Page 74 of Pretty When He Bleeds

Roman’s mouth parts, his breath hitching. I can already see his pulse ticking in his throat. “Dead serious?”

“Dead fucking serious. I’ve been painting you from memory all week. It’s time I use the real thing. Strip for me, Hotshot.”

His eyes snap to mine. Wide, dark, and hungry, but he obeys. His fingers hook under the hem of his shirt, and in one slow, fluid motion, he peels it over his head and lets it fall to the floor.

And goddamn.

Roman’s body is ridiculous. All lean, sculpted muscle and faint bruises from the game, a trail of dark hair disappearing beneath the waistband of his joggers. My gaze tracks over every inch, the slope of his collarbone, the scars on his ribs, the taut lines of his stomach.

My boy isn’t just beautiful. He’s a work of fucking art. A body built for punishment. I’ve sketched him a hundred times from memory, but nothing compares to this—him, real, inches away, and waiting.

When he kicks his joggers off, he’s left in nothing but dark briefs that cling tight to his hips. I let my gaze settle there—where the waistband cuts into his skin, where the bulge presses against the fabric. He’s hard already.

Of course he is.

I step in close, paint-stained fingers dragging up the line of his ribs, across the curve of his pec, then down to his stomach, leaving dark streaks behind. Roman twitches under the touch, sucking in a breath.

“Hold still,” I murmur.

“Damon—”

“I mean it, Roman.” I curl my fingers around his hip, my thumb pressing into the sharp jut of bone. “You said I fucked you up. That I live in your head. Let me show you what you do to mine.”

I reach for the palette—messy, chaotic, full of blacks, reds, golds—and dip two fingers into the deepest shade. Then I drag them down the center of his chest, slow and possessive. The paint is cool on his skin, but I watch it warm as it settles over him.

Roman exhales through his nose. “This supposed to be therapeutic?”

“No,” I say, smearing another stripe over his shoulder. “This is about ownership.”

His eyes flare. “You’re painting your name on me?”

“No.” I press a hand flat to his stomach, leaving a palm-print over the ridges of his abs. “I’m leaving a mark no one else gets to see. A version of you that only exists when you’re mine.”

Roman swears under his breath, and I grin.

“Sit,” I order, nodding toward the stool I use when I paint larger canvases.

He moves like he’s in a trance. Sits with his thighs spread wide, his cock pressing harder against the fabric of his briefs, leaking at the tip. I grab more paint. Smudge it along his collarbone. Stroke a line down the side of his neck. I watch his throat bob as he swallows hard, his fists clenching on his knees to keep from grabbing me.

He’s falling apart, and I’m only just getting started.

“Damon,” he grits, his jaw tight. “You keep doing that, I’m not gonna last.”

“You’re not supposed to.” I kneel between his legs, dipping a brush into red. “You think this is about self-control? Baby, I haven’t had that since the day you walked into my life and smirked like you knew I’d be yours.”

I drag the brush across his hip bone, and paint blooms across his skin like blood, curling in abstract strokes that follow the sharp edge of muscle. I don’t speak for a minute, I just paint and let the silence stretch.

Then I murmur, “You’re my favorite canvas.”

Roman’s head tilts back. “Fuck.

“You’re the one I think about when I’m alone. When my hands ache to create.”

My fingers twitch around the brush. I toss it aside and go back to using my hands. I smear paint across his ribs, down his thighs. I grip his jaw, smudging the black along his throat like a collar.

I walk up behind him and smear it across the small of his back, and he gasps. It’s warm and thick, sliding over his skin like oil. My other hand grips his hip, holding him in place as I spread the paint with slow strokes—no pattern, no shape, just touch.

“Goddamn,” he mutters, his voice strained. “You’re actually trying to kill me.”

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