Page 22

22

Calista

“D o you think the hardware should be brass or black matte?”

I’ve tuned out everything. Whatever becomes of this cabin, I could care less. They could do a rainbow backsplash and I’d eat at the fucking counter all the same.

Alright, that’s a lie. While I don’t mind color, the palette is meant to be neutral in the open spaces.

“Black matte with the oak and gray backsplash will keep the space cohesive. There is enough brown in the wood everywhere else.”

He nods. “And lastly, the fireplace. Do you want us to refurbish, or replace.”

I look over at it. The fire is going, not because it’s cold but because the power is currently out with another thunderstorm. My contractor buddies are the best, working even when they can barely fucking see. They’ve done what they could while the sun was at its peak, but now that it’s fallen, I’m here getting the final pieces of this space ordered.

“Refurbish. Replace where we need to make it structurally sound for inspection.”

“You got it, boss lady. Once everything arrives, expect about a week for delivery. We should be able to finalize the kitchen within a few days, provided no additional issues arise. Then the master bedroom, and guest room. Did you want us to do the gazebo still?”

Clearing my throat, I shake my head. “No, I changed my mind on it.”

He smiles. “Sounds good. I think we can wrap up in about a month’s time.”

I nod. “Thanks, Benny.”

He heads out the front door, closing it behind him. I wrap my arms around my waist and look out the wall-to-wall window, seeking comfort in the darkness outside.

Ronan never came back, and it’s been three days. He left his phone, and after twenty-four hours, I used it to call Ken. His friend said he hadn’t seen or heard from him, and I contemplated calling my stepdad, but thought better of it. Eamon hadn’t even reached out to him about my number, and something tells me he won’t. He’s battling himself, and it’s obvious by how he talked about his brother he isn’t ready to even forgive himself. How can he expect Ronan to?

I move to the living room, and fall onto the black couch, staring straight up at the ceiling. The wood paneling carries the weight of the chandelier that isn’t illuminated by florescent lights.

I’m exhausted, but I can only imagine so is Ronan. What I’m doing is childish, chasing a man that’s obviously battered and bruised by a past that still torments him. Throwing myself at him like that isn’t what he wants.

Isn’t it? Why would he care to know who is after me if he didn’t want me? There would be no reason for him to burden himself if he didn’t care.

It’s obvious he cares, Cal , don’t be a fucking idiot.

I think my overactive mind actually knocks me out, because a sudden thump startles me awake. Jolting upright, my eyes go wide as I see Ronan, his back to me, leaning forward against the unfinished island in the kitchen.

He sighs, and I move to stand, the blanket I hadn’t laid over me falling to the ground as I get to my feet.

“I’d lie and say I didn’t mean to wake you.” He definitely sounds exhausted, also with a slight slur to his tone. Is he drunk? “But I wanted to.”

Chewing on the inside of my cheek, I take a step in his direction. “Are you okay?”

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.

I’m able to admire his artwork, from old roman building designs on both biceps, to cylinder geometric ones, they all seem random. They look incredible, including the angel on his chest looking down at another angel, which seems to have been slain in battle. Lines and dots fill in the spaces that are empty, and the only skin that I can see is where it makes sense in the design of the tattoos itself. His face, besides the ‘SIT’ over his eyebrow, is the only place not touched by ink.

Taking a breath, I put more paint onto my hands and adjust onto the bed beside him on my knees. Beginning at his jaw, I place a full handprint there, while my opposite comes to rest at his chest, just above his heart. I feel it under me, in a beat that’s steady and without worry.

I’ve felt, no, seen how my touch makes him react when he is aware. I can’t imagine being so terrified of a natural thing, and with that thought, my own chest constricts.

Instead of placing my whole hand on him again, I let my fingers trail gently down the center of his stomach. His body remains relaxed, and all I can make out are the faint lines of his abs. But I know just how strong they are. Every muscle, every inch of him, was forged as a shield—his way of protecting himself, because no one ever seemed to do it for him.

The lower I go, the more my stomach tightens, and as I get to the sheet, I pause. Every bit of me wants what is under it, but not like this. At least, not the first time he allows me to touch him. So, I move back up and instead follow the scars along his stomach.

They are small lines, and I hate to think they are stab wounds, but it’s all I can imagine they are. Considering the several on his back, I wonder if he was attacked in prison.

Just the thought of someone making him bleed angers me. I’m beginning to feel possessive, and maybe that’s why I want to prove my touch is different than anyone else’s. No part of me wants to hurt Ronan, but if he wants violence, I want to be the only one to provide it. If he wants to feel something, I want him to come to me for it.

Like right now… I hope that this is as new for him as it is for me. That the pussy Ken was referring to was mine, and Ronan had told him he was fucking me and not some other bitch.

I look over at the paint briefly. “This is non-toxic.”

Leaning over, I dip my finger into the liquid, and bring it up to my lips, smearing it around. Then I climb on top of him, my legs straddling his hips.

I lean forward and press my painted lips to the center of his chest, a soft touch before moving up to his neck. The first kiss is dulled by the layer of paint, but as I trail along his jaw, I begin to feel the warmth of his skin. His stubble grazes my mouth as I lightly brush the edge of his lips with mine.

Resting my hands at the side of his neck, I keep my eyes open as I press my mouth to his. No pressure is applied back, nothing but him staying as still as he has been. As badly as I want to linger, I don’t and move back down to his chest where I rest my head.

I’m not sure how long I lay here, it’s only when he attempts to shift do I realize I probably should leave. He tries to turn, but with me entirely on top of him, he can’t. The groan of seemingly discomfort has me beginning to move. That is, until his arm wraps around me and he rolls us to our side.

I suck in a sharp breath, and instinctively say, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not you,” he murmurs.

There is no way he’s awake. If he were, he’d be prying me away because both of my hands are cupped against his chest.

I don’t think he wants me to stay here, and even as he tightens his hold on me, almost like he's begging me to, I know I shouldn’t. Wiggling my hand up, I cup his cheek and kiss his lips once more before struggling to get out from under his grip.

Once I’m free I grab the paint, blow out the candle, and make my way out of his room. I only glance back once before I close his door.

My hands ache to be back on him, and I feel numb suddenly.

I’ve never felt anything like this before, and it terrifies me that I’ll lose it one day—lose him.

After cleaning the paint from my lips and hands, I fell into bed and passed out.

Now I’m just sitting in front of the fireplace, allowing the moody weather outside to billow into the cabin. It started sprinkling, a summer’s rain, with the very soft crackling of thunder every so often. It’s beautiful, but I can’t take it in because holy fuck am I so nervous.

I’m not entirely surprised when he wasn’t awake when I came out of my bedroom this morning. I’d contemplated checking his room, but I don’t know if I’m ready to confront him after my painting session last night.

I was so confident that was what he wanted me to do, but now that I’ve had way too much time to overthink the action, I’m questioning it. What if he actually bought it for another purpose? What if… it was a test, and I failed fucking miserably? Maybe the handprint wasn’t his, but the workers who spilled another can somewhere.

I’ve been unable to drink my coffee, and it’s gone cold just sitting on the fireplace.

I should probably go somewhere and not be here when he wakes up just in case his shock is too much for him to bare. Yet, I’m into that masochism shit, and while I’m scared as fuck, a part of me doesn’t care if I was wrong. He doesn’t do soft , and if he is angry with me, maybe he’ll punish me.

But what if I was right? Will he turn gentle and loving with me? Do I want that? Holy fuck, I can’t get out of my head. I seriously need help.

A loud bang has me jumping and scrambling to my feet.

Footsteps hurriedly make their way in my direction, coming from the bedrooms. My heart races just as fast as he is heading to me, and I’m worried it will either run right out of my throat or stop because it can’t find an escape route.

When Ronan comes into view, he looks into the kitchen first, but then right where I’m standing in my nightgown. I fiddle with the fabric, stretching it and pulling at it nervously.

He looks angry? No, not that, maybe upset? Shit…

“Did you kiss me?”

I mean, it’s pretty obvious now that I can see in perfect lighting all the paint marks. I left dozens of them trailing form his chest, to his hips, and back up to his lips. Some are smeared, to be expected since a lot of them weren’t dried when he pressed against me. Even I have white scattered across my chest from him holding me briefly.

“Yes.” I don’t really have any other answer. It’s not like there isn’t evidence of it.

When his eyebrows pinch together, I’m expecting him to tell me he’s leaving. That I went way too far, and that I fucked any chance of this; of us .

Instead, I’m wrong—oh so fucking wrong.

His stride to me is so quick that on instinct I step back, but he wraps his arm around my torso, squeezing my arms to my side. “You’re telling me our first kiss was while I was asleep?”

My head tilts as he threads his fingers under my loose ponytail, gripping my hair and angling me back further.

“Bad girl.”

Then his mouth is on mine, ravenous and hungry, devouring me like I’m the sustenance he lacked for years.