“All right,” he said, as if he didn’t already know. “So confess.”
“I don’t know if I should. No, no—I have to. Especially because we’re friends. You said that, didn’t you, Red?”
“Yeah. We’re friends.” Although he’d never wanted to kiss his other friends’ wrists just to feel their pulse racing under his lips. For example. But still, friends.
“All right.” She smiled, but it was a nervous sort of smile. “Well, you know the list I showed you is . . . censored, I suppose. And there’s an item you haven’t seen that, um, that you’ve already helped me cross off.”
His eyebrows rose. This wasn’t going where he’d expected it to. “Okay?”
“I wanted to do something bad.” She sounded tortured.
He found himself smiling. “Uh-huh?”
“So I . . . well, I . . . Oh God.”
“Just spit it out, Chlo. You’re killing me.”
She spat it out, all right. “Imighthavemaybekindofspiedonyoualittlebitlikethroughthewindow?”
He blinked. “What?”
“I spied on you.” Her voice was clearer this time, since it was a banshee-level wail. “Like a weirdo. I mean, the first time was an accident, and I only did it twice after that, but that’s twice too many, and you were basically naked—which is not why I did it—”
“So why did you do it?”
She bit her lip, her eyes widening slightly. Probably because he’d asked like it was fucking life or death. He held his breath, wondering if her answer would ruin this. Ruin everything.
It didn’t.
“I watched because . . . when you paint,” she said softly, “you seem so vital. It was addictive. It felt like coming to life.”
Something in his chest, sort of . . . skipped. Pleasure rolled through him the way fire warmed cold hands: slow and intense and so sharp you weren’t quite sure if it hurt, but didn’t mind either way. He didn’t realize he’d been staring at her in silence until she begged, “Oh my God, say something.”
The nerves in her voice squeezed at his heart. “It’s okay,” he said quickly. “I already knew.”
Her jaw dropped. “I beg your pardon?”
“About the spying, I mean,” he clarified. “Not about the, er . . . coming to life part.” He was grinning as he said it.
She set her jaw and stared at her knees. “I shouldn’t have said that. And how did you already know?” She had the nerve to sound irritated with him, which, for some reason, he liked. He liked a lot of things about her, in fact, with a summer-sky-blue intensity that almost made him want to look away.
“Rule of thumb,” he told her. “If you can see someone, they’ll probably see you.”
“But . . .” She spluttered helplessly. “It was dark outside!”
“Your lights were on. My lights were on. Do you know how windows work?”
“Oh, shut up.” All at once, her indignation faded. “I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry. You should hate me.”
He’d expected to. He’d thought her reasons would drag him back to dark places—that she’d been consuming him for her own amusement, that maybe she’d been watching him the way she’d watch animals at the zoo. But she hadn’t been. Her explanation was nothing like he’d once expected. It was . . . sweet, as if she’d put a hand on his heart for a moment. And really, he didn’t actually care who saw him painting—hence why he did it in front of a bloody window.
But, all things considered, he thought she was bullshitting just a little bit. “Not that I don’t believe your flattering explanation, but are you sure you didn’t watch partly because I was half naked?”
She gasped. “Of course not. Outrageous. As if I would ever. I’m not a pervert, you know!”
“Then why’d you feel guilty?”
Her pretty, pillow mouth formed a perfect O. It was getting so dark he could barely see her, but strips of orange streetlight sliced over her jaw, glinted off her glasses, illuminated her sparkly, skirt-covered lap. Maybe he should take that as some kind of sign. Maybe the universe was telling him to kiss her, take off her glasses, and push up her skirt.
Yeah, right. What had they just said? They were friends. F R I E N D S.
But then she pursed her lips, and sighed, and said with an air of confession, “I suppose you’re right.”
He stilled. Cleared his throat, because it suddenly felt rougher than sandpaper. “Right about what?”
She glared, as if he was being difficult. “You know what you look like.”
You know what you look like. Coming from Chloe, that might as well have been a fucking ode to his attractiveness. And now she narrowed her eyes at him, chin up, as if daring him to have a problem with that.
There was only one problem, really: the fact that they weren’t touching. So he stopped holding back, and his free hand cupped her cheek, cradling that beautiful fucking face. She breathed in sharply, caught her lower lip between her teeth, and he teetered on the edge of a possible mistake. Would she regret him, after tonight? Would she see him as a failed plan, a thing she couldn’t control and wanted nothing to do with? Would she leave him, and everything wonderful growing between them, behind?
He couldn’t let that happen. But he couldn’t let this moment pass, either.
“I’m going to ask you something,” he said softly, studying her face—the V between her eyebrows, the heat in her eyes, the vulnerable flash of pink inside her mouth, revealed by her parted lips. He wanted that mouth. He wanted that vulnerability. “I’m going to ask you, and I don’t want you to worry about anything. Not a fucking thing, Chlo. We’re friends. This doesn’t have to be complicated. I’m not going to make it complicated. Okay?”
He heard her breath hitch slightly as she nodded. “Okay,” she said softly. “Okay. So ask.”
“Should I make you moan again?”
Her answer was so fucking sweet. “Please.”
Chapter Fourteen
She’d thought he would kiss her. He bit her instead.
The tip of his nose bumped hers, his big hand cradled her jaw, and his teeth grazed her lower lip. Soft and slow. Tugging slightly. She felt that tug right between her thighs, a molten rush. He bit again, harder, and arousal shivered over her skin. Her nipples tightened, as if they were trying to catch his attention like a pair of shameless hussies. She approved. More bites, everywhere. Clearly telepathy wasn’t his strong suit because he didn’t rip off her clothes and devour her, one breast at a time; he licked her lip instead. His tongue swept out to soothe the tingle left behind by those bites, except it didn’t work. That wet slide turned the tingle into a spark, a current, a bolt of lightning. She moaned.
He pulled back, slowly, slowly. “There,” he whispered.