“I have one.” I bite down on my bottom lip. “Just not in here. Be right back.”
I expect Marshall to wait on the bed, sans boxers. Instead, he trots after me like Gram would. “I knew you had a secret sex dungeon,” he says as I unlock the door at the end of the hall.
“It’s not a sex dungeon.” I twist the knob, but hesitate opening it. I haven’t let many people see this room, and I’m not sure I’m ready for Marshall to see it either. He might decide I’m the furthest thing from sexy when he does.
“Prove it.”
“I’d really rather not.”
“Do you have like jars of human teeth in there or something?” he teases.
“No.”
“Then show me.”
“I don’t want to.”
“Why not?”
“Because I still want to get laid.”
Marshall closes the distance between us, caging me against the door. He cups both my cheeks in his hands and draws me in for a kiss that leaves me breathless. “There is nothing you could hide behind that door that would make me change my mind about wanting to be inside you, Hope.”
“Not even a dead body?”
Marshall’s eyes widen for a beat, and I can’t help but laugh. It’s just the sliver of bravery I need to share my secret room.
I open the door and walk in, searching for the box of condoms I used for a drawing inspiration last week. If I stay busy, I don’t have to take in Marshall’s reaction to my art studio.
“Hope, this is amazing.”
“Come again?”
“You’re an artist.”
“I guess. They’re just coloring pages?—”
“You drew all these?”
“Yeah. They’re not that special or anything.” I turned the largest spare bedroom into my design studio when I moved into the house, long before I knew it would be a viable business. It’s a creative space that gets the best light in the house. “They’re mostly inspirational quotes?—”
“That one looksveryinspirational,” Marshall says, pointing to a drawing of a box of condoms with an alien standing off to the side. The caption—I cum in peace—takes up most of the picture.
“My art is a little…different,” I admit.
“You really like the word fuck, don’t you?” Marshall asks, examining the area I have come to call myI don’t give a fuckcorner.
“Yeah, I do. Speaking of fucking…do you still want to? You know, now that you’ve seen my secret room?”
Marshall turns, his steel rod nearly taking out a cup of markers on the counter. He gestures to his boxers. “Does this answer your question?”
8
MARSHALL
Hope locksthe door to her art studio, and I follow her back to the bedroom. I don’t know what I expected to see behind that door, but it wasn’t a room with built-in counters along three of the walls, artwork pinned up all over the walls, and an island in the middle filled with prints.
“What do you do with all that art?” I ask, shrugging out of my boxers.
