about painting? I thought I might get some paints for him and that the black light might be another way for him to experience the art. I didn’t look that up or anything, though, and could easily be talking out of my ass. And the chunky beads are for Mazie because I can’t get something for one and not the other. But as I’m looking at it, that might scream choking hazard? I don’t know.”

His mouth is open as he looks at me with such intensity that I might melt under his gaze. “You are… oh my God, Della. You are the most amazing person I’ve ever known.”

There is almost too much emotion in this room as we both admit to the little ways we think about each other all the time. But something in the air shifts, and his gaze turns hungry. Without taking his eyes off me, he goes to the glow-in-the-dark paint and cracks the package open.

I’m too caught up to say anything, just entranced by every movement he’s making. Walking back towards me, he opens the first paint and dips his finger inside and smears it on my right cheek. I’m still speechless as he strokes the other.

“Wouldn’t you know, after the videos I’ve watched, I consider myself a bit of a painter.” His voice drops, rough and low.

“You liar,” I whisper. “You said you were equivalent to Mazie.”

“Ah, I believe I said my talents capped out at finger painting. Which is what I think I might want to try today. Can I paint you, Del?”

I nod, stuck under whatever spell he has on me.

“Your tank top is dirty; I’m going to need a clean canvas,” he says, and with that, he grabs the bottom of the fabric and lifts it over my head. Now I’m standing in front of him in just my shorts.

Finding my voice, I speak. “What about you?”

At that, he takes the bottom hem of his own shirt and lifts it off. I will never tire of this view. His chest looks like it’s sculpted out of marble, and ready to bear the weight of the world. Though initially skeptical, I fucking love the idea of painting all over those perfect muscles. Talk about a canvas.

I tentatively dip my finger into the tub and make a little heart on his chest. He returns the gesture and looks at me to make the next move. I step away from him, grab two other colors, and open them, gesturing him to come to me. He does, and I paint pink war stripes under his eyes. He looks so absurd that it makes me giggle. Taking a third color, I trace the outline of his abs, fully expecting him to do the same. Instead, he slathers paint on his one hand and grabs my breast. I smirk at him, fill both my hands with paint, and leave two handprints on his chest. After that, it devolves into a paint fight. We are laughing, groping, and putting streaks of paint on each other along the way. It’s such ridiculous fun. At some point, he’s plugged in the black light, so we are literally glowing. I put a stop to the chaos by grabbing his face with both my hands to kiss him. The way my fingers mold around his cheeks, paired with the paint I can feel between our skin, makes this moment my perfect.

From there, we start making out, and I’m wrestling his shorts down because I apparently can’t get enough of this dick. Before I kneel, he reaches into the paint and writes letters across my chest. I can’t make them out until I look down and realize they spell mine.

I look back up at him with my gaze bouncing between his.

“You’re fucking mine, Tatroe.”

36

JAXON

When she shows me what she did for my nephew and niece, a pulse of possessiveness runs through me and settles under my skin. That’s the moment I fully admit to myself that I don’t want her to go, and that I am going to do everything in my power to try and keep her here. At least for longer than her contract… but that will come. All I want to do right now is claim her.

When my eyes drift to the paint, I have a crazy idea. And even though I’ve never done anything like this before, she follows suit without question. Seeing her with paint marks on her… marks that I put there… There isn’t a moment in this life when I have felt so feral.

My intention wasn’t to have her on her knees, but after I write mine on her chest and she looks at me with a mirrored intensity, I let her do what she wants.