Page 107 of His to Hunt

The painting waits, incomplete but honest—just like me.

And for the first time, I understand exactly what needs to be added next.

Forty-Five

BECKETT

She fucking marked me.

The gold paint dries on my skin, a claim more intimate than any I've allowed before. She turned away as if what just happened between us was ordinary—as if tracing my deepest scar with her color wasn't an act of possession that's left me unable to draw a full breath.

I watch her at the canvas, her movements fluid and focused. So calm. So centered. So beautifully untouchable in her concentration. Each stroke of her brush deliberate, as though the moment we just shared hasn't altered everything between us.

And it wrecks me.

I've been wanting her like this for so long—both feral and soft, both broken and whole.

And now that she's finally taken her claim, marked me as deliberately as I've marked her, I can't let her pretend it didn'thappen. I can't let her act as though she hasn't carved her name into every corner of my restraint.

My body moves before my mind catches up, like gravity finally remembering its purpose.

I stop behind her, close enough that she must feel the heat radiating from my skin, the current between us impossible to ignore.

She doesn't turn around.

She doesn't have to.

I slide my hand into her hair, feeling its silk between my fingers. I curl them just tight enough to warn her about what's coming, tight enough to send a clear message—that I'm done with distance. Then I pull, not roughly, but with unmistakable intention.

The gasp that escapes her lips is pure music—startled and wanting all at once. Her body arches, tipping back against mine as if it has always been meant to fall this way, as if this trajectory was inevitable from the moment I claimed her in that ballroom.

I don't hesitate.

My mouth finds hers in a collision that feels like coming home to a place I've never been. The kiss holds all the chaos she's been holding at bay—heat and hunger and gratitude and the pure, unrestrained possession that's been unleashed since I watched her paint my tattoo in gold.

Her lips part on a moan that vibrates through me, and her hands find my bare waist, nails digging into my skin like she's been waiting for this just as desperately as I have.

This isn't the calculated claiming of our first night. This is messy. Desperate. Primal. Everything I didn't realize I needed until she touched me with paint and claimed me.

I break away just enough to breathe against her mouth, my voice rougher than I intend.

"You think painting me makes me yours?"

The question hangs between us, her eyes wide and dark as she searches my face. She doesn't speak, but the rapid rise and fall of her chest tells me everything I need to know.

I reach down, my gaze never leaving hers, and dip my fingers into the gold paint she used on me. With deliberate slowness, I drag them across her collarbone, marking her as she marked me.

"You're wrong," I whisper, watching the paint shimmer against her skin. "It makes me obsessed."

She still doesn't answer, but her pupils dilate and her chest rises sharply—like she's drowning in the same hunger consuming me and can't decide whether to surrender to it or let it devour her completely.

I trace another streak of gold across her collarbone, slower this time, a whisper of touch that leaves goosebumps in its wake. The brush remains in her hand, but I'm the one painting now—claiming territory with each stroke of my fingers.

I reach for the strap of her overalls, watching her closely as I pull it down. I move deliberately, savoring the way her breath catches, the way her body responds to my touch even before she says a word.

She doesn't stop me. Doesn't pull away. Doesn't speak.

I lower the second strap, and the soft rustle of denim against skin sounds like permission as it slips down her sides and hugs her hips. Beneath it, she wears just a simple shirt—thin, faded, familiar.

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