Page 23 of Wet Paint

I watched him as he spoke, unsure if he knew how poetic he sometimes sounded. “Sounds dreamy.”

“You might be in luck tonight. Just heard on the radio that a storm is rolling in.”

I had heard that too on my drive here, but the sky was so bright that I believed the weatherman was wrong. “I hope so.”

He glanced back at me again with a crooked grin. “Me too. I want you to hear it from here.”

A flutter stirred in my chest. I looked around again, taking in every little piece of him that lived in this space. His brushes in a mug by the sink, sketchpads piled near the fireplace, his jacket slung over the back of a leather armchair. It felt like him. Warm. Grounded. Thoughtful. And now, quietly, mine.

Dinner was ready a few minutes later, and we sat at the small wooden table by the kitchen window. The sky was dimming, and the soft light of the lamps in his house warmed up the place. He poured me a glass of wine, and we ate slowly, talking about everything and nothing. Music hummed low in the background, some old bluesy guitar piece that fit the mood perfectly.

He made me laugh, and I made him pause mid-chew when I said something that surprised him. We shared a plate of fresh fruit afterward, and when I told him the chicken wasperfect, he gave me this little boy grin, proud and bashful all at once.

He told me he rarely cooked for a woman, but that he was going to cook for me more often in the future. I liked that.

When we were done, I started gathering the plates, but he reached for my hand. “Nope. Sit. I’ll clean up.”

“You sure?” I asked, already sliding off the chair.

“I cooked. You relax.”

I didn’t argue. Instead, I hopped up onto the counter near the sink, crossing my ankles as I watched him rinse the plates and stack them into the dishwasher. The sleeves of his button-down were rolled to his elbows, and his forearms flexed every time he reached or moved.

“You always do your dishes right away?” I teased.

“Old habit,” he said without looking at me. “My mom used to hate waking up to dirty dishes. Guess it stuck.”

I tilted my head. “You lived with your parentsong?”

“Until I left for college. My dad wasn't around much because of his work, so it was mostly my mom and me. She worked a lot too, but she was the kind of person who made a home feel like home, you know?”

I nodded, even though he wasn’t looking at me. “You’re like that too.”

He paused. Glanced at me over his shoulder, brows slightly lifted. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. You make things feel…safe.”

The silence that followed was thick with something unspoken. Something real.

He turned back to the sink, rinsing the last plate before placing it carefully on the rack. “You do that for me, too,” he said after a moment, quieter now.

Outside, the first few drops of rain began to fall. Soft, scattered, tapping lightly on the windowpane. I smiled.

“You hear that?”

He turned the faucet off and wiped his hands on a towel. “Told you it was coming.”

I reached out my hand and touched the side of his face to get him to face me. “Then it’s the perfect night.”

He stepped between my legs and put his hands on my hips, then leaned down to kiss me. His lips moved slowly, and they felt warm and tasted faintly of wine. The storm was just beginning, but everything else…this kitchen, his touch, the weight of his hands on my body, was already everything I needed.

He carried me to the couch where he sat down, making me straddle his lap. My skirt bunched up over my thighs, and I could feel the outline of his cock through the thin cotton of my underwear. I rolled my hips, shifting over him, letting the friction build and heat pool in low, secret places. His hands tightened on my hips, then slid under my t-shirt, up my ribs, thumbs pressing softly on the undersides of my breasts through the bra.

“You’re so fucking gorgeous,” he said, words muffled by the kiss. His tongue traced my lower lip, and I let him in, opening for a long, wet kiss.

I ground against him, feeling the rigid outline of him grow even harder. For a second I just wanted to keep going, to ride the pressure until I broke, but I wanted to take my time, to savor his body and the way he looked at me as if I were the only thing that mattered in the world.

“I want to taste you,” I said. The words surprised even me. It was a reckless confession. His face changed into a twist of lust, pride, and complete lack of apology.

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