Page 59

“Not now,” Robbie says, tension growing in his jaw. “I’ve been trying to treat the painting like therapy. Trying not to think about it.”

Respecting his wishes, I let the matter drop.

We move onto the last wall, Muse’s “Super Massive Black Hole” filling the silence. We start at opposite ends and gradually work our way towards each other until we’re painting shoulder to shoulder, so close I can feel the heat radiating off him.

Every so often, our arms and shoulders brush, sending tingles blooming across my skin. There’s something about having Robbie next to me—his size, the way he fills the space—that makes me feel both utterly safe and completely on edge at the same time.

I don’t want this to end, but all too soon Robbie steps back and surveys the walls with a critical eye. He nods. “That’s us done for today.”

He sets his roller down and wipes his hands on an old rag, taking the opportunity to put a bit of polite space between us. And just like that, the bubble we were in bursts. Suddenly it’s just me, him, and four damp walls.

I stand there clutching my roller, wishing I could think of some excuse to keep him here. Anything to stretch these moments out. But nothing comes.

“Is it all right if I nip to the bathroom first to wash up?” Robbie asks, already edging towards the door. “Then I’ll get out of your hair.”

“Aye, of course.” I try not to sound as deflated as I feel.

He disappears, and I busy myself fiddling with paint trays and pretending to tidy up, but really I’m just listening out for his footsteps and desperately hoping he won’t leave the moment he’s rinsed off the worst of the paint.

Time drags. Rationally, I know he’s only washing his hands, but it feels like ages. Finally he appears again in the doorway, just long enough to give me a nod before stepping aside for me to take my turn. Again, he’s careful to keep a bit of distance between us.

I duck into the bathroom and attack my hands with soap like they’ve personally offended me. A sinking feeling settles below my ribs, the kind you get when you reach the end of a good party and everyone else goes home but you’re not ready for it to be over.

Through the open bathroom door—did I leave it like that as an invitation?—I hear the music being turned off and the sounds of Robbie gathering his things. He’s getting ready to leave. Just as I’m reaching for the towel, his footsteps enter the hall.

“Well, I’ll be off, then,” he calls. “See you tomorrow?”

“Aye . . . see you tomorrow.”

I’m expecting to hear the clunk of the front door, but instead there’s a soft tread outside the bathroom, and I glimpse movement in the mirror. Robbie fills the doorway behind me, one hand braced against the frame.

“I just wanted to say . . . oh, hang on. You missed some.” He steps closer and wets his thumb under the tap, then wipes it gently across my cheek, sending a jolt straight through me. “That’s better.”

I meet his eyes in the glass—so blue they look almost unreal—and my heart gives an unhelpful flutter.

“Do I have any more on me?” My voice comes out softer than I mean it to.

“Don’t think so . . .” He bends slightly to get a closer look, and his gaze lingers on my lips for half a second too long. I swear he’s about to close the gap, but he doesn’t.

God. If I have to go on waiting for him to make a move, I’m going to explode. So I do what I do best: I throw caution out the window. Rising onto my tiptoes, I press my lips to his.

For the briefest second, it feels awkward—a fumble of noses, a rush of want—then heat blooms under my skin. But just as I’m starting to melt into him, Robbie jerks back, his jaw clenched, his eyes dark with something that looks like hunger.

“Cat.” His voice is rough. “If this goes any further, I won’t be able to hold back. As soon as I’ve got you in my hands, I’m going to want to taste you . . . fuck you. And it won’t be gentle.”

A delicious shiver dances down my spine at the crassness of his words. “I can handle you,” I say, trying like hell to sound cool and not as desperate as I feel.

Robbie’s pupils dilate, nearly swallowing the icy blue. But still he hesitates. “Your big brothers won’t be happy.”

“I don’t care. This is between us. Just . . . kiss me already.”

Robbie growls, then he pulls me towards him, his mouth crashing against mine.

The smell of him—paint, sweat, and that dark, masculine note—fills my senses as he kisses me deeply, his tongue ploughing into my mouth, demanding and dominant. His large hands slide down my back to grip my backside, and I press closer to him, feeling him thickening against me. My body responds instantly—hot, wet, aching for him—and the sound that escapes me is half-moan, half-surrender as I lose myself in the sheer power of him.

When he breaks the kiss, his eyes are molten. “Take off your top.”

I’ve never removed an item of clothing so fast in all my life.