Page 127 of All We Need

My voice is raspy. “Likeone of yourFrenchgirls?”

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

alessandra

“Quit squirming!”

A pillow mufflesBooth’sgirlish giggle but does nothing to stop the shaking of his shoulders. “Ittickles.”

My legs bracket his hips asIstraddle his butt while he lies facedown on his bed.Shirtless, with smooth, golden skin on full display, his muscles twitch asIrun a damp washcloth over his back.Maybethe lack of sleep is to blame for this absurd idea.Boothis a willing participant, albeit the most unusual canvasI’veever painted on.

“I’d still consider this painting with numbers.”Hischuckle vibrates through me.

I pause. “Howso?”

He twists his neck and waggles his eyebrows. “BecauseI’ma ten.”

The squeal he lets out whenIsplash cold water on his face doesn’t do much to deter the crazy surge of hormones running through my body.He’sso cocksure.Withany other man, it would be off-putting.Boothowns it, makes it attractive and endearing, like with a lot of things he does.Pairthat with his delicious body, it’s hard to not be lured in.

“You really are an idiot,”Isay with faux annoyance.Thecloth splats on the floor asIdrop it over the edge of the bed and dry him off with a paper towel. “Okay, are you ready?”

“Ready asI’llever be.”Heblinds me with a dazzling smile before tucking his face back into the downy pillow.

We’ve lined up the tiny pots of paint the kit came with on a tray.Thebrushes are cheap, the paint may never wash off, but a thrill of excitement runs through me asIdab the brush into hot pink.

I slap a hand over my mouth to stop my snort whenIthink how ridiculous we must look.

“Hey, what are you doing up there?Nopenis drawings!” he protests.

“Shh.Letme concentrate.”

The streak of pink stands out against his tanned skin.Followingeach ridge of his spine,Idrag the brush down and stop between the two dimples above the waistband of his shorts.Dip, paint.Dip, paint.Dip, paint.

With each stroke, he softens into the mattress, sighing peacefully.Mytongue peeks out between my teeth asIlayer on the colors.There’sno pattern to follow, design to recreate.Thisis unrefined, imperfect, and messy.

Tires squeal internally, andIfreeze.

I’m painting.

The thoughtful gift, followed by my silly suggestion, has me feeling airy.Nocreative block or obsessing over tiny details.

He’s chipped away at me, one patient, effortless step at a time.Myflaws don’t stop him.Thereare quite literally no strings keeping him here; he wants to be here with me.

A splash of water lands on his back and that’s whenIrealizeI’mcrying.CryingbecauseI’mhappy and free and grateful and loved.CryingbecauseIhaven’t felt like this in a long, long time.

Booth detects the change in mood, and turns his head.Idon’t hide the evidence of my emotions streaking down my face.

“Alessandra, baby,” he breathes. “What’swrong?”

My skin heats.Ihatecrying with a passion.Twicein twenty-four hours is unheard of.

Trust,Aly.Wetrust him.Hetrusts us.

I give in completely.Thetears fall to frame my watery smile. “I’mhappy.Andpainting.”Mylaugh is more like a blubber. “I’mjust really happy andIdon’t know what to do with it.”

He’s thrown for a beat before the corner of his mouth picks up, eyes softening. “Ilike how it looks on you,Silv.Ireally fucking like it.Thanksfor letting me witness it.”

“Witness?”Mypaint-smeared fingers drag through his locks, not caring about the messI’mmaking. “You’rethe cause.”Ibend down and press a gentle kiss to his cheek. “Thankyou.”

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