Page 77 of Pretty When He Bleeds

His eyes snap to mine, wide and glazed over, and goddamn, I’ve never felt this much. It’s not just about getting off. It’s not even about the paint anymore. It’s about him. About the way his body moves over mine. About the way he opens for me, breaks for me, and lets me have him.

Paint smears across his thighs, across his hands, across me where we move together. He’s a mess. We’re a mess. And it’s fucking perfect.

“You see yourself?” I whisper, brushing my lips against his jaw. “You see what you look like covered in my colors, moaning in my lap, and taking every inch like you were made for it?”

His breath hitches.

“You’re art, Roman,” I rasp, gripping his waist as he bounces harder now, riding me, losing himself in it. “You’re the only thing I want to paint for the rest of my life.

He gasps, nails digging into my shoulders, his rhythm stuttering. “I’m—I’m close—”

“I know, baby,” I whisper, mouth hot against his throat. “Come for me. Paint my lap with it. Show me what I do to you.”

Roman sobs my name as he shatters. His body arches, his cock pulsing between us, streaking paint and cum across my stomach. He clenches around me so tight I lose it too, coming with a guttural groan that tears straight from my chest, my hands gripping him like I never want to let go.

When it’s over, we collapse together. He slumps against my chest, breath ragged, hands gripping me like I’ll disappear if he lets go. I wrap my arms around him, fingers tangled in his sweat-damp curls, lips brushing his shoulder.

No declarations.

No words.

Just two boys—one a canvas, the other an artist. Covered in paint, in sweat, in the quiet truth of something too big to name just yet.

Roman

Iwakeuptoa sound that sends a chill down my spine—a low, broken whimper cutting through the silence of the room. For a second, I’m not even sure if I heard it, my brain still foggy from sleep and my body aching from yesterday’s game. My ribs feel like I went a few rounds with a semi, and my thighs burn from the strain of the match.

And Damon. Fuck. Damon didn’t make things any easier. I’ve got bruises in places I didn’t even know you could bruise, but it’s the good kind of sore. The kind that reminds me of exactly how much he missed me.

The noise comes again, and this time it’s louder, a whimper that sends a spike of fear through my chest. I blink a few times, trying to shake off the haze of sleep, and when I turn my head, I see him.

Damon’s lying on his back, his body rigid, his hands clutching the sheets like he’s trying to hold onto something that isn’t there. His face is twisted, his brows drawn together, and there’s sweat beading on his forehead.

“Damon?” I whisper, my voice rough with sleep.

No answer. Just a low, broken sound from his throat. Like something’s tearing him apart from the inside. My stomach flips. His chest is heaving, every breath shallow and sharp, like he can’t get enough air. He’s not awake. I know that now.

“Shit,” I mutter, my heart lurching as I sit up fast, blinking the sleep from my eyes. “Damon. Baby, you’re dreaming. You gotta wake up, okay?”

I place a hand on his shoulder, but the second I touch him, he jerks violently, his arm lashes out blindly, almost catching my face, and I jerk back, nearly falling off the bed.

“Fuck—Jesus—” I gasp, hands up, heart thundering. “Okay.Okay. Okay, shit.”

I’ve never seen him like this, and I don’t know what the hell to do. My stomach twists as another whimper tears out of him, this one more desperate than the last.

“Damon, please—” I scramble closer again, slower this time, crawling over the bed like I’m approaching something broken. My hands shake as I straddle him, pinning him down so he doesn’t hurt himself or me. His body is slick with sweat, his muscles taut under my hands as he struggles against me.

“Hey,” I say, leaning down so my face is close to his. “Damon, it’s me, it’s Roman. You’re safe, alright? It’s just a dream, baby. You’re safe.”

He thrashes beneath me, his breaths coming in sharp, shallow gasps, and I can feel his heart hammering. It scares the shit out of me, seeing him like this, so raw and vulnerable in a way he never lets himself be when he’s awake.

“Babe—look at me,” I beg, leaning in close so he can hear me. “Please. You’re safe. You’re in our bed. I’m right here. It’s not real.”

His head jerks again. His lips move like he’s trying to speak, but no sound comes out—just a strangled breath, a tremor that runs through his chest and into mine. And fuck, it kills me seeing him like this. My Damon, who never flinches and never cracks, now falling apart under something I can’t reach.

“Come on,” I whisper, desperate now. “Come back to me, baby.Please. You’re okay. I’ve got you. I swear to fuck, I’ve got you.”

My fingers slide up, cupping his face, thumbs brushing his damp cheeks. I lean down, nose to his, breath shaking as I try to anchor him with every word and every touch. “I’m here,” I say again, voice breaking. “I’m right here. Just breathe with me, okay? In and out. Just like that. In and out.”

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