Page 72 of Heavy

I’m able to admire his artwork, from old roman building designs on both biceps, to cylinder geometric ones, they all seem random. They look incredible, including the angel on his chest looking down at another angel, which seems to have been slain in battle. Lines and dots fill in the spaces that are empty, and the only skin that I can see is where it makes sense in the design of the tattoos itself. His face, besides the ‘SIT’ over his eyebrow, is the only place not touched by ink.

Taking a breath, I put more paint onto my hands and adjust onto the bed beside him on my knees. Beginning at his jaw, I place a full handprint there, while my opposite comes to rest at his chest, just above his heart. I feel it under me, in a beat that’s steady and without worry.

I’ve felt, no, seen how my touch makes him react when he is aware. I can’t imagine being so terrified of a natural thing, and with that thought, my own chest constricts.

Instead of placing my whole hand on him again, I let my fingers trail gently down the center of his stomach. His body remains relaxed, and all I can make out are the faint lines of his abs. But I know just how strong they are. Every muscle, every inch of him, was forged as a shield—his way of protecting himself, because no one ever seemed to do it for him.

The lower I go, the more my stomach tightens, and as I get to the sheet, I pause. Every bit of me wants what is under it, but not like this. At least, not the first time he allows me to touch him. So, I move back up and instead follow the scars along his stomach.

They are small lines, and I hate to think they are stab wounds, but it’s all I can imagine they are. Considering the several on his back, I wonder if he was attacked in prison.

Just the thought of someone making him bleed angers me. I’m beginning to feel possessive, and maybe that’s why I want to prove my touch is different than anyone else’s. No part of me wants to hurt Ronan, but if he wants violence, I want to be the only one to provide it. If he wants to feel something, I want him to come to me for it.

Like right now… I hope that this is as new for him as it is for me. That the pussy Ken was referring to was mine, and Ronan had told him he was fucking me and not some other bitch.

I look over at the paint briefly.“This is non-toxic.”

Leaning over, I dip my finger into the liquid, and bring it up to my lips, smearing it around. Then I climb on top of him, my legs straddling his hips.

I lean forward and press my painted lips to the center of his chest, a soft touch before moving up to his neck. The first kiss is dulled by the layer of paint, but as I trail along his jaw, I begin to feel the warmth of his skin. His stubble grazes my mouth as I lightly brush the edge of his lips with mine.

Resting my hands at the side of his neck, I keep my eyes open as I press my mouth to his. No pressure is applied back, nothing but him staying as still as he has been. As badly as I want to linger, I don’t and move back down to his chest where I rest my head.

I’m not sure how long I lay here, it’s only when he attempts to shift do I realize I probably should leave. He tries to turn, but with me entirely on top of him, he can’t. The groan of seemingly discomfort has me beginning to move. That is, until his arm wraps around me and he rolls us to our side.

I suck in a sharp breath, and instinctively say, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not you,” he murmurs.

There is no way he’s awake. If he were, he’d be prying me away because both of my hands are cupped against his chest.

I don’t think he wants me to stay here, and even as he tightens his hold on me, almost like he's begging me to, I know I shouldn’t. Wiggling my hand up, I cup his cheek and kiss his lips once more before struggling to get out from under his grip.

Once I’m free I grab the paint, blow out the candle, and make my way out of his room. I only glance back once before I close his door.

My hands ache to be back on him, and I feel numb suddenly.

I’ve never felt anything like this before, and it terrifies me that I’ll lose it one day—lose him.

After cleaning the paint from my lips and hands, I fell into bed and passed out.

Now I’m just sitting in front of the fireplace, allowing the moody weather outside to billow into the cabin. It started sprinkling, a summer’s rain, with the very soft crackling of thunder every so often. It’s beautiful, but I can’t take it in because holyfuckam I so nervous.

I’m not entirely surprised when he wasn’t awake when I came out of my bedroom this morning. I’d contemplated checking his room, but I don’t know if I’m ready to confront him after my painting session last night.

I was so confident that was what he wanted me to do, but now that I’ve had way too much time to overthink the action, I’m questioning it. What if he actually bought it for another purpose? What if… it was a test, and I failed fucking miserably? Maybe the handprint wasn’t his, but the workers who spilled another can somewhere.

I’ve been unable to drink my coffee, and it’s gone cold just sitting on the fireplace.

I should probably go somewhere and not be here when he wakes up just in case his shock is too much for him to bare. Yet, I’m into that masochism shit, and while I’m scared as fuck, a part of me doesn’t care if I was wrong. He doesn’t dosoft, and if he is angry with me, maybe he’ll punish me.

But what if I was right? Will he turn gentle and loving with me? Do I want that? Holy fuck, I can’t get out of my head. I seriously need help.

A loud bang has me jumping and scrambling to my feet.

Footsteps hurriedly make their way in my direction, coming from the bedrooms. My heart races just as fast as he is heading to me, and I’m worried it will either run right out of my throat or stop because it can’t find an escape route.

When Ronan comes into view, he looks into the kitchen first, but then right where I’m standing in my nightgown. I fiddle with the fabric, stretching it and pulling at it nervously.

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