Page 71 of Found by the Pack

“Thank you,” she says when she pulls back. “Seriously. I’ll definitely be using these.”

“I’m glad they could be of help,” I manage, though my voice feels rougher than it should.

She tucks the books against her chest like she’s not letting go anytime soon. “I’ll… talk to you later. Once I make a dent in these.”

I nod, retreating before I give away more than I want to. “Sure thing.”

Back in the truck, I grip the wheel, trying to ignore the smear of deep crimson paint across my skin where her fingers brushed me. My first thought is to wipe it away, but I don’t.

Instead, I trace it with my thumb. It’s ridiculous. It’s just paint. But the thought of her pressing it there, even by accident, is so goddamn erotic I have to sit for a minute before starting the engine.

I can’t remember the last time something as small as a smear of color on my skin left me this… charged.

And I can’t stop wondering what the hell that means for me—and for her.

I make it home with that streak of paint still on my hand. I could wipe it off with the rag in the truck. I could wash it in the sink like a normal person. But I don’t.

Gus is waiting at the door, nails clicking against the wood as he does his little “you’ve been gone for hours” routine, even though it’s been an hour at most. I leash him and we do our usual loop around the block. The air is heavy with the smell of saltwater and cut grass.

I’m listening to him pant beside me, watching the slow sway of the live oaks overhead, but my brain’s nowhere near this street.

It’s in her yard. The faded denim of her overalls. The little phoenixes painted up the strap. The way she’d touched my hand, casual like it meant nothing, but her eyes… her eyes said otherwise.

I tell myself I’m imagining it. That I’m reading into every goddamn thing she does because I want to.

Back inside, Gus heads straight for his water bowl. I toe off my boots, thinking I should make coffee or eat something before I shower. My body says otherwise. My body says I’m keyed up enough that food’s not going to cut it.

The plan is to shower, nap, maybe try to get the edge off this restless energy. I grab a towel, head for the bathroom. The paint’s still there on my hand, dried now, the color a deep ember red. It’s streaked across the curve between my thumb and forefinger, exactly where she’d brushed me.

I just… stand there for a second. Looking at it.

My brain does the stupid thing—it doesn’t just see the paint. It sees her standing barefoot at that table, sunlight on her skin, the way the strap of her overalls had slipped enough to show the pale curve of her shoulder. The concentration in her expression when she mixed that paint, like the whole world could fall away if she could just get that shade right.

I turn on the shower, the sound of water filling the room, but I’m not moving toward it yet. My palm is against the edge of the sink, my breathing a little uneven.

This is pathetic. I’m a grown man, I’ve handled worse temptation than this. And yet here I am, stuck on the way she hugged me, the scent of turpentine and soap tangled together, the press of her chest against mine for a brief heartbeat.

My hand twitches toward my waistband before I even make the decision.

I brace myself against the counter, head bowed. The towel slips from my shoulder to the tile. I drag my hand down, my mind full of things I shouldn’t be thinking. Not about her. Not about the way she looked at me when she said the mural was about resurrection, like she was letting me see a piece of her no one else got to see.

My thumb smears the dried paint across my skin. That red against my hand is all I can see. It might as well be her mark.

I bite back a groan. My hips jerk forward, the counter edge pressing into me.

It’s not even about sex, not exactly—it’s about tension. Coiled, razor-edged, the kind that makes you feel like you’re vibrating out of your own skin. I can’t touch her. I can’t say what I want to say. And every time I try to keep my distance, something in her pulls me closer.

I imagine her leaning against the table, overalls loose, bare feet curling into the grass. I imagine that careful, precise hand smearing paint on me on purpose this time. I imagine her stepping in, chest against mine, looking up at me like she’s deciding if she can trust me with whatever’s left of her.

My breathing’s ragged now, my forehead nearly touching the mirror. I don’t even care that the water’s been running this whole time.

When I finally come, it’s with her name in my mouth—silent, bitten down hard, but there.

For a moment, I just stand there, catching my breath, the aftershocks still running through me. The paint’s smeared further now, just a ghost of red against my skin. I rinse it away in the sink, watching it spiral down the drain until there’s no trace left.

It feels wrong, somehow. I’ve erased the only physical proof I had that she’d touched me.

The shower’s gone lukewarm by the time I step under it. I wash fast, like I can scrub the thoughts out along with the sweat. By the time I’m toweling off, Gus is at the door again, looking at me with that curious tilt of his head, like he knows something’s off.