Paint Me Beautiful by C. M. Stunich

question,” I say, and he laughs again, leaning forward so he can untie his red apron.
    “ I have to,” he tells me with a wink. “So I can enjoy the world through taste.”
    “ I see. So you work out to eat, is that right?” Emmett pulls his apron up over his head and lays it on the counter next to my purse.
    “ That's right.” I narrow my eyes, wondering if this is his response to my spiriting away food at dinner. He said it was 'okay', but what does that mean, really? And what does he know? What does he think about me?
    “ I don't want your help,” I tell him, and he shrugs, the smile slipping off his face for a brief second.
    “ I don't know what you mean.”
    “ I'm not some poor, starving anorexic girl who's in desperate need of catharsis.”
    “ I never said you were,” he tells me, tilting his head to the side and drawing his brows into a V of confusion. “Where did you get that idea?” I take a deep breath and put my hands up on the counter to steady myself.
    “ I know you saw me,” I tell him trying not to feel ashamed. I shouldn't have to. It's my body, my life. I don't have to justify myself to anyone, yet I still don't want anybody to know. It's sort of a hard place to be.
    “ I did.”
    “ And? You said you thought I needed you.”
    “ Yeah, well, that's not what this is about.”
    “ Then what is this, Emmett?” I ask him, lifting my chin from my chest to stare at his face. “If you're not here to shove food down my throat and ask me why I'm stuffing biscuits in a fucking bottle, what is it that you want?”
    He steps forward suddenly, moving faster than I can follow until his hands are cupping either side of my face. He breathes scalding words against my lips that sting my flesh and pull me forward; I've been ensnared by this animated spirit that is Emmett Sinclair, this person who exists as a question mark in my mind. Who is he? What does he want with me?
    “ I want this,” he says simply, and then I have my answers: I don't care. I just like him. I might not know his favorite color or how he likes his coffee, but he makes me feel warm when I'm shivering cold inside. What's one, little kiss going to hurt?
    I open my mouth and let Emmett in, let him hold me and taste me while I remain still, savoring each tiny twitch of his fingers on my cheeks. His hands sear prints into my skin, mark my paleness with his heated flesh. He moves inside of me and then he relaxes and lets me do the same to him, drawing my hands forward, putting them to his chest by sheer force of will and desire. I tease him gently, flicking my tongue against his, grabbing his bottom lip in my teeth and pulling it into my mouth until he groans, deep and low.
    Emmett then drops his hands down to my hips and picks me up. Without even realizing it, my legs go around him as he slides my ass onto the counter and pulls me tight against him. I grab his beanie with one hand and pull it off his head, let it fall to the floor as my fingers tangle in his hair and squeeze tight, tugging hard enough to hurt. He doesn't complain, and he doesn't try to take us any further. Instead, Emmett gets comfortable, sliding his arms around my waist and letting our bodies mold together while our noses brush against one another and the heat of our mouths mingle.
    Honestly, I can't even remember the last time I felt so damn good, so fucking alive. It feels like my skin is electric, like Emmett has plugged me in and I'm throbbing with energy. In the back of my mind, I tell myself that the reason I can't remember is because I have never felt quite like this. Emmett Sinclair is working his magic, and damn it, I'm enthralled. Suddenly, I can't wait to go paddle boating. I want to go paddle boating with him, and I want to sit in his arms and watch the sun set. I want to know who he is and how he got that way, and the most frightening thing of all is that I want him to be mine. I want to lay claim to him, mark him, make sure that nobody else comes by and