Catherine’s expression didn’t change, but her eyes darkened slightly, her breath catching just so.
Sloane smiled. “You should be painted just like this.”
Catherine huffed, but it wasn’t harsh. There was something in her gaze, something open. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I know.” Sloane leaned in, letting her lips brush the corner of Catherine’s mouth, light and teasing. “But you like it.”
“Debatable.”
“Then why are you still here?” Sloane whispered, lips now ghosting against her jaw.
Catherine didn’t answer right away. Instead, she turned, her body pressing closer, her breath warming the space between them. “Because,” she murmured, “I don’t have anywhere better to be.”
Sloane’s heart gave an odd, stuttered beat.
No declarations. No promises. But from Catherine, that was everything.
She tucked herself against her side, arm draped over Catherine’s waist, letting the quiet settle in around them again. Paints waited, canvases were still drying. There was an entire world downstairs.
But for now, there was only this.
And Sloane didn’t want to be anywhere else.
Sloane’s hand trailed idly across Catherine’s side, fingers drawing faint circles on her skin. She could feel the subtle shift in Catherine’s breathing, the way her body remained relaxed but alert. Present. Still here.
A wicked grin tugged at her lips as an idea bloomed. She slipped out from beneath the covers in one fluid motion, ignoring Catherine’s grumble of protest.
“Where are you going?” Catherine’s voice was still rough with sleep, but amused.
Sloane padded barefoot across the studio floor to a nearby table, grabbing one of her paintbrushes from a jar. She held it up like a sword, then turned and gave it a theatrical spin between her fingers.
“Let’s try something,” she said, eyes glittering.
Catherine didn’t move. She simply lifted one brow, the sheet pulled casually across her chest, her hair spilling over her shoulder like a silk curtain. “I don’t trust that look.”
Sloane winked. “It’s not dangerous.” She strolled slowly back to the bed. “Well…” She dipped the brush into a pot of deep crimson, the bristles soaking it up greedily. “Maybe a little.”
Catherine opened her mouth to argue or warn her off or maybe just make one of those sharp remarks she always had ready, but then Sloane placed one knee on the edge of the mattress and slowly leaned over her.
The first touch of the brush against Catherine’s skin made her inhale sharply.
It was light, teasing, the paint trailing a ribbon of red down the slope of her shoulder.
“That’s cold,” Catherine said through gritted teeth, though she didn’t move away.
“You’ll get used to it.” Sloane’s smile was pure mischief.
She dipped again and followed the curve of Catherine’s arm next, tracing a jagged little lightning bolt that ended at the crook of her elbow.
Another breath hitched. Catherine glared.
“You know,” she muttered, “this is not how civilized people spend the morning.”
“Mm.” Sloane ran the brush in a slow line down her side. “It’s art. You’re the one who keeps saying I’m uncivilized.”
Catherine looked at her, narrow-eyed, then reached up and snatched the brush from her hand in one graceful motion.
Sloane laughed, sitting back on her heels. “Oh, it’s on now.”
