Page 73 of Pretty When He Bleeds

He steps closer to the canvas, his fingers twitching at his sides like he wants to touch it but knows better. “You didn’t just paint me,” he says, his voice quieter now. “You—shit, Damon, this is incredible.”

I huff out a laugh, shoving my hands into my pockets. “It’s not done. Just… started it to kill some time.”

He steps closer to the painting, his fingers brushing against the edge of the canvas, careful not to touch the wet paint. “You’re really fucking good, you know that?”

I shrug, grabbing my cup of coffee and taking a sip. “I’ve been doing it a long time.”

“Still,” he says, glancing at me over his shoulder. “This is… I don’t know, it’s kind of wild. Knowing you were thinking about me when you did this.”

I snort, shaking my head. “I wasn’t thinking about you. Not exactly.”

His brow furrows, and he turns fully to face me. “What do you mean?”

I set the cup down, crossing my arms as I lean back against the counter. “When I paint or sketch, I don’t really think. It’s more like… instinct. I let my hands do the work and try not to get in the way.”

Roman watches me, his eyes fixed on mine, and I feel the weight of his attention like a physical thing.

“Sometimes,” I continue, my voice quieter now, “things just… show up. Images. Shapes. Faces.”

“Faces,” he repeats, tilting his head slightly.

I nod, glancing at the canvas before looking back at him. “Yeah. And lately… it’s been yours.”

His expression shifts, softening in a way that makes my chest tighten. He takes a step closer, closing the distance between us until he’s standing right in front of me.

“So, what you’re saying,” he says, his voice teasing, “is that I’ve been living in your head rent-free.”

I roll my eyes, but the blush creeping up my neck gives me away. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Too late,” he says, grinning as he leans in and presses a quick kiss to the corner of my mouth. “But seriously, Damon… this is fucking amazing.”

I try to look away, but he doesn’t let me, his grip keeping me locked in place. “It’s not amazing,” I argue, though my voice lacks bite. “It’s just… you.”

“It’s not just me,” he says firmly. “And you know it.”

My throat tightens, and I swallow hard, trying to shove down the emotions threatening to bubble up. “Don’t make it weird,” I mutter, though my voice cracks slightly.

He smiles, soft and teasing, but there’s nothing mocking in it. When he pulls back, his smirk is back, his eyes glinting with mischief. “So, how many times have you painted me?”

I groan, shoving him lightly. “Don’t push it.”

He laughs, grabbing my wrist and pulling me into another kiss. “Admit it,” he murmurs against my lips. “You can’t get enough of me.”

And as much as I want to deny it, I know he’s right.

Damon

Roman’smouthisstillon mine when I feel the shift. That slow, electric flicker of want under his skin, that barely reined-in need that pulses between us like a second heartbeat. He’s always hungry when we’re together, like he’s trying to crawl under my skin and take up residence there, and fuck, I let him. Every time.

But this time, I want something. Something deeper. Something more…us.

I pull back just enough to catch my breath and meet his eyes. They’re dark, glassy, and locked on my face like I’m something sacred. My chest fucking aches from the way he looks at me—like I’m not just someone he wants, but someone he knows.

“I want to paint on you.”

He freezes, those ridiculous lashes fluttering. “What?”

I reach out and tug gently at the hem of his shirt. “I want to paint you. Not a sketch. Not an impression. ” My voice drops further, soft but steady. “Your skin. Your body.Mine.”

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