But there’s something about Winchester. Something that makes me run boiling then frigid, something I’m attracted to and can’t stand at the same time.
And part of me wants him around, needs him even. Here. With me. For practical reasons.
And for other, less practical reasons.
Reasons that have to do with the energy that crackles between us in this room. Energy that’s waking up something in me that’s been dormant since way before I axed my ex.
I put one hand on his wrist and our eyes both snap down to it before I pull away, the tingle of his skin’s warmth still on my fingertips.
"Look, I'm in enough trouble right now. I'm just trying to keep my head down and get through this damn day. If you hate working with me after today, feel free to talk to the warden or whoever the hell manages this stuff. But please don't make me look bad right now. I promise, you won't even know I'm here."
To prove my point, I walk over to the tray, pick up the roller, sop up some paint, and roll it along the wall.
Paint gushes out of both ends of the roller and leaves long, sloppy dribbles on either side, but I play it cool and act like that's what I meant to do all along.
I roll another long stripe of paint as far up as I can reach and bend down to get all the way to the bottom. The paint isn't going on as thick, so I dip the roller again and make another squishy line.
I feel his heat when he walks up behind me, like I have my own personal human-sized sun radiating warmth against my back.
"You're making a mess." I can hear his smile curved against his words.
I push the roller back up and down the wall, and it sputters with an uneven gush of paint. "Why don't you do your thing and leave me to do mine?"
My heart thumps, quick and hard as the slap of a two kids’ hands playing Miss Mary Mack.
"Because if I let you keep going like that, my ‘thing’ is going to be ‘redoing your paint job.’ Give it here for a second."
He holds one hand out, and I stare at the long, strong fingers that I imagine doing a whole slew of absolutely naughty, amazing things before I hand the roller over.
He squats down in front of a tray and points. "The idea isn't to soak up as much paint as possible and smear it on the walls." He rolls the tool in the tray with an easy dip, giving the roller an even coat. "You want to reapply more often and make uniform coats. Also you want to paint in a big W-shape. Like this." He picks a wall and rolls a clean, effortless W.
I should be watching his technique, but it's hard to focus when the coiled muscles of his back bulge against the stretch of his threadbare t-shirt. He repeats the lines, saying something about even pressure and blend, but I'm a little obsessed with the way his arm muscles stretch and contract.
When he turns back to check on me, it's like he can read on my face how completely I was not paying attention to his instructions. He shakes his head and directs a reluctant smile at the grisly blue paint. My mouth goes a little dry. I love that smile.
I want more of that smile.
I want it centered on me.
For me.
"You want to try?"
He holds the roller out and breaks through my thoughts, which have stayed on his mouth, but strayed to way less innocent actions than smiles.
That mouth could do so many incredibly hot things to me.
I take the roller from his hand and make a W that must meet his approval, because he gives me a nod and starts on his own wall. We work in silence for a few minutes, but soon the paint on my roller is almost gone, and I need more. He made the whole thing look so damn easy, but I slop way too much paint on it again, and soon the wall that had been coated with even strokes of blue is back to being a runny mess.
I'm chasing trails of blue paint with my roller and attempting some damage control when I feel him close behind me. I go completely still and wait until he's shadowed at my back, just inches away from me.
"Can I show you?"
His voice twines in my ear, and his breath moves a piece of my hair that came undone from my ponytail, tickling a shiver up and down my spine.
I nod and his arm wraps around me, his hand closes over mine on the roller handle, and his chest presses to my back. My heart is the star jumper in a double-dutch tournament.
"Like this. Easy, okay? There's no pressure. You keep trying to press the paint into the wall. Relax and let the roller do the work. Like this."
He leads me through the process one more time, and this time I can feel the exact amount of pressure he uses and how lightly he applies the paint.
Or I should be able to feel those things.
What I really feel is the hard wall of his chest, the way his hand envelopes mine, the steady, strong thud of his heart at my back. He still has that clover smell that makes me think of spring and sex. Sex outside, sex under the stars, sex with someone strong and confident and honest as hell.
My hand shakes under his, and when he pulls away, I make a jerky lunge to the paint tray so I can inhale the chemical smell of the paint and push back these insane thoughts about this boy and me and sex so good it's making my knees knock just imagining it.
Winch 2
I need to get outta this damn room and away from this chick before I get
