He looked down at his arm and the green smear bisecting the exposed skin below his rolled-up sleeve. At the evidence of her chaos now literally marking his body.
When he looked back up, his eyes had gone dark.
"That," he said slowly, "was not an accident."
"It absolutely was."
"You are a terrible liar."
"I'm an excellent liar, actually. You just can't prove anything."
His jaw tightened. That familiar tension rippled through him—the kind she'd learned to read over weeks of observation. The kind that meant his control was fraying.
"Edie."
"Tarmek." She mimicked his warning tone, unable to resist. "It's just paint. It washes off."
"Everything washes off eventually. That's not the point."
"Then what is the point?"
He moved fast—faster than she expected, even knowing what he was capable of. One second he was standing there, green-streaked and glowering. The next he had a brush in his hand, dipping it into the nearest container, and before she could scramble away, a stripe of bright gold arced across her cheek.
She gasped.
He smiled.
Hesmiled. That small, rare quirk of his lips that she'd only seen a handful of times. The one that changed his whole face from intimidating to devastating.
"You—" she sputtered. "You absolute?—"
She grabbed another brush and lunged for the blue. He caught her wrist before she could reload, his grip firm but careful, and suddenly they were grappling. Laughing. Well, she was laughing. He was making a sound that might have been a laugh if laughs could come from somewhere deep in the chest and sound like gravel rolling downhill.
Paint smeared everything. Blue on his shirt. Gold on her arms. Green everywhere, somehow, multiplying like it had a life of its own.
She twisted, trying to get leverage, and ended up pressed against the wall beside the mural with his body blocking any escape. Her back hit the cold concrete, and her brush clattered to the floor.
His hands bracketed her head, palms flat against the wall, caging her in. They were both breathing hard. Her heart was racing, adrenaline and desire and something fiercer tangling in her chest.
"You," he said, and his voice had dropped to that register again, the rough one, the one that made her knees weak, "are impossible."
"I know."
"Infuriating."
"I've heard."
"I should walk away."
She met his eyes. She let him see both the need and the reckless certainty that she was exactly where she was supposed to be.
"But you won't."
His control shattered. This kiss was different from the kitchen. Harder. More desperate. He pressed her into the wall with his whole body, and she arched into him, her fingers finding his shoulders, his neck, the back of his head where his hair was just long enough to grip.
Paint marked every step of their journey. His hands cupped her face, leaving emerald fingerprints on her jaw. She wrapped her arms around him, smearing gold and blue across his back. The wall behind her was probably ruined, and she couldn't bring herself to care.
He kissed like he was starving for her. Like he'd been holding back for years instead of days. His mouth moved from her lips to her jaw to that sensitive spot below her ear, and she made a sound that echoed off the empty arena walls.
