my hands and knees painting her fucking porch. How the hell did that happen?
Deciding that I must not be too bad, she gets back to searching for paints, and I watch as she picks out a shitload of pink. I scrunch my face. Who in their right mind would need that much paint? She has enough to paint the whole fucking town, and believe me, Avalon Lake is not exactly small. She grabs some gold, and I hold my tongue. If she added a little glitter, she’d have a unicorn massacre.
Who am I kidding? One word from this angel and I’d be putty in her hands. I can just see it now, me spending my only day off painting her world pink and gold. And it would be my fucking pleasure.
What the fuck is wrong with me? She’s just some chick. Move the fuck on, Bull. You don’t need this kind of shit in your life.
She turns around with her paints, and I realize I’ve been standing here like an idiot, fantasizing about some girl that I don’t even know for at least ten minutes. If I wasn’t a stalker before, then surely I am now.
Looking down at the tin of paint in my hand, I realize it’s not even close to the color I need for Mom’s porch, but do I give a shit? No. No, I certainly do not.
What the hell is wrong with me? This shit doesn’t happen to me. I’m more of a ‘get in, get out’ kind of guy. I don’t form attachments. Yet, this woman has me wanting to run away with her and keep her to myself on a deserted island, far away from any other man.
Shoving six massive paint tins into her cart, she glances back at me before scurrying to the end of the aisle and disappearing once again.
Fuck, this isn’t good. I’ve screwed up my chances. How the hell am I supposed to dig myself out of this one?
Unable to help myself, I walk back up the aisle and loop around until I find her in the next one. She’s staring up at the selection of paint brushes and rollers, and I grin as she grabs about fifty of all different sizes and shapes.
A fire rages inside me, and I give in to temptation. She’s the flame, and fuck it, I’m the damn moth. I need to know her. I need to know what makes her tick. I need to hear the sound of her voice, but more importantly, I need to know if she’s going to scream or moan when I take her on the cashier’s table.
Fuck me.
Her body tenses once again, and I watch as she slowly looks over me as I walk down the aisle. Her soft arm reaches out before her fingers curl around the biggest fucking paint brush the store has to offer. I very quickly realize that she’s prepared to use it as a weapon, and I slow my movements, putting my hands up to show that I mean no harm.
I get closer and watch as she really takes me in, takes in my size, my face, my body. Looking mesmerized, she bites down on her bottom lip. “Fuck me,” she breathes before realizing what the fuck she just said. Her head whips back to the brushes, and her eyes go wide as a soft blush creeps over her cheeks.
I can’t help but grin. It seems that I affect her just as much as she’s been affecting me.
I step up beside her, and that sleek curve of her spine straightens. Not wanting to startle her, I clear my throat, which has her whipping her head around and finally setting those baby blues on me. For a moment, I'm rendered speechless with the depths of her beauty.
She clutches onto the paint brush, her eyes quickly narrowing on me. “Why are you following me?” she demands, her voice thick with fear. But her eyes betray her as she takes me in like a lioness about to pounce on her king, and it gets me worked up in a way I wasn’t expecting. “I saw you watching me out in the lot and now in here? What’s your deal?”
“No, no, no, Angel,” I say, keeping my hands up so she can see that I’m not about to lunge out and hurt her. “You’ve got the wrong impression. I wasn’t following you, I … fuck. I guess I kinda was, but I couldn’t leave without getting your number.”