Page 130 of The Route to You

“I think around twelve thirty, technically.” She sagged a little, then laughed under her breath and turned away, gesturing helplessly at the wall. “I’d never get to sleep. My brain wouldn’t shut up. So, I thought I’d just start. I’ve been seeing this in my head for weeks while I’ve been teaching classes.”

“It’s incredible.” The mural wasn’t just pretty, it was alive. Messy in the best possible way.

She glanced at him, surprised. “You don’t think it’s too much?”

“I think it’s you.”

Her expression and the late-night adrenaline, softened into something quieter, more vulnerable, and she stepped closer still. “And this?” She lifted her fingertips toward his chest, still streaked with paint, and smudged the paint softly, like she was fingerpainting onto his skin.

He held her gaze, aware of how her touch had detonated more than just a spark in him. His heart pounded hard, his mouth had gone dry as he struggled to string a sentence together. “I think I’ll be finding blue in my pores for a week.”

She grinned, dropping her hand. “Sit,” she said, decisively pointing toward the stool.

He did as she said, settling into the stool as she disappeared from the bedroom. A few moments later, she returned with a damp washcloth. “Scoot your legs open,” she said with a smirk, like it was the most natural thing in the world. He pushed his knees apart as she stepped between them.

Holy fuck.

She dragged the cloth across his chest carefully, smiling as the cloth came away streaked with color. Her fingers brushed his skin, resting against his injured shoulder, her thumb brushing over the scars in a gentle sweep that would have seemed almost absentminded if it hadn’t been so deliberate in its placement. Every time it happened his breath hitched like he’d forgotten how lungs worked.

“Hold still,” she murmured.

“I am holding still.”

“You look like you’re holding your breath.” She smiled without looking up.

“That’s not voluntary.”

She scrubbed once more, then paused, her gaze lifting to his.

They were close. Too close for this to still be nothing.

Her eyes tracked over his face, the flush on her cheeks giving her face a pink glow, her full, luscious mouth opening just slightly. The room went silent except for the soft, uneven rhythm of their breathing.

“Sloan.”

“Yeah?”

His chest tightened. He reached up before he could overthink it and brushed his thumb along her wrist, right where her pulse fluttered under her skin. “I like seeing you happy.”

Her breath caught. Then she dropped the cloth on the floorboards and leaned in, her eyes closing as she placed a kiss to his collarbone—to the long, thin scar there. The reminder of how close he’d come not to being here.

Her lips brushed the skin, a whisper of contact that landed like a strike of heat.

Kyle’s breath stuttered. His hand slipped onto her waist to hold her there, right on the edge of something he’d been pretending he didn’t want. “Sloan.” His voice was rough now, aching with the need for her that he’d done his best to hide these last few weeks.

Her warmth vibrated through the thin space between them as she lifted her head, her lips catching the soft skin of his throat, the scruff of his jaw.

“Sloan,” he said again, warning and desire tangled together.

Her hand slid to the back of his neck, her other hand braced against his chest, as she searched his eyes. “Tell me to stop.” Her voice almost a plea.

They couldn’t come back from this. But if she hoped he had more strength than she did right now, she was wrong.

Because all I want to do is fuck Sloan Carrington.

His hand held her chin, angling her head up as his mouth found hers. Her lips were warm, soft, tasting faintly of sugar. God, he’d forgotten how soft her sweet mouth was. How good she tasted. Not a hot, passionate kiss yet. Not yet.

If this was happening, he was going to take his damned time.