The Grumpy Landlord, page 14
He popped the second clasp.
The front of my overalls fell forward.
I was wearing a thin white tank top underneath. It was already translucent with sweat and stray paint splatters.
He ran his paint-stained hands down my bare arms. The friction was rough, messy, and incredibly hot.
"You're a mess," he said.
"I know."
"You ruined my shirt."
"I know."
He gripped my hips. His thumbs pressed into my skin, leaving blue prints.
"Make it up to me," he growled.
He leaned down.
He didn't kiss my mouth. He kissed the spot on my neck where my pulse was jumping.
I gasped, my head falling back.
"Yes," I breathed.
He bit down gently on the cord of my neck.
"Say it again."
"Yes."
He scooped me up.
My legs wrapped around his waist automatically. I didn't care about the paint. I didn't care about the wall.
He carried me. Not to the bedroom.
He lowered me onto the drop cloth in the middle of the floor.
The plastic crinkled beneath us. The smell of paint was dizzying.
He hovered over me, the gold and blue on his chest catching the light.
"I'm going to paint you," he whispered. "Every inch."
And looking into his eyes, I knew this was going to be a masterpiece.
Bodies in Motion
Willow
The brush bristles were forgotten.
Ethan didn’t use tools. He used his hands.
He dipped his fingers into the pot of gold acrylic. The metal lid clattered against the drop cloth, a sharp sound swallowed by the heavy, heated silence of the room.
I stood frozen on the plastic tarp, my chest heaving, my skin prickling with anticipation. The air smelled of rain and chemicals—turpentine and arousal.
He stepped closer. His eyes were dark, blown wide, focused entirely on me.
"Hold still," he murmured.
He reached out.
His fingers, slick with metallic gold, traced the line of my collarbone. The paint was cool, a shocking contrast to the fever heat of his skin. I gasped, my knees knocking together.
"Cold," I whispered.
"I'll warm you up."
He didn't stop. He dragged his thumb down the center of my chest, right between my breasts, leaving a shimmering trail over my sternum. He circled my left breast, his palm cupping the weight of it, paint squelching softly against my skin.
It was messy. It was ridiculous. My breath hitched. My skin prickled, every nerve ending singing under the cool slick of the paint.
I reached for the blue.
"Two can play at that game."
I scooped up a glob of cerulean. It was thick, heavy on my fingers.
I stepped into his space. I pressed my hand flat against his stomach, right over a ridge of muscle that jumped at my touch. I slid my hand up, smearing the blue over his ribs, over the old, faded scar that ran along his side.
"I'm reclaiming this," I said, my voice shaking. "I'm painting over the ghosts."
Ethan’s breath hitched. He grabbed my wrist, his grip tight, paint slicking our connection.
"Do it," he growled. "Cover it all."
He dropped to his knees.
He pulled me down with him.
We landed in a heap on the drop cloth. The plastic crinkled and slid beneath us. I ended up straddling his lap, the friction of his jeans against my bare thighs sending a jolt of electricity straight to my core.
He dipped his hands into the red.
He gripped my hips. His thumbs pressed into my flesh, leaving bloody-looking prints that should have been terrifying but felt like a claim.
"You're a masterpiece, Willow," he rasped. "Chaos and color."
He leaned forward and kissed me.
It wasn't a careful kiss. It was a collision. He tasted like coffee and desperation. I kissed him back, my hands sliding up his chest, mixing the blue and the gold into a muddy, beautiful green on his skin.
We slid against each other. The paint made everything slippery, tactile. I felt the slide of his chest against my breasts, cool liquid and hot friction.
I laughed. I couldn't help it. It was absurd. We were covered in pigment, ruining the floor, ruining our skin, and I had never felt lighter.
"You're laughing," he said against my mouth. He nipped at my lower lip.
"I'm happy," I breathed. "I'm really, really happy."
"Good."
His hands moved between us. He fumbled with the button of his jeans. His fingers were slippery, clumsy.
"Let me," I whispered.
I reached down. My hands were blue. His zipper was now blue.
I freed him.
He was hard, heavy, and ready.
I didn't wait. I didn't tease. I lifted my hips and sank down onto him.
We both groaned. The sound tore through the quiet house, echoing off the high ceilings.
It felt different this time. The first time had been a frantic, desperate need to connect before the world fell apart. This... this was a celebration. This was a promise kept.
"Ethan," I cried out, throwing my head back.
He gripped my waist, helping me set the rhythm.
We moved together, a tangle of limbs and color. The plastic tarp bunched beneath his back. The smell of paint was dizzying, mixing with the scent of his sweat and my own arousal.
He sat up, bringing his chest to mine.
We slid against each other. Gold. Blue. Red. It all blurred together.
He kissed my neck, biting down on the cord of muscle there.
"Mine," he murmured against my skin. "You're mine."
"Yours," I gasped. "Always yours."
I wrapped my legs around his waist, pulling him deeper. I wanted to be so close that there was no space for the silence to get in.
He drove into me, hard and fast. The playfulness melted away, replaced by a searing, white-hot intensity.
I looked at him. His face was a mask of concentration and pleasure. There was a streak of gold on his cheekbone, like war paint.
He looked beautiful. He looked whole.
"Look at me," he commanded.
I locked eyes with him.
"I see you," I whispered.
"I know."
He thrust harder, hitting that spot inside me that made my vision blur.
I dug my nails into his shoulders.
"Ethan, please."
"I've got you."
He didn't let go. He held me through the crest, through the shattering. I came with a cry that ripped from my throat, my body bowing backward, held up only by his strength.
He followed me seconds later, his body stiffening, a low roar tearing from his chest as he poured himself into me.
We collapsed against each other.
I slumped forward, resting my forehead on his shoulder. My heart was hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.
We stayed like that for a long time. Just breathing. Existing in the mess we had made.
The air conditioner kicked on, blowing cool air over our paint-slicked skin.
I shivered.
Ethan’s arms tightened around me instantly.
"Cold?"
"A little."
He reached out and grabbed the throw blanket I had tossed on the floor earlier—the kaleidoscope one. He draped it over my shoulders, not caring that it would get ruined with paint.
"Better?"
"Yeah."
I pulled back to look at him.
We were a disaster.
I was covered in gold and red handprints. He was a smear of blue and green. The floor looked like a crime scene in a crayon factory.
I traced the line of his jaw, smearing a bit of teal on his stubble.
"We ruined the drop cloth," I said.
"I'll buy another one."
"We probably got paint on the floor."
"I'll sand it down."
"We definitely got paint on us."
He looked down at his chest, at the swirling galaxy of colors. Then he looked at me.
A slow, genuine smile spread across his face. It reached his eyes, crinkling the corners.
"Worth it," he said.
I laid my head back on his chest. I listened to the steady thump-thump of his heart. It was the most reassuring sound in the world.
"I feel safe," I whispered.
The confession hung in the air.
It was a big thing to say to a man who thought he was dangerous. A man who thought he broke everything he touched.
Ethan went still.
His hand came up to stroke my hair. He didn't care about the paint getting in it.
"You are safe," he said. His voice was rough, thick with emotion. "I will always keep you safe."
He kissed the top of my head.
"Willow?"
"Hmm?"
"I have never..." He paused. He took a deep breath, his chest expanding beneath my cheek. "I have never wanted anyone like this before. Not just the sex. The... everything. The mess."
I looked up at him.
"The noise?"
"Even the noise."
He kissed me again, soft and lingering.
"Especially the noise."
I smiled against his lips.
"Good. Because I'm just getting started."
He groaned, but there was no bite in it. Only affection.
"I was afraid you'd say that."
He shifted, lifting me effortlessly as he stood up, keeping the blanket wrapped around me.
"Shower," he announced. "Before this dries and we have to use sandpaper on our skin."
"Together?"
He looked at me, his blue eyes darkening with a fresh wave of heat.
"Is there any other way?"
"No," I said. "No other way."
As he carried me up the stairs, leaving a trail of colorful footprints on his pristine hardwood floors, I knew Sadie was wrong.
I hadn't broken him.
And he hadn't broken me.
We were just making something new. Something messy and bright and completely, perfectly ours.
Testing Normal
Ethan
Normal was a foreign country.
I didn’t speak the language. I didn’t know the customs. For the last decade, my life had been a series of tactical maneuvers, shift rotations, and silence.
Now, I was pushing a shopping cart through the produce aisle of the local organic market on a Saturday morning.
"We need kale," Willow announced.
She dropped a bundle of leafy greens into the cart. It landed on top of the perfectly organized stack of protein bars I had just arranged.
"We do not need kale," I argued. "Kale is garnish. It’s not food."
"It’s a superfood, Ethan. It makes you live longer."
"I have survived war zones and hospital cafeterias. I don't need a leaf to keep me alive."
She ignored me. She grabbed a dragon fruit. It was bright pink and looked like a grenade designed by a toddler.
"Look at the texture," she marveled, turning it in her hands. "I could paint this."
"We are here to buy sustenance, not still life subjects."
"Por que no los dos?"
She tossed the fruit into the cart. It rolled away from the protein bars, disrupting the symmetry.
I twitched. My hand moved automatically to fix it, to realign the grid.
Willow caught my wrist.
Her hand was small, warm, and covered in a faint smudge of yellow ochre near the thumb.
"Leave it," she said softly.
I looked at the cart. Chaos. A jumble of colors and shapes.
I looked at her.
She was wearing overalls again. One strap was twisted. Her hair was a riot of curls held back by a pencil. She was smiling at me with that open, terrifying affection that made my chest ache.
"It’s messy," I gritted out.
"It’s groceries," she corrected. "The world won't end if the apples touch the onions."
I took a breath. I forced my muscles to relax.
"Fine."
I didn't fix the cart.
We moved to the cereal aisle.
People were staring. Of course they were. In this town, Dr. Ethan Rourke buying dragon fruit with the girl who painted murals on barns was headline news.
" ignore them," Willow whispered, leaning into my arm.
"I am."
"You're glaring at Mrs. Higgins."
"Mrs. Higgins is judging your choice of cereal."
Willow looked down at the box of 'Fruity Loops' in her hand.
"It has a toucan on it. It implies adventure."
"It implies diabetes."
"You're such a buzzkill."
She stood on her tiptoes and kissed my cheek. Right there in aisle four. In front of Mrs. Higgins and God and everyone.
The tension in my shoulders, the constant, low-level hum of hypervigilance that lived in my spine, eased. Just a fraction.
"Get the cereal," I muttered. "But I'm not eating it."
"More for me."
We finished shopping. We drove home.
Home.
The word hit differently now.
For three years, the house had been a bunker. A place to sleep and store my gear. Now, it was... alive.
We unpacked the bags in the kitchen. Willow put things away with zero regard for logic. Cereal next to the pasta. Kale in the cheese drawer.
I let it happen.
I watched her move around my kitchen. She hummed off-key. She danced a little when she closed the fridge door with her hip.
She was taking up space. She was spreading out.
And God help me, I liked it.
"Movie night," she declared, hopping up to sit on the counter. Her boots dangled, swinging back and forth. "Tonight. My pick."
"I thought we negotiated a veto power."
"You used your veto last week on Amélie. You said it was 'inefficient storytelling'."
"It was."
"Tonight we are watching The Princess Bride. And you are going to like it."
I leaned between her knees. I placed my hands on the granite on either side of her thighs.
" Is that an order?"
She grinned. Her eyes sparkled.
"It's a mandate."
I leaned in. I kissed her. She tasted like strawberries and defiance.
"As you wish," I murmured against her lips.
She giggled.
"You've seen it!"
"Maybe."
"You liar. You big, grumpy liar."
She wrapped her legs around my waist.
"Bedroom?" she whispered.
"It's noon."
"So?"
"So... efficient."
I lifted her off the counter.
Normal life.
It was terrifying. It was messy.
It was perfect.
* * *
All I wanted was quiet. All I wanted was order.
I walked into the house.
The smell hit me first. Not vanilla. Not dinner.
Acrylics.
And something sharper. Solvent.
I walked into the kitchen.
The lights were on. All of them.
Willow wasn't there.
But her presence was.
My kitchen table—my custom, black granite dining table that I kept polished to a mirror shine—was covered.
There was no drop cloth.
There were sketches spread out like a fan. There were tubes of paint, uncapped, oozing color onto the stone. There was a jar of water that had turned a murky, brownish-green.
And right in the center, a large glob of bright red paint had missed the palette paper and was sitting directly on the granite.
It was drying.
I stared at it.
My heart rate spiked. Thump. Thump. Thump.
The edges of my vision blurred.
It wasn't just paint. It was a breach. It was a violation of the perimeter.
I had let her in. I had lowered the drawbridge. And this was what happened. Chaos. Disorder.
The red looked like blood.
I gripped the back of a chair. My knuckles turned white.
"Willow!"
My voice was a roar. I didn't mean it to be. It just tore out of my chest.
"Ethan?"
She appeared at the top of the stairs. She was wearing one of my t-shirts. She looked sleepy. Soft.
"You're home early," she said, smiling.
She started down the stairs.
"What is this?" I demanded. I pointed at the table.
She stopped. Her smile faltered.
"Oh. I was working on a new idea. The light in the kitchen is better than the studio in the afternoon."
"You left it."
"I went up to take a nap. I was going to clean it up."
"It's on the table, Willow. The paint is on the table."
She walked into the kitchen. She looked at the red smear.
"It's acrylic," she said, shrugging. "It peels right off. It's basically plastic."
"It's a mess."
"It's creative residue."
"It's disrespectful."
The word hung in the air. Heavy. Ugly.
Willow stiffened. The softness vanished from her face.
"Disrespectful?"
"I asked for one thing," I said. My voice was tight, controlled, the way it got when I was holding back a scream. "I asked for order in the common areas. I gave you the guest house. I gave you the wall. I let you turn my life upside down."
"You let me?" She crossed her arms. "I thought we were sharing this life. Sharing this house."
"Sharing implies consideration. This? Leaving open chemicals on where I eat? This is negligence."
"It's not chemicals! It's non-toxic pigment!"
"I don't care what it is! It doesn't belong here!"
I grabbed a rag from the sink. I wet it. I marched to the table and scrubbed at the red spot.
It smeared. It didn't lift. It just spread, looking more like a wound than before.
"Damn it," I hissed.
"Stop," Willow said.
She reached for the rag.
"Don't touch it," I snapped. "You've done enough."
She flinched.
I saw the hurt in her eyes. It was immediate and raw.
