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Him opening up to me is another still.
And if that can happen…
Maybe “trust” isn’t so far behind.
So I do the only reasonable thing I can do in this situation, really. I run after him—grab him—and give him a kiss that says all the things I can’t find the words to say.
59
DMITRI
We collapse to the ground in a surprised tangle of limbs. If it hurts, she doesn’t notice, and neither do I. I’m too busy consuming every bit of Wren I can get. She tastes like peaches and cherries. All sweet saltiness and soft heat.
The thin cotton of her white blouse is flimsy underneath my hands. I’m about to rip it clean off when she moves to straddle me, her nails digging into my neck. My hand slides from her hip to her ass, trying to guide her closer—when I become aware of something cool and sticky at my side.
She lets out a startled little gasp and breaks the kiss. Both of us snap around to see the upturned paint can beside us.
“Shit!” Wren gasps, jerking off of me. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t see—” She lurches forward and pulls up the spilled can, only to upend another paint can with her foot. “God, Dmitri, I’m—fuck! Shit!”
“It’s fine, Wren.”
She doesn’t seem to be listening. “Spiraling” might be closer to the truth. “No, it’s not. It’s really, really not. This is Elena’s space and I just fucked it up and kissed her husband and —”
I shut her up by stroking my hand against the side of her face. Her eyes flit to mine, the blush subsiding, if only just a little. The paint on my hand leaves a streak of baby blue on her cheek. “This isn’t Elena’s space anymore. And I’m not her husband. I haven’t been for a long time.” I pull her closer until her soft curves melt against my body. “It’s time to breathe some new life into this room. It’s what she would have wanted.”
“Are… are you sure?”
I answer by pressing my lips back down on hers. If I’m being honest, I like the paint. It feels right.
This room, this world, this heart of mine… it’s all been sterile and sealed for far too long.
I’m in the mood to make a mess of it.
Wren lets out a startled yelp when I drag her down onto the floor. My fingers find the end of her blouse and tease it up over her growing belly. My God, it’s such a turn-on knowing that that’s my child inside her. If I get any harder, I might explode.
I peel off her clothes as she lies there and lets me, panting heavily, her eyes sparking and lips fluttering wordlessly every time I touch her. Her legs part to make room for me and she bites her lip when I touch the wet heat between her thighs.
I happen to glance down at her bare chest and see something that makes my mouth twitch up in a smirk—daubs of bumblebee yellow paint arcing around the curve of Wren’s breast.
That, too, feels right.
Marking her. Claiming her. In streaks of yellow and blue paint, in lovebites and nibbles scored along the curve of her neck.
Inside and out, she’s mine.
Head to toe, she’s mine.
And if that’s not enough, when Wren sees what I’m seeing, her eyes light up with a spark of mischief. She plants a hand in the puddle of paint oozing around us, reaches up, and marks me just like I’ve marked her. A handprint of yellow stamped right in the center of my chest.
I’m hers every bit as much as she’s mine.
That, too, feels right.
We fuck—slowly at first, then harder and faster. I don’t look away from her and she sure as hell doesn’t look away from me. She’s a writhing, moaning mess of yellow and blue and bright green eyes in the midst of it all.
She comes and I come, though fuck if I know the order or the way in which it happens. I just know that I’m losing myself in Wren Turner and there’s not a chance in hell that either of us can turn back now that we’ve come this far.
“God,” she breathes at last, rolling off me. “We’ve made a mess.”
