How Sinners Fight - Eva Ashwood Page 0,23

me is hard and cold, but I really don’t give a fuck about that. I feel… content. Peaceful. Every part of my body is satisfied and sated, and I love the feel of Gray’s body curled around mine.

“Of course,” I say, glancing at him. “It’s fucking gorgeous. It’s… it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever had. That I’ve ever been given.”

I’m not sure why I can’t talk about it without my emotions seeming to swell up, but he gets the point.

He leans in, kissing me. It’s slow, deep, not rushed. Like he wants to taste and feel and explore every part of me again and again. When he pulls away, he seems to take the air out of my lungs with him, his eyes bright with a pure happiness I don’t think I’ve ever seen in him.

He glances at the necklace. “Remember that movie Titanic?” he asks, plucking the little heart from between my fingers. His gaze drags up to mine. “When he painted her and shit?”

Of course I’ve seen it, but my smile isn’t because I know what he’s talking about. For some reason, thinking about Gray watching Titanic makes a laugh bubble up in my chest. I doubt it’s the kind of movie he’d choose on his own, and I wonder if Beth made him watch it.

I bet she did.

I bet there are so many things they shared over all the years she was alive. They were twins. They grew up together. And I think Beth is the reason Gray has a softer side, even if he doesn’t show it often.

“What?” Gray’s brows pull together as he takes in my expression.

“Nothing.” I shake my head, dispelling the thoughts.

“You have a funny look on your face, Sparrow.” He narrows his eyes before leaning down and kissing me again. “I don’t like it.”

“I promise it’s nothing,” I say when our lips break apart. “Your comment was just funny… and sweet.”

His thumb brushes against my lip, that breathtaking warmth filling his eyes again. “You remind me of her. Or that scene, I guess.”

“Kate Winslet?” I cock an eyebrow, breaking the moment with my snort. “I don’t look anything like her.”

“No, it’s just… you know.” He goes up on one elbow, hovering over me as his fingers brush against the little heart where it rests on my skin.

It doesn’t look anything like the massive necklace from the movie, but that’s not what he’s talking about. “Yeah, I know what you mean,” I say. Then, lowering my voice, I add, “Draw me like one of your French girls, Jack.”

“Yeah, you ruined it.” Gray rolls off of me but stays close by, his body still pressed into mine as if he doesn’t want to leave.

I don’t want to leave. There’s something about the little bubble we’ve created here on the kitchen floor that feels perfect. It feels like we’re a million miles away from universities with rich bitches and rapey assholes, far away from foster families and memory loss, far away from everything but us.

“Do you think you could paint like that?” he asks suddenly.

“Portraits?” I glance at him.

“Yeah, portraits. People. Realistic.”

He’s seen enough of my art to know that’s not my usual style, and I’m curious why he’s asking. I shrug, feeling his body shift against mine with the movement. “I think I could. Actually, I know I could. I’ve done a few portraits. I sketched one of Jared after he died. But I never really connected with stuff like that as much.” I hesitate, thinking. “I like to… paint my feelings out. And sometimes literal representations of things, lifelike paintings—they don’t capture the true emotion as well as something more abstract does.”

We fall into another moment of silence.

I’m not sure what Gray is thinking about as he traces patterns on my skin, but my thoughts turn to my art again. I was telling the truth. I know I could paint stuff like that. Realistic things, as he puts it. I did a pretty good picture of Jared, not to mention other sketches I have tucked away in random notebooks or on loose leaves of paper, but recently, I haven’t done a lot of that. Right now, it’s more abstract colors and shapes that call to me—the physical representation of my thoughts and feelings brought to life.

“Maybe if my memories were clear, my paintings would be more clear too,” I murmur.

I know that probably doesn’t make sense to Gray, but that’s how it feels. I’m painting things that my brain hardly understands on