Page 25 of Art of Sin

Relief—impossible, irrepressible—spreads through me like warm honey.

What the fuck is happening to me?

“Are you hungry?” he asks. So casual, like I’m not two hours late and didn’t ignore his messages.

“Yes,” I admit.

He waves me inside and closes the door. “I ordered Thai, which you’d know if you read my texts asking what you wanted. Since you didn’t, you get yellow curry with tofu and green beans.”

My stomach growls loudly, and Gideon chuckles. I’m not embarrassed—I’m ecstatic. When you’ve been hungry for real, for days upon days, little things like vanity take a back seat.

“Thank you, that sounds amazing,” I tell him as we walk toward the kitchen. “And I’m sorry I’m late.”

“No, you’re not,” he says mildly, “just like I’m not sorry for ignoring your calls yesterday.” Stopping halfway into the kitchen, he gives me a pointed look. “Let’s cut the bullshit, Deirdre. Don’t lie to me, and I won’t lie to you. I want the real woman, not a caricature.”

I know he’s talking about our deal, about painting me, but my body hears something different in the word want. Laughing half-heartedly, I say, “Yeah, okay,” and make for the take-out bag on the island.

As I remove the containers from the bag, and Gideon pulls out utensils and plates, I’m struck again with a sense of ease, like I shrugged off my coat of worries when I pulled into his driveway.

Unlike the first time I was here, the home feels inviting, or at least like someone lives here.

Soft, ambient music filters from speakers in the living room, and several candles flicker on the hearth. There’s still no clutter, but it doesn’t feel unnatural anymore. And though Gideon himself is the same maddening, inscrutable man I met last week, his presence is soothing rather than irritating.

Clearly the difference lies within me, but I’m too hungry to wonder what changed or whether it will continue changing.

“Why did you ignore my calls?” I ask, following him to the kitchen table.

He throws a grin over his shoulder. “Because you were going to chew me out about the gala.” Sitting, he points to the chair opposite his. “You look like you’re going to fall down if you don’t eat. We can talk after.”

I don’t protest, sitting and shamelessly shoveling rice and curry onto my plate, then tucking in. Gideon eats more slowly, watching avidly as I consume my meal with minimal pauses. When I’m sated, I sit back with a sigh.

“Do you do that often?” he asks.

“What?”

He glances at my empty plate, a twinkle in his eye. “Deny yourself something you want in order to fulfill a perverse need for penance?”

Drunk on my full belly, I laugh. “Not so much anymore, no.”

“Anymore?” he questions, head tilting curiously.

I give the kitchen and adjoining living room a meaningful glance. “Are you not denying yourself something, too? Doing penance for a failed marriage?”

The glint in his eyes dies. “Touché. Denial, after all, can be its own type of pleasure.”

Again, my body responds, heat pooling low, but I ignore it. Nothing, absolutely nothing good would come from acting on my attraction to him. With the way my mind is fracturing lately, I might be halfway to the looney bin, but Gideon Masters is a one-way ticket to nowhere.

And you’re not his type, anyway.

I nod. “Pretty sure there’s a kink devoted to it.”

He grins. “Have you ever tried it? Orgasm denial?”

My eyes narrow. “You really can’t help it, can you?”

He laughs and clears our plates, waving me off when I try to help. Perching on a stool at the island, I watch him uncork a bottle of wine and pour two glasses. He hands me one.

“Thank you.” I take a sip, eyeing him over the rim. “Are you going to avoid answering?”

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