Page 18 of Art of Sin
She leaves.
* * *
He’s touching me.Confident, strong hands. Warm and dry. I can smell his skin, feel the electric current of his body teasing mine. We’re so close I can count the faint freckles on his nose as he guides my arms over my head, twists my hips slightly, and arches my back. He’s frowning in concentration, brows furrowed deeply and eyes squinted. Lower lip between his teeth, the top lush and pink.
I’m terrified he can smell my arousal. Terrified of my response to him when he’s doing absolutely nothing but moving my limbs, his touch platonic.
Of all the fucking men on the planet.
Satisfied at last, Gideon nods to himself and steps back. His gaze is distant as it scans me, seeing me not as a woman but a living manikin.
Caramel eyes flash to mine. “Don’t move.”
I nod and glance at Finn, standing upright behind the camera. His blue gaze flickers down my body, expression tight. Instinct makes me look down—the sight of my hardened nipples through thin fabric ignites a fire of embarrassment beneath my skin. And when I glance back up, the heat in Finn’s eyes is unmistakable.
Gideon moves into position beside Finn. Taller, bigger, brighter. A lion next to a wolf. They watch me, both hungry in different ways. Finn wants my flesh, but Gideon may very well want my soul.
Posed on the edge of fear and ecstasy, I gasp air into my lungs. “Can’t stand like this forever, guys.”
Finn finally recovers, shooting an inscrutable look at Gideon before disappearing behind the lens. Minutes and a series of clicks later, I get the nod from Gideon to relax. My arms burn as I lower them; my legs ache as I shake out tense muscles.
“I think that’s good for today.” Gideon speaks from behind the tripod, his finger clicking through the recent images. Looking up, he grins at Finn. “Thanks.”
Finn nods back, unsmiling. “I’ll have a flash drive for you by the end of next week.”
“That’s fine.” Gideon wanders over to his cluttered studio, bare feet whispering across the drop cloths. Not looking back, he says, “Will you stay for a minute, Deirdre?”
I pause with my dress over my head, then pull it on. Finn ignores us, breaking down his equipment with practiced ease.
“Uh, sure.”
My former boldness gone, I have to force my feet to trace Gideon’s steps across the room. The texture of the drop cloth is unexpected, rough after the smoothness of concrete, with points of pressure from dried paint splatters.
Gideon stares at a blank canvas while Finn finishes packing up. He offers me a wave goodbye, expression oddly remote. Then he’s gone, and I’m alone with the lion.
“You didn’t tell me about the scars. Why not?”
Too tired to be offended or embarrassed, I laugh instead. “Why risk you pulling out of the contract before signing?”
He turns, eyes deep pools of speculation. “I wouldn’t have.”
I shrug, wishing the words didn’t bring me such relief. “Then what does it matter?”
“How did you get them?”
I arch a brow. “None of your business.”
His expression hardens. “From today on, everything about you is my business. What you eat and drink, who you fuck, what you dream about, what you think about late at night when you’re alone.”
I stiffen with anger. “Go fuck yourself, Gideon. You don’t own me.”
Gideon takes a step toward me then stops, frowning at me like I’m a puzzle with missing pieces. Trent was right—this man is a cypher. Impossible to read, predict, or understand.
Is he a sociopath?
I stand my ground, arms crossed, because I’ve faced worse men. Much worse than Gideon Masters.
“I saw cigarette burns,” he says softly. “A stab wound on your chest. Did it pierce a lung?”
