Page 23 of The Devil's Canvas

"You’re a distraction."

"You say that like it’s a bad thing."

I roll my eyes, but my pulse stutters when his mouth brushes my shoulder. My grip on the brush falters, the next stroke coming out uneven.

"I’m working." The words are thin, weak, barely holding weight.

"You’re always working." His lips curve against my skin, then press lower, open-mouthed, warm. His hands tighten against my hips, pulling me back into him, fingers flexing against my waist.

The brush slips from my fingers, clattering to the floor.

His chuckle is soft, smug, and vibrating against my neck.

"That’s what I thought."

I twist in his grip before he can say anything else, turning to face him. He’s already looking at me like he knows he’s won, like he’s already felt my body melt against his, already heard the breathless sigh I don’t want to give him.

Smug bastard.

I drag my fingers through the red paint and swipe it across his jaw.

He startles, eyes widening slightly before amusement flickers across his face. "You little—"

I laugh, stepping back, but he catches me before I get far, gripping my wrist, pulling me back in, pressing me against the edge of the table.

His mouth crashes against mine, all heat and teeth and hunger. I gasp against him, fingers tangling in his shirt, smearing red between us.

His hands find my waist again, firm, grounding, and he’s pulling me closer like he needs me there. Like he can’t stand the space between us.

I kiss him back, letting the heat take me, letting the world shrink down to just this, just him, just color and warmth and the way he tastes like coffee and something sweeter.

His teeth graze my bottom lip, and I shiver. His hands slide beneath my shirt, fingers pressing into my skin, spreading heat low in my stomach, between my thighs, making me ache.

"Dominic—"

"Shhh," he murmurs, lips brushing mine between words. "Keep painting."

I laugh against his mouth, shaking my head. He knows damn well I’m not picking up that brush again.

Not when his hands are on me. Not when I can feel the heat of him pressing closer, stealing my breath, making me forget what I was even working on in the first place.

I miss that, not just the way he touched me, but way we were. The laughter, the ease, and the way he made everything fun.

He may be a celebrity, but with me, he was just Dom. I never walked a red carpet with him. Never sat beside him at an award show, smiling for cameras.

He knew I hated that. He knew the spotlight was everything I tried to avoid. And he loved me anyway.

"You’re such a liar."

"Excuse me?"

"I said," I repeat, crossing my arms, smug, sure of myself, "you’re a liar, Dominic Forsythe. You cheated."

He gasps dramatically, hand clutching his chest. "I would never."

I scoff, pointing at the Scrabble board between us. "You absolutely did. Quotidian?Who the hell just has quotidian sitting in their brain like that?"

"Intellectuals." He smirks, leaning back on the couch like he isn’t the most insufferable person I’ve ever met.

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