He laughed into the phone. The sound sent shivers down myspine.
“I’ll see you later, then,” he saidsoftly.
“Okay,” I said. “Later,then.”
* * *
Finger paintingwith a four-year-old waschaos.
Whoever invented the slimy crap was anasshole.
Not one drop of it got on the walls or floor, but gallons of it somehow got up my nose, in my hair, just about everywhere there was skin on my body—I was covered in Addison style-squeal inducing neon paint. And the smell washorrible.
I somehow managed to get the kids washed and in bed by half past eight. It was me, head to toe covered in crusty dried up paint I was worried about. Thank God, the colorful crap on me washed right off with water. I just needed water—and I needed it fast—my skin itched likecrazy.
Quickly, I ran down into the laundry room, undressed, wrapped a towel around myself and threw all of our dirty clothes into a wash. Then I ran back up the stairs, cleaned the toys and debris out of the bathtub, and jumped into the shower, leaving the door open to listen for the kids. It took a little too long for me to get all the damn paint out of myhair.
I turned off the water and stumbled out of the tub, wrapping myself in a clean towel.Shit. I didn’t have any clothes. I just put all my clothes in thewash.
Oh, well. At least it was out of myhair.
I pushed open the bathroom door a little wider to listen for anyonecrying.
Something in the kitchen rattled, with a clang to thefloor.
My eyes shot up, and my breath was sucked right out of my lungs. Across the hallway, Dylan leaned against the kitchen counter, dinner plate up to his chest, fork on the floor and a piece of roasted chicken sticking out of his mouth. His eyes were red, like he'd been crying for days, but they slowly changed as he stared atme.
I swallowed quickly. “I was full ofpaint.”
The plate tipped andtrembled.
He plopped the wobbly dish down onto the counter, almost missing it, and nodded hishead.
I cleared my throat and walked further out into the hallway. “Do you think I could maybe borrow a shirt or something that doesn’t have paint all over it? My clothes are in the wash with Addison’s.” I looked down and cringed. The towel hardly covered me; it ended too high on my thighs.Why were his towels so fuckingshort?
He stood frozen, not answering me. His eyes,I feltthem sliding up my legs, like a soft caress. A deep ache twisted between mylegs.
I took a deep breath, and the towel rode up even more. Dylan pushed off the counter instantly and stormed through thehallway.
Guilt was like sand in my throat, and I wanted it to go away. I wanted his hands on me. It would be just sex. It’s natural to want to have sex this bad, right? God, I bet it would begood.
He strode down the hallway like an animal. I bet he’d take his time on me and…what the hell was I thinking?I crossed my legs under the towel and filled my thought with images from the most violent homicides I’d seen.Get the fuck out of my head, Dylan Sanborn; I don't want to wantyou.
I scrunched my eyes closed and covered my face with one hand. If the stupid towel weren't so tiny, I'd have my entire headcovered.
I felt the heat of him as he stood in front of me. “I thought you were going to be late. I’m sorry,” I said, opening myeyes.
Even though he was no more than a foot away from me, his eyes were cast upward, looking at the ceiling above us. He wouldn’t even look at me, just completely rejecting me. My face heated, and the corners of my eyes tingled with tiny needle pricks.He couldn’t even look atme.
“I’m the one who should be sorry. I…I thought I would be later…” His eyes finally dropped, then met mine. All I saw was hunger andpain.
“Are you okay?” My voice trembled. It sounded needy anddistressing.
He nodded, slowly brushing past me in the hallway. His warm breath fanned out across my bare shoulders as his body slid closely across mine. There was plenty of room in the hallway. Yes, it was an oddly narrow space, but he didn't have to move so close, not unless he wantedto.
He licked his lips before answering me. “I’m just great,” he grunted. He ran a hand through the top of his hair and sighed. “Come on, I’ll give you a shirt andpants.”
I followed him into his bedroom. It was empty, mostly, only hosting one dresser, a lopsided nightstand, and a fully made bed. I stared at the bed, scolding myself silently,Stop looking atit.
