Page 110 of Messy Strokes (Wrecked Roommates)

The feel of him inside me.

The paint covering ninety percent of our bodies.

And the look in his eyes as our gazes, souls, and bodies connect in a way I’ve only ever felt with him.

“I love you,” I whisper, my fingers curling against his heated skin as I fall over the edge a second time. He pulses inside me, his fingers digging into my ass like his life depends on it as a low groan reverberates through his chest and against my palms.

And I love this too. How I can make him feel as helpless as he makes me feel.

I collapse onto him and catch my breath, finally registering how messy we both are.

My laugh is light and delirious––probably from the multiple orgasms––as I take in the paint splattered across Milo’s face.

“What the hell just happened?” I wonder.

“I don’t even know.” His voice is laced with amusement as the tips of his fingers tickle up and down my back.

The canvas and surrounding concrete are splattered with orange, red, blue––hell, every color of the rainbow––making whatever Milo had been working on look like it was created in a war zone.

Cringing, I look down at Milo to find him staring up at me with an amused smirk, his dimples on full display.

“Did I ruin your painting?” I ask.

“No idea.”

“I’m sorry––”

“Not selling this one, anyway.”

“You’re not?”

“Not a chance.”

“‘Cause I ruined it?”

“‘Cause it’s a sex painting, Mads.” He chuckles. “This is going in our bedroom.”

Our bedroom.

I stick a pin in his comment and prod, “Does this mean you need to do another one for the gallery?”

He shakes his head and pats my butt again. “I got one I can use.”

“You’re sure?” I’m suddenly feeling guilty for tempting him earlier.

With a nod, he helps me sit up and wraps his arms around my waist, his naked ass still resting on the canvas. “Yeah, Mads. I’m sure. And I love you too.”

I cringe. “You heard me?”

He pushes the hair away from my face. “That a problem?”

“You don’t need to say it back. I can pretend I didn’t hear you two seconds ago, and we can call it a day.”

“I love you, Madelyn Walker.” He cups my face more gently this time and kisses me. Softly. Sweetly. When he pulls away, he drags his fingers against the drying paint, making my skin feel sticky and crackled. “Love the shit outta you.”

My chest constricts as I close my eyes and rest my forehead against his, committing this moment to memory. “I love the shit outta you too.”

Always.

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