My sincerity chips at his doubt, reframing it. I watch the progression of thoughts march across his handsome face. Maybe he’s worried for nothing. Maybe he’s letting his feelings for me—possibly jealously—cloud his judgement. Maybe he doesn’t know me like he thought he did…
“If you needed help, you’d tell me, right?” he asks softly.
No.
“Of course. Now let’s get back to work. Tell me about our relationship with VitaH20. Who are the key players, what are our yearly objectives, how’s our progress…”
The rest of the day is a blur.
Not until I pull into Gideon’s driveway that evening do I feel the drain of the day. The effort it took to withstand Trent and Maggie’s barely repressed concern, to maintain nonchalance along with the lie I spun for them.
Early retirement.
Yeah, right.
My footsteps up the stone walkway are heavy, dragged down by my thoughts on the signed contract in my briefcase, the risks I’m taking, the uncertain future and the weight of the past.
Gideon waits on the threshold. Light around him, relief in his eyes, lips canted in a half smile. Mouthwatering scents float from the kitchen to my nose, and soft music from the living room filters to my ears. It’s a sensory and emotional assault I’m not prepared for.
“I need you.”
The words rip from my chest, bypassing my mind. I’ve never said them before. To anyone. Moments later I’m in his arms, small and fragile and helpless to resist the thundering of my heart, the hunger only his touch satisfies.
We make it halfway down the hallway before he drags my skirt to my waist, tears my panties off, and gracelessly frees himself from his pants. My spine slams against a canvas painting. His teeth clamp on my neck, and his first thrust is brutal. Angry. Punishing.
Perfect.
“Damn you,” he growls against my throat. “I didn’t know if you’d come back.”
“I know,” I gasp.
He gives me no quarter, slamming inside me until my thighs are slick, until I’m jerking and screaming as I come. He rasps something in French. The fingers of one hand clamped on my jaw so I can’t turn my face away. Can’t hide. His eyes are stark, as much vulnerability as there is fierceness inside them.
“Watch me as I come inside you. Say my fucking name.”
A second orgasm builds, deeper, stronger than the first. Pinned to the wall by his cock, I can do nothing but feel. Take. So I do—absorbing the sudden sharpness of his expression, the fey-like precision of his cheekbones and brow. The lush lips and straight white teeth that nip at my mouth and chin. The rock-hard shoulders, muscles straining, his ass clenching beneath my heels.
My wild god.
I chant his name, tasting salty sweat and tears, and watch every second of his surrender. The sweat dripping from his temples, the flare of his nostrils and clenched jaw. Fingers dig and bruise my hips as he slams inside me again and again.
With a gruff shout, he grinds to a stop so deep inside me I feel the sharp press of our bones meeting behind delicate skin. The pulse of his release against my inner flesh triggers my own climax—a cataclysmic event that leaves me laughing, crying, and triumphant in its wake.
Still holding me against the wall, Gideon licks my tears, the inside of my mouth, the sweat pooled in my clavicle. Finally, he brushes his lips across mine.
“Welcome home, mon bijou.”
32 greed
I allow myself one month with him. To be… his. To gift my heart a freedom it’s never known. Cold feet seeking warmth in the morning. Limbs like puzzle pieces as we watch movies on the couch. Drowning ourselves in each other’s bodies, finding oxygen in a kiss.
We don’t talk about what’s happening between us, about love or the future. Perhaps we’re both merely repeating patterns of the past. Mine, the need to feel safe; his, the need to be needed. I don’t know. And to be honest, I don’t care.
But I do care that it’s becoming harder and harder to keep the vault in my mind from cracking open. I wake up often in the middle of the night, screams clogging my throat. He holds me, rocks me as I shudder and gasp.
The flashbacks are increasing in frequency, stronger and clearer than ever before. A side effect of my new life, no doubt, with a man who won’t let me hide. Who maps my scars with his lips and teeth and tongue, who commands my body and offers me equal dominion.
Our desire for each other is a closed circuit that excludes the world. That almost, almost, makes me forget.
This love is madness.
I let him comfort me because I’m weak. I don’t tell him about the dreams, avoid the worry and growing questions in his eyes. Even if I wanted to tell him, the guilt and horror of what I’ve done is too much to put into words. So is the dark future looming like an axe above my neck. The certain knowledge that we are on borrowed time.
Tick Tock.
Every day, I wake wondering if it will be my last—his last. If the new security system with its live, twenty-four-hour surveillance and patrol cars every half hour will be enough to stop that axe from falling.
Why am I doing this? Putting Gideon in danger?
Mama always said I was selfish. A dark soul.
I guess she was right.
* * *
The hardest part of being with Gideon is the blissful normalcy of something I feared I would never have—a romantic partnership based on mutual respect and transparency. I really thought that shit only happened in the movies.
Lord knows I didn’t have any promising role models growing up. But it’s more than the scars from my family’s severe dysfunction. Were it that alone and I might have come out okay in the end. Found some good therapy. Learned to process my emotions, build trusting relationships and own my vulnerability. Or whatever normal people do.
But that’s not all I endured. Not the end. And four years of my life don’t get magically erased because I want—or even deserve—a shot at happiness.
I haven’t told Gideon the truth, and it weighs on me and inside me, where it spreads like a rot. I’m a liar. The woman he wants? Another mask, another lie. He sees what he wants to see, just like I create the version of myself I think he wants.
Just like every—
man—
before—
him—
“What did that carrot ever do to you?”
The already-moving knife slams into the cutting board, leaving a pulverized orange mass in its wake. I blink at the mess in confusion and growing embarrassment.
“Oh my gosh. I’m sorry. I wasn’t paying attention.”
I drop the knife; it clatters on the counter, handle spinning toward the edge. I yelp and jump backward.
“Whoa.” Gideon reaches past me, moving the knife to a safe position above the board. “Someone’s twitchy tonight.”
“My feet are bare! I’m not down to be skewered.” At his immediate grin, I roll my eyes. “By a knife.”
Chuckling, he tucks loose hair behind my ear. “You really don’t have to cook, Deirdre. I don’t know why you’re putting this pressure on yourself.”
I meet his gaze for exactly one second before turning away to wash my hands. “I want to. It’s fine. I can do it.”
I should be able to do it.
Who can’t cook spaghetti and make a salad?
Ridiculous.
Why is this so hard?
Obvious to my squirreling thoughts, Gideon waits for me to finish washing my hands. So fucking patient with me and my insane issues. So accommodating. So understanding.
Spinning to face him, I throw my hands up. “I can’t do this!”
Gideon leans against the counter, arms crossed, relaxed, like it’s no big deal I’m losing my ever-loving mind.
“Finally,” he says with a dramatic sigh. “What should we order?”
“Stop it! Stop being so nice and generous and… and… perfect! I can’t stand it!”
Before he can say anything, I flee the kitchen. Because what other opt
ion is there? Stand there as the shame and humiliation slowly kill me? As he tries to be gentle with me, to understand me? Or as he finally snaps?
No one should have to live with the level of messed up I am. No one can live with it. This is borrowed happiness. A draining hourglass. I need to change, act, reclaim some power—break the glass and let the sand spray everywhere.
Halfway down the hall, I stop, swivel, and beeline for the studio. Knowing he’ll come. He’ll find me. Stop me.
Either save me or lose me.
“Deirdre! Put the paint down. Now!”
The darkness insides me thrills at his loud, cutting tone. Instead of obeying, I spin around, pointing the thick tubes of fancy acrylic paint at him. The caps are off, bright colors already ballooning from the tips.
Gideon blinks. His lips twitch. Slowly, he lifts his hands.
“Are you arresting me, Officer?”
I try to hold onto my anger. I really do. But the anger was a smokescreen for fear, and the fear is impossible to keep when Gideon is being so… so… Gideon.
Grinning madly, he lunges for me.
I yelp, my hands automatically clenching.
He freezes. Lowers his gaze to the orange and purple paint dripping in sludgy rivers down his bare chest.
His gaze snaps back to me, indignant. “I just showered.”
“Uh-oh,” I whisper.
“Give me the paint, Deirdre.”
Shaking my head, I back away. Step by step, Gideon follows. Each mirrored movement makes my blood hotter, my skin more alive. He clears away all the muck and shadow inside me.
He brings my world into focus.
“Last chance,” he murmurs, the glint in his eye promising swift—and not unwelcome—retribution.
“Pfft. I’m not afraid of you. What are you going to do, cover me in paint? Been there, done that.”
Brows lifted, he chortles. “Ohh, the sass! I’m offended, mon bijou. I would think by now you’d know how very, very”—he leaps forward, snatching the paint from my hands—“creative I am.”
The sound the tubes make when they forcefully expel their paint all over my chest makes me giggle, which makes Gideon roll his eyes.
“That wasn’t nearly as satisfying as I imagined.”
Reaching up, I push my hand into the glob of paint on his pectoral and smear bright orange over his shoulder and up his neck.
Seconds later, I gasp as he scoops purple from my shirt and plants it on the top of my head.
“Son of a bitch!”
Smirking, he tilts his head. “Now what?”
I glance at the nearest weapons-cache—a crate full of assorted tubes about six feet away. Gideon shifts toward it. I shift, too, until we’re walking sideways together in ridiculous slow-motion.
“I’m going to cover you in paint,” he whispers darkly, the threatening tone belied by the twinkle in his eye, “and make sweet love to you on that tarp over there.”
I wrinkle my nose. “That doesn’t sound nice at all. You know this floor is cement, right?”
“Oh ye of little faith! Don’t you know by now that anything we do together is magic?”
And it is.
Magic.
33 indulgence
Gideon has spent the majority of the last week in the studio. Locked door and loud music. There’s a new vacancy in his eyes, but I don’t begrudge it. I’ve been around enough creatives to know when their muse hangs heavy on their shoulders.
His showing at The Voigt is in three days and he’s obsessing over the Seven Sins paintings. Finn tells me they’re perfect, have been in the final stages for weeks, but that he’s never seen Gideon this attached to a series. Obsessed, was his word.
I still haven’t seen the paintings. I want to, but I also dread the eventual moment. What if I can’t separate myself from what I see? What if all I see are mirrors of my darkness? From Finn’s brief comments when he’s popped over for dinner or met us for breakfast, the paintings are shocking and extraordinary.
Unforgettable.
But what if I want to forget?
In Gideon’s long absences, I keep busy for sanity’s sake. And because even with a single client, there’s plenty to do—especially since I’ve fallen into the role of manager as well as publicist.
I spend my days securing press and VIPs for the upcoming event, fielding calls from staff at the museum, caterers, and production companies handling music, lighting, and construction for the showing. Valerie Fischer is especially high-maintenance, calling multiple times a day to check in. Gideon thinks her crush on him is cute, so at every opportunity I tease him about his love of older women.
At least an hour every morning is also spent assisting Trent as he transitions into my role at the agency—poor guy has been on his own with Maggie on her much-anticipated New York trip. I have immense pride for how my protégé has stepped up, as well as gratitude for the loyalty and flexibility of my long-term clients.
Mostly, though, Deirdre Moss the PR Shark now feels like an ill-fitting costume. I know all the lines and can play the role in my sleep, but more and more I’m becoming the other me. Deirdre Anne. Not the young girl from the trailer park—this me is older and harder, yet vulnerable in a way she’s never been. Open to the world, to love, because he demands it.
Because I cannot resist what he gives me in return.
“Those don’t look like wholesome thoughts,” murmurs Gideon wryly. I sigh, melting in relief when he leans down behind my chair to kiss my temple.
Swiveling and upturning my face, I search his. He’s exhausted, running on fumes, blue streaks beneath his bloodshot eyes. Hair in wild disarray and in dire need of a trim, and bare chest an accidental canvas. I draw a finger across his ridged abdomen, smearing together spatters of paint.
“I missed you,” I whisper.
Gripping my hand, still pressed against his skin, he draws me into his arms. I’m locked tight in his embrace, safe and sheltered in our closed circuit.
“Deirdre…” His breath warms the top of my head. “I need something from you.”
I grip him tighter. “Anything.”
“A massage and a blow job.”
Jerking back in his arms, I sputter with laughter. He grins down at me, wicked and charismatic despite his exhaustion.
“Does that mean they’re done?” I demand.
He nods, smile softening. “No painting is ever finished, just halted in process. But I’m done, yes.”
“That’s wonderful, Gideon. Congratulations. Can I see them now?”
My obvious hesitance and an ill-concealed wince make him laugh, the sound weary but still joyous. Hoisting me into his arms, he heads for the bedroom.
“Is that a no?” I ask, smiling into his neck.
“Definitely a no. Are you done working for the day?”
My tongue savors the salt and musk of his skin. A hum of pleasure radiates from my chest. “What work?”
Another rusty chuckle. “Marry me.”
It’s the seventeenth time he’s asked in the last month, and I give him the same answer every time.
“No.”
Gideon angles for the bed and follows me down onto the soft sheets. Elbows propped to either side of my face, he studies me with a frown.
“Why not?”
I blink—he’s never asked that before.
Because I might be dead soon.
The only deflection I can manage is, “Well, that’s a mood killer.”
His eyes see too much. Too deeply. And when I expect him to roll away, be angry or hurt, instead he kisses me softly and strokes the hair at my temples.
“I wasn’t afraid of the dark as a child,” he says idly, gaze roaming my face. “Which is odd, since I think humans are by nature afraid of the dark. It comes to us as children with fluttering curtains, a closet door creaking open, the flap of wings outside a window.”
I swallow thickly. “We learn to distrust what we can’t see or understand.”
“Yes, but w
hy? Put a person in the middle of a perfectly safe, tranquil forest in the dead of night and set a squirrel loose ten feet away. Instant panic. Then consider the same situation in broad daylight—the subject might be startled, maybe experience a brief fight-or-flight response… but then there’d be a sigh of relief, possibly laughter, because it’s a fucking squirrel.”
I crack a smile. “Where are you going with this?”
He kisses the tip of my nose. “Say a person is more comfortable in the dark than in the light. Say the blindness soothes, the silence calms, and the uncertainty, the threat of danger, is as familiar as a lullaby.”
My breath comes faster. “Are you talking about yourself, or me?”
His nose drags along my cheek, a gentle caress that ends with his mouth at my ear.
“There’s no shame in taking comfort in darkness. After all, life begins and ends with it. Darkness isn’t inherently evil any more than a squirrel wandering in the night is a monster.”
I force a chuckle. “I think you might be delirious from paint fumes.”
He licks the lobe of my ear. Goose bumps sprout over my arms and I twitch, seeking something I understand. Lust—escape. But he’s not done.
Head rising, he stares down at me. Not delirious at all, but sober and sane.
“When will you understand, mon bijou, that you are a night-blooming flower, and there’s no shame in that. Please, share your dark with me. Not these mismatched bits and pieces, but all of it. I want to see you.”
Rigid beneath him, I shake my head. I want to shove him off, to get away, but I’m terrified it will mean the end of this. Of us.
I have to lie, tell him I’m not ready or soon or When I say yes to marrying you, I’ll say yes to this—but what comes out instead is, “If I tell you, you won’t want me anymore.”
He stares at me for long moments, eyes hooded, lips thinned. “That’s horse shit. I love you more than I’ve loved anyone in my fucking life. There’s nothing you could tell me that would change that.”
The earth-shattering words are spoken with blunt confidence. Like he actually believes them.
Art of Sin: Illusions Duet : Book One Page 14
