Page 71 of Heavy

A laugh follows my question nearly immediately. “No, baby girl. I haven’t been okay for a long, long time.”

“I’m—”

“I don’t need your apologies. You’ve done nothing wrong.” He slowly turns to me, his leather jacket open, exposing his bare chest. Jeans that he hadn’t been wearing when he left hang open, his belt undone.

As I take him in, something catches my eye—a can on the counter beside him that wasn’t there when the contractors left. “Eyes up here, Cal.”

My gaze snaps to his, and he looks exactly like he sounds, causing my breath to catch.

“I’m going to go take a triple dosage of your sleeping pills.” The moment my lips part to speak, he raises his hand. “I will be fine, just… really need sleep and want nothing to wake me up.”

He moves his hand and places it onto what I can now tell is a paint can.

“When I would look at myself in the mirror, I’d see his hands—no, all of their hands.”

Their…

“I’d see their fingerprints, and no amount of time, bars of soap, or water, erased what I saw. So, I covered what I could. The vile, traitorous skin that wouldn’t let me move on.”

I trap my bottom lip between my teeth, wanting to rush to him, comfort him and tell him I understand. That I want to hear his story as badly as I want to tell him mine and it won’t scare me, make me run, or feel disgust when I look at him.

But, as much as I want to show him physically, I won’t. I’ll learn how he needs me, because I’m ready to take this however I can.

I’ll take him how he wants to give himself to me.

He looks down at the paint. “This is non-toxic, safe for skin.”

My brows pinch. “Why…”

“Good night, Cal.” He doesn’t allow for me to finish my question. To ask him why he brought it and made the comments.

As he walks away, my heart rate slows. I hadn’t even felt it rising, or the fact I was holding my breath. I’d been suffocating myself, even if he was giving me the fresh air I’d been craving for the past three days.

I move to the counter and stand over the paint can. My eyes shifting over the words. “Touch of white…” I murmur. “Non-toxic…”

I pick it up and can tell it's been opened. When I tilt it slightly, I notice a handprint around it. Still faint, but unmistakable.

Swallowing, I look down the hall then back at the can.

Oh…

I wait an hour, even though I know I didn’t need to. If he tripled the dosage of the sleeping pills, it would’ve been less than ten minutes until he was asleep. Still, I wanted to make sure that when I walked in, he didn’t stir. Which he isn’t.

My fucking heart is racing, bouncing between my stomach and throat, threatening to knock me out and ruin this moment. But my need for this is stronger than my body’s attempt to take it away from me.

I approach the side of the bed slowly, the open paint can in my hand. Setting it on his side table next to a lit candle, I strip down to just my bra and panties.

Ronan doesn’t have a shirt on, and the sheet is up to his hips so I’m not sure if he has boxers or pants on. He’s completely passed out, one arm over his face, and still as a board. His chest rises and falls in rhythm with his breathing.

My hands come up to his arm to move him, but I stop. He wants to know where I’ve touched him.

I wet my lips, then gather some paint on my fingers, spreading it across my palms before returning to his arm. I wrap them around his forearm, but the second I do, I freeze.

He’s asleep, but I still expect him to move, grab onto my wrist, and tear me away from him. But he doesn’t, and when I move his heavy arm from over his face and lay it across the pillow, I stare down at him.

His head is slightly tilted away from me, so I place my hand against his cheek to turn him to me. With the help of the candle, I can see the white paint against his skin where my touch has been.

Dragging my gaze down, I see every place I want my hands to be. There is no inch of him I don’t desire to touch, but I won’t be greedy, not the first time.