She kept holding the pace with her mouth while her wrist worked, heat building against her tongue until Sloane’s thighs locked hard around her shoulders.
“Don’t stop,” Sloane warned, her voice rough, and Catherine didn’t. She kept the metronome true: tongue, fingers, tongue, fingers, until Sloane went tight everywhere and came with a low, torn sound that vibrated against Catherine’s mouth. Catherine stayed in it through the pulses, easing only when Sloane’s grip loosened and her body lost its rigidity.
They ended wrecked and wet on the messy, paint-dusted blankets, breathing hard, heat still ghosting along their skin. No tidy romance, no clever line to file the edges off what had happened. Just the proof of it: Catherine’s legs still unsteady, Sloane’s hand still on the back of Catherine’s neck, both of them aware they’d only skimmed the edge of where this could go and that neither of them, not anymore, was interested in pretending otherwise.
Later, the studio was quiet save for the faint hum of the city outside. They lay tangled together on the drop cloth, their skin streaked with paint, their breaths slow and steady.
Catherine stared at the ceiling, her body still thrumming with the aftershocks of everything she’d just experienced. Her hair was mussed, her clothes abandoned somewhere in the chaos, and for the first time in years, she felt untethered, and it didn’t scare her.
Sloane propped herself up on one elbow, her fingers idly tracing patterns along Catherine’s arm. “You’re quiet,” she said, her tone teasing but gentle.
She was beautiful, Catherine thought. So open and lovely, the warm expressive hazel eyes, the lovely curly soft hair the color of rust, the way her breasts were full and warm and soft and somewhere Catherine wanted to bury her head.
“I’m thinking,” Catherine replied, her voice soft.
“About what?”
Catherine turned her head to meet Sloane’s gaze, her lips curving into the faintest of smiles. “That maybe…chaos isn’t so bad after all.”
Sloane grinned, leaning down to press a kiss to Catherine’s shoulder. “Told you.”
The warmth in her voice, the certainty of it, made Catherine’s chest ache in a way that felt oddly welcome. She closed her eyes, letting herself sink into the moment, the feel of Sloane beside her, the scent of paint and jasmine in the air, the lingering taste of freedom on her lips.
8
SLOANE
The first thing Sloane registered was the warmth of sunlight spilling through the tall studio windows, casting golden streaks across the room. It crept lazily over her bare skin, coaxing her awake with the kind of slow, indulgent comfort that usually meant a good morning was ahead. She stretched, her body sinking further into the sheets, the scent of paint and something distinctly Catherine still lingering in the air.
She reached out instinctively, expecting the comforting weight of another body beside her.
Her fingers met only cool sheets.
Her brows furrowed as her eyes fluttered open, the slow ease of waking up replaced by sharp awareness. The bed next to her was empty. Completely untouched, save for the faint indentation where Catherine had once been.
For a moment, Sloane just lay there, staring at the space Catherine had occupied only hours before.
Then, with a slow, knowing exhale, she let her head fall back against the pillow.
Of course.
She wasn’t an idiot. She’d known this would happen. Catherine—ever the enigma, the woman who calculated every move before making it—wasn’t the type to linger in the morning light, tangled in sheets and lazy affection. She was the type to slip out before dawn, before the night could become something real, something undeniable.
Still, knowing it was inevitable didn’t make the empty space next to her feel any less frustrating.
She sat up, running a hand through her curls as she surveyed the quiet chaos of her studio. Their shared painting, streaks of deep crimson and gold blended in a mess neither of them had intended, stood propped against the far wall, the colors dried now but still carrying the energy of the night before. The drop cloth beneath them was a beautiful disaster of smeared paint, evidence of where they had lost themselves, where Catherine had let go.
Sloane swung her legs over the edge of the bed, her feet pressing against the cool floor as she reached for her abandoned shirt, slipping it on without much thought. The space felt too quiet now. Catherine had taken her presence with her, leaving nothing behind but a lingering ache in the air.
Shaking her head, she pushed off the bed, reaching for the cup of water she had left on her worktable the night before. She took a sip, her gaze flicking back to the bed, to the way the pillow was still faintly indented.
She reached out and ran her fingers lightly over the fabric. It was cold now, but if she closed her eyes, she could almost feel the warmth of Catherine’s skin still there.
A slow smile tugged at her lips.
"You can run, Catherine," she murmured to the quiet room, her voice husky from sleep. "But you can’t hide from this."
Because Sloane knew the truth. Last night hadn’t been just a lapse in judgment, a moment of indulgence that could be forgotten. Catherine had felt it, just like she had.
