Page 184 of King of Pain

If someone told me three years ago this could be my life, I don’t think I would’ve been capable of believing it. Waking up in his bed. In his space. Watching him dance half-naked while he paints.

It’s a mind fuck.

Chance must sense me, because he spins around, and—

Aw, fuck.

His face splits into a stupidly gorgeous smile, eyes sparkling in that shade of blue even he couldn’t recreate with the colors on his palette.

He’s covered in paint—a red streak across one pec, yellow dots splashed on his hip, a smear of blue across his abs.

I want to lick every single speck off him. Are oil paints toxic? I'd risk the ER visit.

He pulls his headphones down around his neck, Huey Lewis & The News blasting from the speakers. He saunters toward me, all slow confidence and disarming swagger.

“Morning, Beautiful,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to my lips before stealing the coffee cup from my hand, taking a swig, then pressing it back in my hand.

“You getting nervous about the exhibit?” I ask, sipping the coffee again.

He shrugs one shoulder. “No. Kind of. Maybe.”

I laugh. “Every piece is brilliant, Chance. And that’s not something I say lightly, considering I’m the sole subject of your work.”

He steps in closer, grabbing my chin gently between his thumb and forefinger. “Hey. Are you sure you’re okay with this? With… all of it being you?”

I nod, no hesitation. “I am. Honestly, I don’t even really see it that way anymore. When I look at those paintings, all I see is your talent. Your heart.” I meet his eyes. “Those paintings are the closest anyone else will ever get to seeing how beautiful your heart is. And even they don’t compare.”

Chance ducks his head shyly, peeking up through his lashes. “I don’t deserve you.”

He kisses me again, slowly, then snags the coffee cup from my hand once more and takes another swig.

“Keep it,” I say, waving him off. “I’ll make another and start breakfast before heading to my apartment to grab a few things.”

He grins like a fucking kid at Christmas.

“You’re going to be insufferably proud of yourself watching me move my stuff in, aren’t you?” I grumble, backing up toward the kitchen.

Chance slides his headphones back on and calls out, “Who?Giddy?Don’t know her.”

I roll my eyes, but the grin that stretches across my face as I make my way back to the kitchen is just as obnoxious as his.

An hour later, Chance is perched at the kitchen island—still shirtless—with his headphones slung around his neck, finishing the last of the breakfast I made him while I move around the space tidying up. He’s got that dazed, blissed-out look on his face that makes my chest swell with pride. Feeding him is near thetop of my list of favorite things. He hums the melody of whatever song is stuck in his head and scrapes the last bit of herb and goat cheese frittata from his plate.

“You sure you don’t want help grabbing stuff from your place?”

I shake my head, rinsing out the skillet. “No, you need to focus on finishing your last pieces for the exhibit. I’m only grabbing a few boxes today. I’ve still got a month left on the lease, so I’m going to bring things over slowly.”

Chance nods, stretching his long limbs as he pushes the plate away. “Okay. Text me when you’re on your way back. I’ll help you unload.”

I waggle my eyebrows. “I bet you will.”

He barks a laugh. “I’ve unleashed a monster.”

I glance down at my shorts and smirk. “No, he’s still tucked away securely.”

Chance groans and stands, stretching with a shake of his head. “I’m going back to painting.” Then he points at me. “And you’re not leaving the house in those shorts. I mean it, Pacini. No one gets that view but me.”

I laugh and shoo him off as I finish cleaning up, drying the last pan and folding the kitchen towel over the handle of the oven.