“Gray?”
“No, too much gray or white might remind Brendan of . . .” Well, it will remind him of Seattle. Of the hospital there. That’s the last thing he needs. We came here for a fresh start. No more reminders, choosing a light gray for my bedroom might be bad enough. I glance over and see her staring, so I try to backpedal as much as possible. “It’s too industrial and modern, not beachy enough.”
Scratching my hair, I wander off to the next shelf of color swatches, hoping to have some better luck. I shouldn’t have brought Asra. I’m the guy that's always prepared, always has a plan, and can handle everything. But here, surrounded by thousands of paint options? I’m back to being that scared little boy who has no idea what he’s doing and is struggling just to be enough for everyone else. She doesn’t need to see this side of me, doesn’t need to know it took me two hours to select the tiles in my hands.
When I glance over at her, she’s holding a few swatches, a pensive look in her eyes.
“What are you thinking?” I ask, stepping right beside her.
She shows me two colors, a bright blue and green.
“Um, that’s a little much for Brendan.”
“Hear me out,” she practically shoves the little pieces of colored paper in my hand, “accent wall.”
“You mean two accent walls?” I raise my eyebrows, not understanding how that could make it any better. “Or the entire room green or blue with one wall the other color?”
“No. One wall both colors, blue at the top, then blend down to green.”
I glance back at the chips. They’re bright but not obnoxious. The blue is pale, but not like a baby blue or muted. It’s bright and pure yet still light, reminding me of the clearest blue sky. The green is just as refreshing. It’s not bold like a blade of grass, nor muted like sage. Instead, it’s like staring into a deep sea lagoon. I could drown in their relaxing vibes. Concentrating on the chips, I picture them on the far wall in the living room, with the fireplace. It would really turn that wall into the focal point, making the fireplace pop.
“That would be beautiful, but I think you’re seriously overestimating my painting abilities.” Single color, I can do that. But a multicolor fade is out of my expertise.
“I can do it.” She shrugs like it’s nothing.
“You want to help paint our house?”
“Sure.”
My cock jolts in response and suddenly painting is the last thing on my mind.
She somehow convinces me that a pale tan that resembles light stone more than khaki would be perfect for the rest of the room. After purchasing enough paint to do my house twice, as well as white for the ceilings and closets, and more supplies than we could ever use. We race home.
“What do you want to start with?” Asra asks, surveying our haul after we unload it all into the kitchen.
You.
“I usually start with the ceiling.” Top down, that way I don’t have to worry about the white ceiling paint dripping onto the walls. Same reason we’re saving the floors for last. No sense buying new carpet, then painting and splashing all over it. Just another trick I learned from Brendan.
She pulls a face.
I laugh. “You don’t like painting ceilings?”
“Not my favorite.”
With her hands tucked in her back pockets, it’s hard to concentrate on anything other than my growing desire to pick her up, carry her to my bed, and spend the rest of the day tangled in the sheets with her. But, she needs to rest, at least for a few more hours, that way she won’t be too sore for tonight. And I need the house finished.
“Hmm, how do you feel about closets?”
“I can do that.” She beams up at me.
“Wonderful.” I try not to watch her rock back and forth on her feet as I grab a gallon of white. Stirring it up, I pour it into a bucket and grab a paintbrush. As I turn to hand it to her, she grabs the hem of her sweater and yanks it over her head, then tosses it on the counter next to her hat and sunglasses.
My mouth goes dry. My dick strains against my pants. I almost spill the paint.Fuuuck. Little bruises mar her flesh just above her tiny camisole, marks left by my twin. I wonder how many there are hiding beneath her clothes and barely resist adding a few of my own.
Stepping closer to her, a possessive growl bubbles out of my chest as I lean down and kiss her. She’s ours. Here, real and ours.
She moans, leaning into the embrace. Her stomach brushes my erection. I almost drop the bucket of wet paint again. Growling, I break away and take a step back. Every inch of my being aches with the distance. “Nope. Work first.”