“Is Nate working?”
“Deirdre? Is that you?” A door closes, background noise fading. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Is Nate there?”
“Yes. He’s working the bar tonight. You don’t sound okay—”
“Tell him to call me ASAP. And don’t let him go home alone tonight.”
“Wha—”
“Promise me, London!”
She sucks in a breath. “Of course. But, Deirdre—”
I hang up.
Fifteen minutes later, my tires squeal as I pull into Gideon’s driveway. I could have gone to Trent’s. Maggie lives even closer. Better yet, I could have driven straight to the police and explained that a madman who’s supposed to be dead has found me, and he probably wants to carve up my skin and paint with my blood.
Yeah, right.
I’m here because it’s the only place I want to be.
Gideon’s front door opens as I’m getting out of the car. I run to him. As fast as my feet will carry me, away from the invisible evil building at my back.
He catches me, swings me inside, slams and locks the deadbolt. Then he sets me on my feet and grabs my face in his hands.
“What’s wrong?” Short, clipped words. “What happened?”
My mouth opens and closes. Nothing. There’s nothing inside me but a mindless, soundless mess.
So I do the only thing that seems remotely possible in the moment. I grab him, one hand behind his neck, the other in his hair, and drag his face to mine. He resists for the merest moment—the briefest blip of surprised eyes—before our lips meet and part in a joined gasp.
Climbing his body like a monkey and sealing myself to his front, I kiss him like I’m hell-bent on sucking his soul out through his mouth. My fingers fist in his hair; his hands dig and squeeze into my thighs, my ass. He takes a stumbling, half step back until his spine thuds against the foyer wall.
Need claws through me. More than lust. A fire just as desperate for kindling as it is for water to quench it. Yearning for something—anything—to make sense in this fucking world.
Gideon is that something. He’s the only goddamn thing that makes sense.
He breaks our kiss, moving his head back when I dive forward. I’m close to tears. Close to the point of no return. If I can’t have him right now, I don’t know what I’ll do.
Stop fighting and fade away.
Commit myself.
Possibly drive off a cliff.
“Please,” I whisper, “if I mean anything at all to you, give me this. I need you. Remind me that life can be good.”
“Did you think I was saying no?” he rasps, thrusting forward, grinding his erection against the seam of my slacks.
I tremble, reaching for him again, but he holds me back.
“I stopped because I want to make sure you didn’t take drugs. If I’m breaking my only rule—which I have never fucking done—I want you emotionally and physically sober for it.”
My laughter is shrill; tears threaten. To my horror, my lower lip starts quivering.
Gideon sighs, his forehead dropping gently to mine. “Damnit. I really wanted to break my rule.”
“No, please, don’t reject me,” I blubber, gripping his shoulders as he begins to pull me off him. Devastation rocks me at the loss of his embrace, then quivers uncertainly when he sweeps me up so I’m cradled in his arms.
Walking down the hallway toward the bedrooms, he stares down at me. Eyes soft, unmasked and tender, the look so unexpected and heart-wrenchingly genuine that my tears begin in earnest.
“Deirdre, don’t be ridiculous. I want you. So much I have to jack off three times a day just to take the edge off. But something clearly happened when you left tonight. Right now you need to rest. Let me take care of you.”
Cynical laughter breaks through my tears. No one has ever taken care of me before—not without expectation. I don’t know what that means or feels like.
Pausing on the threshold of the guest bedroom, he strokes damp hair from my temple. His expression darkens, becoming grave.
“Whatever you’ve come from, whatever you’ve lived through, I don’t care. I’m not afraid of your dark.”
Trapped in his gaze, I whisper, “But what if I am? Afraid of the darkness inside me?”
He kisses my forehead, murmuring against my skin, “Then I’ll set the world on fire to bring you light.”
They say you never know the moment you fall in love. That it’s in truth a series of events—some mundane, insignificant—that build into a stunning conviction. Love.
Not so for me. Maybe it’s because I’ve been waiting for it as someone ready for an old memory to resurface. Like somewhere inside me is a woman who has always loved him, was born to love him, and has merely been waiting to remember why. Hiding in the dark until he brought her into the light.
Or maybe I’m broken beyond repair, a tower of lies so convoluted I can’t name truth from fiction. My soul too damaged to salvage—born of darkness, as Mama always said.
Maybe this is sickness.
Sin.
Depravity.
Twisted fascination.
But when Gideon lifts his head and looks at me, his eyes startlingly clear, full of everything inside me, I fall—every mismatched, jagged piece of me—into his waiting hands.
27 fantasy
“Are you hungry or thirsty?”
I shake my head.
“Is it chilly in here? Do you need another blanket?”
My lips twitch. “I’m fine. Stop.”
Gideon looks up from adjusting a blanket on my legs. Calm expression. Eyes a bit wary. I’m reminded of those rare glimpses I’ve had of the inner man—the agony and guilt and confusion inside him. I’m starting to see the bigger picture of him. The one so few have seen.
And he is magnificent.
I don’t have him—haven’t lost him yet. But the mere notion of saying goodbye drives a spike of pain through my heart.
“Don’t leave,” I blurt. “Tell me a story.”
His expression shifts to curious. “What kind of story?”
I shrug, snuggling deeper into the cloud-like surface of the guest bed. “Tell me about a time you were happy.”
He sits at the foot of the bed, half turned, a knee on the surface. My toes graze his calf, our skin separated by a blanket barrier. The solidity of him, the realness of the moment, ignites warmth in my belly and a nearly unrecognizable sense of peace and belonging.
Fear still lives in me—I feel it, prickly and thick, pressing against this insulated moment. I’ll have to leave him soon. Leave everyone to finish what was started so many years ago.
But not tonight.
Tonight, I belong only to myself.
And him.
Gideon clears his throat. “When I graduated college, I bought a one-way ticket to Europe. I didn’t tell my father I was going. When I called him from the airport in Prague, he was less than thrilled. He demanded I get on a flight home immediately. I was supposed to start law school that fall—his caveat for paying for college after he found out I was majoring in Philosophy.”
“This doesn’t sound happy,” I murmur.
His lips twitch. “Patience, Snowflake. Suffice to say, that conversation didn’t end well. Within a day, he’d cut off my credit cards and turned off my cell phone. I used the cash I had on me to get to Paris, which wasn’t nearly as romantic as I’d been led to believe. It was winter and raining nonstop.”
I smirk. “Poor boy.”
He laughs. “I did feel poor. Probably for the first time in my life.”
Standing, he stretches languorously, then flops onto the bed beside me with his arms tucked behind his head. I roll onto my side and stare at his profile. Trace the tiny bump on the bridge of his nose. A little scar at the corner of his left eyebrow. The faint freckles on his cheeks and auburn scruff on his jaw.
“I lived on the streets for a few months,” he continues, voice soft and gaze vacant, pointed inwa
rd. “I found an incredible community of buskers, artists, performers… mostly kids my age who’d either run away from home or didn’t have one. We stuck together like a big, noisy family.”
“That sounds nice,” I murmur.
He slants me a warm glance. “It was. I’d never felt that before. Family, that is. Unconditional support and encouragement. Sure, there was bickering and bullshit, but at the end of the day we were all rowing in the same lifeboat.”
Afraid the story’s over, I say, “Tell me more, please.”
His lips purse in thought, then soften. “The first real painting I sold was a complete fluke—a girl who did caricatures for tourists outside the Louvre was sick and asked me if I wanted to fill in for her for a few days. I’d use her supplies, give her a percentage, and hopefully make enough to get my own paper and paint. Sketching and drawing had always been a hobby I was pretty good at, so I jumped at the chance.”
“What had you been doing until then, if not art?”
He smirks. “Pickpocketing. But I was horrible at it. I felt so guilty every time. And the red hair didn’t help. I wasn’t exactly inconspicuous. Anyway, turns out I was a shitty salesman, too. My second day out there, I’d only done one caricature for some Americans who felt sorry for me. They kept asking if I needed help finding my parents.”
Laughter bubbles out of me. Gideon grins.
“A rocky start to my career, to be sure. But as I was packing up that night, a woman approached me. She was… very French. Beautiful and mature. Wealthy. Very forward. I’d been warned this could happen by some of the others, but I still wasn’t prepared.”
Propping myself on an elbow, I stare at him, rapt as I imagine that meeting. A younger, less confident Gideon, uncertain in his height and sexuality, faced with a mature, sensual Frenchwoman. I want to hear more as much as I don’t, my displaced jealousy searing my skin.
Gideon’s eyes find mine. Penetrating and aware. “She wanted to see what I’d been working on—an idle painting of the crowd that I shouldn’t have been doing. Long story short, she bought the painting and became my patron. Gave me money to replace the supplies I’d wasted. Moved me into a flat in the heart of the city. Sent me to study with several famous artists at the time.”
“And?” I prompt, near breathless.
“Yes, Deirdre,” he says dryly, “we were lovers, almost from the beginning.”
“You were happy then, too?” I manage to not sound like I’m choking.
He hesitates. “There are different types of happiness, I’ve found. Ignorance can be bliss, but does that ignorance make it any less blissful? Only in retrospect. We were together three and a half years. Probably the most transformative years of my life. It ended when I found out she was married.”
I expel a heavy breath. “And what about your need to save women? How did she fit into that? Or was she perfect?”
Gideon half-laughs, half-sighs. “No, she wasn’t perfect. Francesca was a deeply emotional, impulsive woman. She was also prone to jealousy, fits of violence, and excessive drug use. I don’t think we loved each other so much as we were obsessed with what the other could do for us. We made each other feel wanted. Validated. Needed.”
My heart kicks, reminding me of its own needs. I close my eyes. Take the plunge.
“And how do I make you feel, Gideon?”
Fingertips brush across my forehead, trace one eyebrow, and sink into the hair past my temple. I open my eyes to his face above mine. My breath falters.
“Like myself,” he says, gaze dragging across my mouth. “That’s how you make me feel. I don’t think I’ve ever been myself. Do you understand?”
I almost laugh, but feel the hot press of tears instead. “Yes.”
28 carnality
Gideon’s hand moves from my hair to frame my face. A thumb catches the corner of my mouth, pressing until I open for him.
“I want to swallow you whole,” he says, dipping forward to lick a slow line across my exposed lip. “Drink you until I’m drunk. Taste you until I’m sated. But I’m afraid I’ll never get enough. I’m terrified you don’t feel this.”
“You’re an idiot,” I gasp.
His gaze darkens impossibly. “I lied, earlier. I’m going to break my rule tonight, despite the fact you’re emotionally fragile. Because I’m a fiend and a sinner and I can’t help myself.”
Electric awareness crackles down my body, surges in my muscles. Lifting my face to his, I seize his lower lip with my teeth and bite down, then softly kiss the offended skin. He groans, deep and low, and throws the blanket from my body.
When he covers me, I almost weep with relief. His touch is rough, needy. Greedy. Warm, strong hands glide down my front, squeeze my breasts, grasp and tug at the buttons of my blouse. Several pearlescent discs pop off, mismatched threads left behind. The warm sound of tearing silk accompanies cool air on my stomach and arms.
Sensitive skin protests as he yanks off my bra, when he strips me of shoes, slacks, and panties soaked with arousal. He’s gone from the bed long enough to pull off his shirt and jeans, then kneels once more between my spread legs, hard and naked and fierce as a wild god.
His stare is ravenous. My world goes fuzzy and light at the edges, the tiniest sliver of fear licking my spine. The uncertainty only makes me hotter. Deranged with need.
“Gideon,” I whimper.
He traces a fingertip from my throat to my quivering stomach. “I know,” he says, eyes latching onto mine. “It hurts, doesn’t it? The want?”
My body aches and curves toward him. “Yes.”
“You’re beautiful in your suffering.”
A finger teases downward in slow spirals. Dips into my belly button. Grazes my hipbones, the crease of my thighs. Whispers over my clit. My hips lift, seeking pressure, but he retreats with a small smile.
“Ah ah.”
My arousal is so heavy I’m near-boneless. Mindless.
“I hate you,” I grind out. “Just fuck me.”
His smile grows sharp and savage. “Who’s the hedonist now, hmm? I’m not going to fuck you. I’m going to paint you with me. Now shut up and let me work.”
His tongue finds my clit at the same time two fingers penetrate me and curl toward my G-spot. In seconds, my body is no longer my own. Nor is my voice, my passion, my fear. It all belongs to him.
I buck and strain to get closer. To get away. The sensations are too much. Not enough. Too close. Too far away. I’ve never felt what I’m feeling now—then the thought is gone, swept beneath the wave cresting inside me.
My cry is strangled, hoarse, my fingers knotted tight in the bright hair on his crown. I chant his name. Curse him and praise him as I buck. Writhe. Destruct and reform.
My return to sanity is slow. Eyelids heavy, blinking slowly. His face comes into focus as he wipes his chin and licks his lips. The edge in his eyes is gone, but not the urgency. And as the high from my orgasm fades, an emptiness resonates inside me.
A different, deeper need.
In the moment I reach for him, he covers me, swallows my sigh with his mouth. Gives me my taste and takes it back in a seamless blending. His movements grow unhinged, jerky as he wrenches my legs up to his hips and angles the head of his cock to my entrance. My palms on his back, I feel him trembling.
There’s an infinitesimal pause. An awareness of consequence that’s shattered when I grab the hot, smooth skin of his hips and pull him forward.
He sinks inside me with a slow, stretching burn, and his trembling increases. Mouth at my ear, he whispers, “I’m trying not to hurt you. But I want to. God, I want to break you so you’ll never feel anyone else.”
You already have.
Darkness ripples under my skin. A familiar flare. The urge of old conditioning to manipulate with my body. Find a weakness to exploit. Give him what he wants so he’ll keep me. Feed me. Pamper me.
Let him hurt you.
“No.”
I don’t know which of us speaks, but I’m abruptly aware of
Gideon’s hands on my cheeks and his eyes fierce on mine.
“You don’t get to leave,” he rasps.
“You don’t get to hurt me.”
The words surprise me more than him. His gaze softens. He kisses me. Tenderly, deeply. Because he knows I don’t mean he can’t fuck me hard, or mark me with his hands, mouth, and cock, but that he can’t damage my mind or soul.
He knows because we are the same broken.
Gideon’s hips roll leisurely, a testament to his iron will as his body continues to vibrate like a live wire. That, of everything, is what brings me back to the present—how hard he’s trying to be careful with me.
“Faster,” I order, groaning when he complies.
Tongues taste.
“Harder.”
Hair pulls.
“More…”
Fingers clench.
“More, yes…”
Nails dig.
“Don’t stop. God, don’t stop…”
Sweat drips.
“You’re mine, Deirdre. My masterpiece.”
“Yours.”
I’m on top when he comes. A vengeful angel in control of his pleasure. He lets me see it all—the deep, glittering dark inside him. The lonely boy. The jaded man. The sinner and the believer. The tragedy and pain, the opalescent joy.
All of it belongs to me.
He’s mine.
29 sacrifice
When I wake up, for a few, disorienting moments I can’t remember where or when I am. Nate sits in a chair beside the unfamiliar bed, his head in his hands. Blinking groggily, I reach for the IV in my arm—there isn’t one. No oxygen in my nose, either. But the scene is eerily familiar.
Years ago, after a particularly hard night on the streets that resulted in a stab wound to my chest, I woke up in the hospital with a collapsed lung and Nate holding my hand. Those were our darkest times, our lives so stained by what we’d lived through—and so recently escaped—that we made horrible, dangerous choices. Nate especially.
Art of Sin: Illusions Duet : Book One Page 12
