Page 73 of Our Secrets and Scars

“What’s with all the fucking tarp? This is like a scene out ofThere Are No Saintsby Sophie Lark. It’s a murder room if I ever saw one.”

“There are nowhat?”

“It’s a romance book about serial killers.”

“You read that sort of stuff?”

“Obviously.” I wave his idiotic question away. “For real, though. Should I be worried?”

He snorts and starts rooting through a cupboard on the near side of the room. “No, Kinsley, I’m not here to kill you. We’re here to paint.”

“Paint?”

“Yep.” He heaves out two massive tubs of paint from the cupboard and disappears again to grab more.

“I’m not really the creative type,” I say, suddenly nervous.

I’ve seen how talented he is, and I’ll be nothing in comparison.

“You don’t need to be for what I have in mind.”

Together, we carry the tubs of paint through to the little tarpaulin room, and Holden lays out an enormous sheet of paper that’s easily a few feet wide.

“Pour some paint on it,” he orders, picking up a tub of red paint and emptying it completely.

I follow suit, going for the yellow and throwing it across the paper, watching as the color turns to orange in the areas where the yellow and red mix together. We keep going, adding more colors—purple and blue and pink—until all of the white space is covered in an explosion of vivid hues and shades.

“Now what?” I ask, my hands on my hips.

“Now we fuck.”

My head snaps in his direction. “What?”

“You heard.” He smirks.

“But why?”

“You wanna see what real art looks like?” He tears his shirt over his head and unbuckles his pants. “Get your ass naked and into that paint.”

Sweet Lord.

“What if someone comes?”

“They won’t.”

“How do you know for sure?”

“I don’t,” he shoots me the most sinful grin I’ve ever seen, “but doesn’t the risk make it more fun?”

“Fun isn’t exactly what I’d call it,” I grumble.

But somehow, probably as a result of the paint fumes poisoning my brain, I do as he tells me to. I strip down to nothing and, without even a hint of hesitation, lay myself down in the paint.

Holden makes sweet, dirty love to me. He takes me in every position, each thrust of his hips sends me sliding through the paint. It’s cool against my overheated skin, and I find myself wanting even more.

He was right.This is fun.

My nipples cut wavy lines through the paint like ripples in the water as he slides into me from behind. We make handprints, ass prints, and indiscernible shapes as we rut against each other until our entire bodies are covered in blinding color.

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