Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 75478 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75478 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
In short, it was the absolute perfect coloring page.
As much as coloring was supposed to be relaxing, when I found ones that were too intricate—like mandalas—I got stressed out and had to put it aside. But Sully’s back, while full, wasn’t full of too much fine detail.
Sully reached back, removing his phone from his pocket. He fiddled for a moment as I traced the leaf around one of the roses. Then music started to play from the phone, familiar pop songs it was impossible to avoid since they played on a loop everywhere.
It wasn’t long before I was really starting to fill his tattoos in with color and humming along to the music.
I didn’t even realize how quickly and fully the anxiety had dissipated until I was putting the finishing touches on the boat.
“You okay?” Sully asked, sounding a little sleepy.
“Trying to figure out my next color,” I lied.
I could have told him it worked, that I felt better. But that would run the risk that he would think the job was done, get up, and leave.
I wasn’t ready for him to go yet.
That was a completely new experience for me. Generally speaking, I was pretty much always ready for people to leave so I could be alone. But I didn’t want Sully to leave yet.
I maybe didn’t want him to leave at all.
I was sure if I dug deep enough, I could conclude that I wanted him around because we had a trauma bond from the whole bomb thing. We could have died together. And he’d stayed there with me, ready to go if he couldn’t disarm the vest.
It was a lot.
It wasn’t weird to feel connected to him.
Sully was an imperfect canvas. He couldn’t seem to stop himself from rocking his shoulders or swaying his feet or hips when a song he loved came on. Once, I had to hold back and wait while he belted out a song about believing in a thing called love.
I didn’t even realize how big I was smiling until my cheeks hurt. I immediately decided I needed to add that song to one of my playlists. If for no other reason than to replay that very moment over and over again in my mind.
Was that maybe a smidge pathetic of me? Possibly. But I’d accepted long ago that my fantasy life was always going to be richer than my reality.
And if in my fantasy, Sully rolled over, grabbed me, and pulled me to straddle him, so be it.
And if he…
Sully’s body made a strange, fast jerking motion, dragging me out of my fantasies that were getting increasingly more steamy.
“What—“ I started.
“Your hair,” he said, turning enough to glance back at me, looking a little bashful.
“My hair?” I asked, confused.
“You gotta promise not to tell my brothers, but I can be ticklish as fuck sometimes.”
“Really?” I asked. “Just on your back?”
“And the bottoms of my feet,” he admitted. “But don’t go trying to test that theory. You might get kicked in the face. I freak the fuck out.”
“I would never,” I assured him. “Here,” I said, grabbing the tail of my braid and tucking it under the collar of my shirt. “Problem solved.”
“How’s it looking back there? I fully expect you to take a picture when you’re done. I wanna see the masterpiece.”
“It’s not that great,” I said. Now that I was mostly done, I could see all of the ways that I would do things differently. But that was the nature of coloring in a big picture.
“It’s fantastic.”
“How would you know? You can’t see it,” I said, leaning over him again to start working on the town at the top. I decided to do it in bold, contrasting colors because it would be a little boring otherwise.
“I have complete faith in you.”
“Temper your expectations,” I demanded, my tone light. “And stop squirming.”
I got a little chuckle for that before I steadily got back to work. I even backtracked to try to drag things out a bit.
But, eventually, it was as done as it could be.
And I had to move away.
“Nuh-uh. Picture,” he demanded as he pushed his phone back toward me.
“Okay,” I conceded. “Hold on. I need to get a better view,” I added, moving to stand on the bed, wanting to capture the whole back. “Alright. All done.”
Sully scooted up onto his knees as I retreated to the top of the bed again.
“Okay, Picasso,” he said, shooting me that charming smile again.
“I thought I was Monet.”
“Which one is best?”
“I guess that depends on interpretation. I prefer Monet.”
“Miss Monet, you are then,” he declared.
“You can totally go and wash it off now if you want.”
Sully ignored that.
“How’re you feeling?” he asked instead.
“Better,” I admitted. There wasn’t a trace of the panic left. In its place, though, was something else that I dared not even acknowledge. Especially when Sully was around. I’d been told far too many times that I wore all of my feelings on my face. The last thing I wanted was for Sully to know about the unexpected ache between my thighs, the way I was finding it really hard to keep my gaze on his face now that he was up off the bed.