I was thinking about how I felt when he left me to wander around the art museum, and I suppose any time he looked at me, really. Even those first few weeks when I’d not been the kindest, I couldn’t help but get little nervous flutters in my stomach when his attention was wholly on me.
I sent the brushes higher up the canvas as I felt Marcus lean in. “You are, you know.” It was then I felt the tips of his fingers brush the small of my back. “The prettiest.”
I couldn’t help but flutter my eyes shut as I smiled. “I had a hunch.”
His fingers brushed higher, sending tingles shooting across my back like stars. The more he roamed my back, the more I relaxed into him, and it was quite alarming how easily he could make me forget that I’d ever been worried, or scared, or sure that I could never paint again. But Marcus was alarming, in the best ways.
I swilled my brush and found the pale-gold paint, swirling accents against the blue that made them pop. It reminded me of the night we kissed in the phone booth. I’m aware we did other things, but repeating them in my head would only make me zone out, and I couldn’t risk ruining this flow right now. Although if Marcus kept doing what he was doing, I was going to regardless.
But the background reminded me of the windows, how the sky was halfway between black and blue, how the raindrops blurred the glow from the streetlights, marbling them.
“That’s beautiful,” Marcus whispered in my ear, his lips brushing against my skin, practically kissing them.
I leant my head against him as his melted into the crook of my neck. “It’s London.” I gathered some more paint. “The night we… you know.”
He hummed against my neck. “I vaguely remember.”
As one of his hands held the small of my back, the other found my waist, his fingers curling, squeezing gently. He did something similar in London, right before he hiked my leg up and pulled me flush against him.
I squeezed my eyes shut as I blurted, “Have you thought about it… since?”
His head lifted slightly. “That night?” I nodded. “Can I be honest?”
“Course,” I whispered, though I didn’t mean to.
A beat or two passed before I felt him suck in a deep breath, right as his hand, the one on my back, lifted, tracing my side before reaching my shoulder and, slowly, trailing down my arm, leaving trails of goosebumps in its wake.
And right as he reached my hand, he sighed, “All the time.”
I felt my breath stutter and my hand pause on the canvas.
He thought about us.
I don’t know why the thought made my heart beat three times faster, but it did.
“Do you?” His voice cracked. “Think about it?”
I painted one last swirl before dropping my arm, pretending like I needed to think about it. Then slowly, I shifted, angling my head over my shoulder and dragging out the moments until I caught his eyes. But when I did, I nodded. “All the time.”
And then, I don’t know what happened. It was like we were both told the world had seconds before it imploded, and wasting any more time lying to ourselves about how right this felt, how right we felt, was stupid.
It happened so fast. I don’t know what happened first. I don’t know whether he grabbed my face first or I grabbed his. I don’t know if I dropped my palette or it slipped from my hands. I don’t know if I kissed him first or if he kissed me.
But regardless, we were kissing.
And when it clicked, I was reminded of all the reasons I hadn’t stopped thinking about the last time this happened.
He took control in a way that let me still make the decisions. Did that make sense? It probably won’t because he’s not kissing you, so it’s impossible to describe. The only way I can describe it is as if his feet are on the pedals and my hands are on the wheel. He’s driving, and I’m choosing where we go.
His hands burrowed into my hair, holding me close, like the breeze that constantly sneaked through the window would blow me away, and when he tugged me closer, my stomach hollowed in the way I loved. And when he did it again, the kiss turned hungry. Needed. So passionate that I slipped off my stool and straddled him, my legs curling as my hips worked against him.
He broke our kiss as a groan escaped him, and I took that as my moment to move down his jaw, kissing his neck and fisting his hair in my hands.
“I knew you’d be the death of me, Cora Holland.”
MARCUS
And it would be a death of honour.
