Chapter Six
820 Words
The first streak of sage green missed the wall entirely.
It splattered across Leia’s forearm, a bright, ugly smear that made her squeal and laugh like a drunken teenager.
“Oh my God, Owen!” she cried, flailing the paintbrush like a sword. “You're supposed to roll it, not attack it!”
Owen deadpanned, brush limp in his hand.
"I thought this was a full-contact sport."
Leia giggled, hopping backward on bare feet, leaving a trail of tiny paint prints across the tarp.
“Maybe you’re just bad at it,” she teased, bumping his hip with hers.
He grunted, playing along, barely keeping the exhaustion off his face.
Painting with Leia was like being trapped inside a sitcom he couldn’t turn off.
Every five seconds, she had a new "idea"—an accent wall, a mural, a stencil.
At one point, she tried to do a "sexy painting dance," grinding her ass against the wall and wiggling her hips like a drunk t****k star.
Paint smeared across the back of her shorts.
She twirled and posed, blowing him a kiss, the roller still dripping.
Owen stared at her for a long moment.
Not because it was sexy.
Because it was so absurd he wasn’t sure whether to laugh or swallow a handful of screws.
“Hot, right?” she said, striking another ridiculous pose.
“Blistering,” Owen said flatly, rolling another sloppy stripe onto the wall.
---
By the time they finished, both of them were coated in sweat and stray smudges of sage green.
Leia’s tank top was clinging to her ribs, the thin cotton translucent with sweat.
Her cheeks were flushed, hair stuck to her forehead in messy, damp strands.
She beamed at the room like she’d just won a f*****g Nobel Prize.
“We’re such a good team!” she chirped, bouncing over to him, wiping her hands on a rag already filthy with paint and sweat.
She opened her mouth to say something else—
And Owen moved.
Swift, deliberate.
He snatched the rag from her hand and shoved it between her lips, gagging her mid-sentence.
Leia's eyes went wide in surprise—then softened with laughter, thinking it was a joke, some messy post-painting foreplay.
It wasn’t.
Owen grabbed her by the waist and slammed her back against the still-damp wall.
Leia gasped behind the gag, paint smearing across her bare arms, her tank top, her thighs as she struggled for balance.
Owen didn’t give her time to catch up.
He pinned her wrists above her head with one hand, using the other to shove her paint-smeared shorts down her legs in one rough yank.
She wriggled and whimpered against him, not resisting—just caught off guard.
Still thinking it was love.
Not realizing she’d become a shadow cast by someone else’s silhouette in Owen’s eyes.
---
He saw her...
The woman from the store.
Dark hair messy, throat stretched tight around his c**k, eyes watering from the force of him.
Leia moaned behind the rag, squirming against him, her thighs already slick with sweat and heat.
Owen undid his jeans with a vicious flick of his wrist, dragging himself out, hard and aching and furious.
He lined up and drove into her without warning, bottoming out so hard her back slapped the wall, leaving another thick green smear across the drywall.
Leia whimpered brokenly behind the gag.
Owen barely noticed.
He grabbed a fistful of her hair, yanking her head back, exposing her throat—her canvas—and f****d into her with slow, brutal thrusts that made the whole damn wall rattle.
Paint clung to their skin like guilt.
Sweat turned borders to smears.
Each thrust smeared the wall behind her more—fingerprints, assprints, streaks of sage green and sweat and desperation.
Owen ground his hips against her, pulling almost all the way out just to slam back in harder, forcing little muffled cries from her gagged mouth.
Owen shoved her higher against the wall. Her thighs trembled around him, her heels digging into his back.
She was messy, wrecked, dripping with paint and sweat and saliva, the rag sodden against her lips.
He growled low in his throat, teeth sinking into her shoulder to muffle the sound as he spilled inside her, hips jerking, grinding her harder against the battered wall.
He stayed buried there for a moment, breathing like he’d run a marathon, forehead pressed against her shoulder.
When Owen pulled back, Leia blinked up at him, dazed, flushed, smiling stupidly around the gag.
He yanked the rag free and tossed it aside, stepping back.
Leia sagged against the wall, giggling breathlessly.
"God, that was hot," she panted. "We should ruin the guest room next—"
Owen didn’t answer.
He just picked up the roller, dipped it lazily into the tray of ruined paint, and started slapping green across the wall again.
Covering the evidence.
- Writer
