Page 42 of Art of Sin

Two steps bring him to me. He lowers gracefully to his knees before my chair. Fingers grip my thighs, spreading my legs apart to make space for his body. Electrocution. His nearness sizzles in my nerve endings. I gasp, eyes wide and mouth open.

“Gideon...”

He shakes his head, eyes soft—tender, even—their pupils dilated. He wants me.

“Let me,” he says, and I don’t know what he means until his hands drop and lift my dress from the floor.

I’m on fire before he even finds my bare skin. Hot, rough hands drag up my calves, seize my knees, and spread them.

Now I’m hyperventilating. Throbbing with knifelike precision, my arousal painful as he traces circles on my thighs. His fingers dip further inward with each circuit, a calculated, sensual assault. My eyelids dip, heavy, as I watch my gown ripple above his hands.

“Do you know Pascal? The French mathematician and theologian?”

His voice is soft, rough. He doesn’t wait for an answer, the question itself unimportant.

“He believed there are only two kinds of people in the world. The righteous who think they are sinners, and the sinners who think they are righteous.”

His thumbs dive beneath my panties, dipping into wet heat. He groans. A small sound. Involuntary. My pussy flutters, aching and wanting. Beckoning.

“Which are you, Gideon?” Somehow, my voice is clear.

Eyes on mine, he drags wetness to my clit and presses down with his thumb. No movement. Just soft, insistent pressure. My hips twitch, looking for rhythm. I could come easily. We both know it.

“Neither. I’m a sinner through and through. Move for me.”

My need is savage. Clawed. Gripping the arms of the chair, my head falling back, I tear myself apart against his thumb.

I tear myself apart for him.

When I’m teetering on the edge and half-mad, Gideon grabs the back of my neck and draws me close, anchoring our foreheads together.

His breath touches my lips. “I don’t want to save you, Deirdre,” he breathes. “I want you to save me.”

My climax takes me by surprise. Loud. Helpless. I tremble against his hand, anchored to earth by his molasses eyes that watch… watch… and devour the pleasure rolling across my face. When I think it’s over, his thumb presses harder, and lightning strikes again.

I slump in the chair, my breath ragged and loud. No mask. No real thoughts of time or place.

But I do have enough wits to ask, “Why did you do that?”

Sitting back on his heels, Gideon withdraws his hand from beneath my dress. The second his touch is gone I want it back. With a little smile, he brings fingers to his nose and breathes deeply.

Mortification burns my face and chest, then morphs to fascination as he sticks his thumb in his mouth and groans. His heated stare takes in my confused state.

“Because I wanted to. Why else?”

“But you don’t even—you aren’t—”

Bright laughter truncates my fumbling argument. “Oh, Snowflake.”

He grabs my hand and presses my palm to his thigh, squeezing our fingers together around his thick erection. Before I can say a thing—think coherently—he drops my hand and sighs.

“But I meant what I told you. I don’t sleep with my models.”

Affront straightens my spine. Hurt, too, but I ignore the useless emotion. “Then why did you just finger me? To prove you’re irresistible or something equally egotistical?”

Worlds of emotion swim in his eyes. Wonder and respect and naked desire. He blinks and the moment is gone. Blinks again and I see only the jaded artist.

The connoisseur of sin.

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