Page 33 of Bed and Breakup (Dial Delights #15)

Molly

Five nights. That’s how many times we’ve slept in the same old bed, in the same old room, in the same old attic, testing the boundaries of our old/new relationship without having sex. Without even kissing, if that moment my lips touched her neck before Marmee interrupted doesn’t count.

Five mornings we’ve woken up together, our bodies entangled, forgetting for a moment upon waking that all this isn’t normal. That we aren’t really together. That it’s all an extended farewell. Seven mornings, if you count those two in the Zinnia Room.

Between all that? Four times we’ve brushed our teeth side by side at the bathroom sink. Three times we’ve exchanged massages at the end of long days. Six times I’ve caught Robin staring at me when she thought I wasn’t looking. Infinite times I’ve stared at her and hoped she wouldn’t notice.

All this intimacy math is making my head spin. Or maybe it’s the paint fumes.

This morning, we had an ambitious plan to finish all the guest rooms on the third floor.

But now it’s six p.m. and we have to admit that we’re only going to get halfway to our goal.

The bathrooms are more challenging than I remembered, taping around the tubs and toilets and cabinets and mirrors and whatnot.

And they’re a tight space for two people.

Robin and I ended up pressed against each other more than once while trying to reach the farthest corners.

And neither of us chose the obvious solution of stepping away to paint somewhere else.

But now the Sunflower Room is a warm golden yellow and the Lily Room is the same pink as the Stargazers in the garden.

Having just finished the last corner, I throw my roller brush into a paint pan and collapse onto the plastic tarp on the floor.

I close my eyes and pray for a breeze through the open windows.

I sense the shadow Robin casts over me. “Is it cooler down there?” she asks.

Cracking open one eye, I see the paint splattered across her basketball shorts, her skin-tight white tank, the backward Razorbacks cap holding her hair out of her face. “Not really,” I admit. “But lying down feels nice. Muscles I didn’t even know I had hurt.”

“Mind if I join you?”

I fling out a hand next to me on the tarp. “Be my guest.”

Robin sprawls out on the floor and sighs. “Was painting this hard when we were twenty-two?”

“I’m pretty sure back then we turned on some music, had a little dance party, and the walls painted themselves.”

“That’s how I remember it too.” Robin rolls to her side and rests her head on her fist, examining me. “Hey, are those the overalls you used to wear back then when we painted?”

I look at my denim-clad torso. “Oh yeah. I forgot I’ve had them that long.”

Robin leans in for a closer look. “There’s some of the paint from the Lilac Room,” she says, pointing to a spot near my waistband. “And orange from the Zinnia Room. Is that the teal from the dining room? Maybe we should have taken these to the hardware store when we were picking samples.”

“Nah, that would have made it too easy.”

Robin frowns. “Wait, why aren’t you covered in paint from today? I look like I got attacked by a group of finger-painting preschoolers and the only paint on you is a decade old.”

“You were always a messy painter,” I say. “I think most of this on my overalls is from you touching me with your painty hands.”

“Is that so?” Robin tosses away her hat with a mischievous gleam in her eye that reminds me so much of her younger self that it takes my breath away. “Well, maybe I should get some of this paint on them in case we need it for reference in the future.”

I realize what she’s up to just as her hand reaches the tray of paint past our heads.

“No no no no—” I protest, trying to escape, but it’s too late.

Robin dips into the pool of pink and splays her fingers across the denim above my belly button, leaving a full handprint of Frosted Fuchsia.

But she’s not done. She comes at me again as I wriggle away, squealing and giggling, playful sounds I can’t remember the last time I made.

“Gotta get the back too, for good measure,” Robin says, swiping another palmful from the tray.

We twist and turn together, her fighting to grab my ass, me trying to catch the wrist of her paint-covered hand.

She manages to catch the bare skin of my side under my overalls and below my black bandeau bra, leaving a cool smear of pink.

I roll over and pin her down by the wrists with her back against the tarp and my knees on either side of her hips. “Hey, just because you’re messy doesn’t mean the rest of us have to get on your level,” I tease.

“Okay, I’m sorry,” Robin says. “I promise I’ll be good.”

I loosen my grip on Robin’s wrist, and she immediately makes me regret it by smearing paint across my left cheek.

I gasp and narrow my eyes at her. “Oh, now it’s on,” I say in a low voice before dunking my own hand in the tray.

I make a line down her jaw, then manage to place a full handprint on her tank right between her breasts before she pushes me off to reload her own colorful ammo.

We tussle for a few minutes, streaking each other with glossy pink, slipping on the tarp until we collapse in a pile of laughter, our limbs tangled, both slick with sweat.

We stare into each other’s eyes as we catch our breath. There’s something more between us now, a sizzling tension both old and new.

Robin’s gaze trails from my eyes to my lips to my heaving chest. She reaches for the tray and dunks one finger in paint. “One last mark?”

I nod.

Robin unhooks the left strap of my overalls and stretches down the top of my bandeau.

She traces the outline of a heart right over where my own heart is beating faster than a hummingbird’s wings.

Her fingertip against my skin sets my whole body on fire.

Before I can parse who started it, our lips are pressed together in the kind of kiss that stops time and shifts the entire planet on its axis.

It’s different from the kiss we shared at One More Round, without the anger or jealousy.

It’s also different from any of the kisses in the before times; it feels richer, colored with new shades and shadows.

We’re not the same people we were back then, but whatever magic was between us has been lying in wait, growing even more powerful.

My hands find their way under Robin’s tank, and I pull it over her head, revealing a light blue bra.

She unclips the other strap of my overalls and pulls them down my torso.

Our lips stay locked together as I pull off Robin’s basketball shorts and she shimmies my overalls over my hips.

Suddenly, we’re in nothing but our underthings on an abstract mural of half-dried paint.

All the tension between us is finally coming to a head, picking up speed, ready to vault over the edge of the cliff.

But as Robin reaches under the hem of my underwear, stroking the outside of my thigh and moving inward, I pause.

“Wait,” I say breathlessly, despite everything in my body begging me to keep going.

Robin immediately pulls away, panting, pushing her bangs from her forehead. “Is…is this a bad idea?”

I soften at her shaky uncertainty. In truth, I’ve been struggling to get Key’s concerns about the arrangement out of my head.

But kissing Robin only confirmed for me how badly I want this.

“No, not bad.” I crawl closer to her across the plastic tarp and stroke her arm from shoulder to wrist. “I’m very into it.

” I twist her hand palm up and press my lips to a clear patch of skin on the inside of her forearm.

“But your hands are covered in paint, which is, uh, probably not safe for sensitive areas.”

Robin looks at her bright pink palm. “Oh. You’re right,” she says, realization dawning.

“But,” I say, nestling myself between Robin’s spread thighs, wrapping my legs around her middle, looping my arms around her neck, “after a shower…” I trail my lips over a paint-free strip of her neck below her left ear, and she pulls me closer with a sharp intake of breath.

If I said I hadn’t been thinking about this every second since we agreed to new rules, I’d be a liar.

“I think we should see where this goes,” I whisper.

Robin ducks her head and kisses me again. When I open my eyes after our lips part, I swear I still see stars. She rests her forehead against mine and says, “I’ll shower in the Zinnia bathroom. You take the penthouse.”

“Now?”

“We’ve already waited almost seven years,” Robin says. “Isn’t that long enough?”

I nod, then untangle myself from Robin’s embrace and stand. I reach down and pull her up next to me. Hands still pressed together, I say, “I’ll be fast.”

Robin tucks a loose strand of my hair behind my ear, one I can see out of the corner of my eye is streaked with pink paint. With fiery intensity, she says, “I’ll be faster.”