Page 88 of Rivals
I hesitate and decide he probably should know this. “I don’t want them to hear.”
“What makes you think I give a shit what anyone else hears?”
“Because I don’t want them to call the cops on you!” I yell back, saying ‘cops’ a little quieter.
“So, you do care about me,” he says smugly. I roll my eyes and try to wiggle out of his hold. He squeezes his thighs harder, and I try to ignore the ache that’s growing.
“Maybe I should scream so someonewillcall the cops on you. Then you’ll leave me alone!”
He leans forward and chuckles. “Revna, Revna, Revna. I know you don’t want to do that. I’ll just make you scream in a different way.”
“What’s that supposed to mean, asshole?” I spit, but my heart and the rest of my body know exactly what he means.
“It means I will burn this city down if it will give you peace. If it will get you to let all of that rage, sadness, and betrayal out. It doesn’t belong in the…” he trails off and shakes his head. “I told you months ago to give it to me, only you didn’t. Instead, you held on longer and tighter. Well, little bird, I’m going to rip it from you because no one needs to carry around what only weighs them down.”
“Then why are you always angry? Why do you carry it around like it’s heavy silver-plated armor?” He frowns.
“We aren’t talking about me.” I yelp in surprise as he rolls us, so I land on his chest. He bends his knees, keeping me from falling right off of him. He rolls onto the wet paint but doesn’t seem to care.
We keep ending up here, but sometimes, it feels like it’s the only way for us to communicate. I don’t have the words to tell him anything else, and I don’t know that I need to. He knows me better than I know myself. My outlet has always been art because I’ve never had anything else. But that has changed with Lachlan.
“We never talk about you,” I whisper and take a deep breath. His lips thin, and he looks away from me.
“There’s nothing to talk about. I’m a spoiled rich kid whose family disowned him because they disagreed with what he wanted to do with his life. It’s that ridiculous and simple.”
“But it doesn’t negate that they did it anyway, Lachlan.”
“This is about you, Revna.” I shake my head and pin back the only words I come up with. It’s not just me, it’s about us. The moment I acknowledge there is an us, I feel like I have nowhere to run.
You’re not supposed to, Revna. He is your other half.
I don’t freeze when I hear the voice. It calms me since I haven’t heard it in a while. I didn’t expect to now that I’m clean. I’m starting to wonder if it was the drugs at all. I shake my head and refocus on Lachlan below me.
“Then help me get it out,” I rasp. His hand snakes behind my neck and yanks me toward him. I kiss him, tasting a tinge of paint, but it feels like it’s us—all passion with a bitter aftertaste. I pull away and wipe the paint off our lips with my shirt. He drags his hand over his face to pull off more of the paint I slapped on his face and wipes it onto the canvas. I glance at the canvas beneath us.
An idea, something I haven’t had in too long, sparks to life. It’s not a mirage of an idea but creativity like it used to be. I can see some semblance of the picture inside my head. I’m not sure it’sbeautifulper se, but it’s …messy. I think I have to be ok with messy right now.
I sit back on my heels and pull my shirt off, tossing it onto the floor. Lachlan lifts his head as he watches me unhook my bra, tossing it next. I grab some more paint, and Lachlan grasps my wrist. “Stop wasting paint, Revna.”
I pull out of his grip. “Sit up and trust me. I have an idea,” I command, and he sits up immediately. I angle the tube behind his body, and the paint shoots across the canvas, landing with a splat. I grab some white and do the same. He looks behind him and then back at me. That mischievous glint is back in his eyes, and I think he’s caught on to what I’m doing. I set the paint bottles to the side and then pull my hair out of its messy bun. He stares at my hair, then wraps my long locks around his fist, yanking me down. His back hits the paint, and his mouth plunders mine. I lose myself in him.
He flips us, and I gasp at the shock of cold paint against my warm skin. My hair catches in it, and he moves me back and forth a little, smearing my back over the canvas. I reach behind him and feel the slippery paint over his shoulder blades. There’s nothing to hold on to as his hips thrust into mine. I whimper, and he grins as he kisses my lips, my jaw, and all the way down to my chest.
“This is a great idea, muse,” he grunts, landing on my nipple and biting down. My hand slaps the canvas as I search for something to hold on to, but all I’m met with is the slippery paint. He slides his hand up over my stomach, over my other breast, and down my arm to link his fingers between mine. Every draw from his mouth sizzles through my nerve endings. I lift my head, and he looks up at me. The throbbing increases, and it’s all I can do not to scream at him to ease the ache.
He hums into my chest and lets me go with a pop of his mouth. His lips trail wet, sloppy kisses all over my body. My paint-covered hand reaches for his hair to tug him back to my lips while my other hand grips him. His open-mouth groan floats into my own, and I swallow it.
I feel his fingers at my waistband as he pulls my underwear down my legs. His are already half gone, and he manages to kick them off himself. “Flip me,” I say breathlessly.
He holds me to him, and we roll back and forth a few times. My hair catches in the paint again and again. It flickers and snaps against the canvas, leaving thin marks across it. “We’re not just making love, muse. We’re making art.” He groans and kisses me. I swear I black out just a little bit.
Making love.I don’t deny him because I’ve never been so sure of what we are doing right now compared to any other time. I felt it the first time he took me, and I’ve felt it every time since. His hand slips between my thighs, careful not to use a paint-covered finger. He bends his finger and uses his knuckle instead. I keen into the open air, and he sighs roughly. “The most beautiful sight I’ve ever seen.”
He turns our bodies so we’re perpendicular to the longest side of the rectangular canvas. I feel the paint slide over my side, and my hair sticks to the canvas. The blues and whites are coming together perfectly in passionate swirls. “On your hands and knees, baby,” he says over my shoulder and lifts me. His hands trailed down my spine, lifting shivers from my bones and growing need in the marrow. My arms go weak, and I almost drop myself, but his tight grip around my hips is the only thing holding me up as he kicks my knees wider, creating new shapes on the canvas.
Lachlan’s hands leave my body, and I look at him over my shoulder while he wipes his hands on the shirt I was wearing. He glances at me and groans. “Damn, baby. I think I got a new painting idea,” he grits out. I like that he loses control with me, that I make it hard for him to not just act on instinct and take me like the animal I know he is.
“Then you better get to work.” My voice is sultry, and I kind of surprise myself. His hand meets my center, and he glides it over me until I’m moving my hips. “Lachlan,” I cry.
