Page 72 of Pretty When He Bleeds

He’s standing in the doorway with his duffel bag over his shoulder and his eyes locked on me. His mouth is slightly open, and I can tell from the faint flush creeping up his neck that he wasn’t expecting to walk into this.

I smirk, wiping my hands on a rag and stepping back from the canvas. “How long have you been standing there, baby?”

He doesn’t answer right away, his gaze trailing from my face to my chest, then back up again. “Since when do you wear glasses?” he asks, his voice a little breathless.

I shrug, reaching up to take them off. “Only when I’m painting. My eyesight’s crap for smaller details.”

But before I can remove them, he’s walking toward me, his bag hitting the floor with a dull thud. His strides are quick, and then his hands are on my face, tilting it so I’m forced to meet his gaze.

“Don’t take them off,” he says, his voice almost commanding.

I raise an eyebrow. “Didn’t realize you had a thing for glasses, Hotshot.”

His cheeks flush deeper and I barely have time to process it before his lips are parting mine, his hands sliding from my face to the back of my neck, pulling me closer like he’s afraid I’ll disappear. The kiss is messy and heated, and I can feel the faint tremble in his hands as he grips me tighter.

When he finally pulls back, we’re both breathing hard, my glasses are fogging up and there’s a dazed look in his eyes that makes my chest tighten.

“You’re more excited about me wearing glasses than the fact that I’m right here in front of you?”

Roman huffs out a laugh, but he doesn’t let go of me. “Shut up,” he mutters, his thumb brushing against my jaw. “You just—you look good, alright? Fuck, you look so good.”

The way he’s looking at me—like I’m something worth getting flustered over—makes my pulse pick up. I’m not used to this, to someone looking at me like this, and it’s both terrifying and addicting.

Then he kisses me again. His hands move, one sliding into my hair and the other gripping the back of my neck. He tilts my head to deepen the kiss, and I can feel the heat radiating off him, the sheer intensity of his need.

“Fuck,” he mutters against my lips, his breath hot and shaky. “I missed you.”

I manage to get my hands on his hips, grounding myself as he presses closer. “I noticed,” I say, smirking against his mouth, but it comes out breathless.

He pulls back just enough to look at me again, his cheeks flushed and his lips slightly swollen. “You’ve been hiding this from me the whole time?” he asks, his gaze dropping to the glasses.

“I wasn’t hiding anything,” I protest, though my voice lacks conviction.

Roman raises an eyebrow, smirking. “Right. You just conveniently forgot to mention how fucking good you look in these?”

“Jesus, you’re ridiculous,” I mutter, trying to look anywhere but at him, but he doesn’t let me.

“Say what you want,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing over my jaw. “But I’m keeping this image locked in my brain forever.”

He leans in again, pressing another kiss to my lips, softer this time but no less consuming. His hands stay on my face, holding me in place like he’s afraid I’ll slip away if he lets go.

When he finally pulls back, he looks at the canvas behind me, his brow furrowing. “What are you working on?”

I glance over my shoulder, shrugging. “Nothing special. Just… something.”

His eyes narrow slightly, and he steps around me to get a better look.

“Is that—” He stops, tilting his head as he studies the painting.

I don’t say anything, waiting for him to connect the dots.

“It’s… me?” he says finally, his voice quiet.

“Yeah,” I admit, scratching the back of my neck. “Guess I missed you more than I realized.”

He turns back to me, a slow smile spreading across his face. “You painted me?”

“Don’t get a big head about it,” I mutter, the heat creeping up my neck as I try to act like this isn’t a big deal. But the way he’s looking at me? Yeah, it’s a fucking big deal.

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