Page 28 of Art of Sin

He sighs. “Leave… go… whatever you want, but sit your ass down for an hour until you’ve sobered up.”

I blow out a breath. I’m not comfortable anymore. On edge, fracturing. But sane enough to know he’s right.

“Fine.”

Grabbing my cell phone from my purse, I head for the living room couch and perch in a corner. Tucking my legs beneath me, I focus on my phone. Only I can’t seem to care about the fifteen new emails and three business calls.

I hear a cabinet open and close, and the sound of the faucet running. A minute later, Gideon rounds the couch and places a tall glass of water on the coffee table for me.

“Thank you.”

He nods and plops down on the opposite end of the couch, throwing long legs onto the thick, rustic-wood coffee table. From the corner of my eye, I watch him stretch. His shirt rides up over a flat, ridged stomach. I glance south before I can help myself and see the substantial outline of him beneath his sweatpants.

Sweet Jesus.

Fire races under my skin. I duck my head to conceal my blush. Out of control. I’m so freaking out of control.

This man is a black hole; fascinating from far away, deadly if you get too close.

“I don’t fuck my models, Snowflake.”

My laugh is borderline hysterical. “Thank God, because that thing would split me in two.”

Gideon chuckles, head rolling toward me. “I like you, Deirdre. You keep me guessing, which doesn’t happen very often anymore.” He pauses, gaze heavy as it trails over my features. “You’re a Van Gogh, layers upon layers of paint. I want to peel them away and see what’s beneath.”

“So you’ve mentioned,” I comment dryly. “I don’t think I’ll chug absinthe and cut off my ear anytime soon, though, if that’s what you’re waiting for.”

Another chuckle, gravelly and delighted. “You know, most women would have torn out of here screaming after all the shit I said to you.”

I fiddle with my phone, clicking on emails I don’t read. “Yeah, well, I’ve heard worse from clients, and most of what you said is bullshit.”

Neither statement is true, but my voice is mellow and even. My mental faculties are returning, enough for me to know how utterly unprofessional and dangerous this situation is.

“Whatever you say.”

Sighing, I tuck my phone by my hip and snuggle into the obscenely comfortable couch. I don’t want to close my eyes, but my eyelids drift south anyway.

“Can you make me coffee?” I murmur.

“Of course.”

* * *

Weightlessness.Movement.

“It’s okay… just me, Snowflake…”

Coolness, softness beneath me. Sleep drags me down even as I fight for the surface. “Wha—”

“Shh, you’re safe,” he murmurs.

Heaviness, warmth. Blankets rustling as they’re drawn up my body. Fingertips smoothing hair from my temple.

“Sleep.”

Roots find me, spiral around me until I’m deep inside the dark earth.

Once again, I’m not alone.

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