Page 47 of Art of Sin

20lust

“This is a mistake.”

No one responds, to agree or disagree. I’m alone in my car, sitting in Gideon’s driveway with a stomach full of nerves and damp panties. I desperately need someone to pull me back from the edge, talk sense into me, tell me how utterly out of control I am.

But then I wonder where that need comes from—the pressure toward convention. Normality. Is it nature? A fundamental fact of humanity, reflective of our need for belonging, for the structure of social mores?

Or did my conscious, methodical transformation at twenty rewire my brain? Perhaps in my need to leave the past behind, I conditioned myself to mistrust my desires. Leash them, as Gideon said.

I’m having an existential breakdown.

A knock on my window makes me yelp. Clutching my throat, I roll down the window. Gideon’s trademark smirk is absent, the evening shadows a mosaic on his face.

“I could hear you thinking from inside the house.”

“I can’t do this,” I blurt, looking everywhere but at him.

“Do what, Deirdre?” His voice is low, warm with a hint of a smile.

Anger sparks, masking my embarrassment. I welcome it, swinging my door open and surging out of the car. Gideon stumbles back, narrowly avoiding being hit.

“Hey!” He’s laughing. Laughing. “Snowflake, listen, whatever you think—”

“I’m not going to sleep with you and Finn!”

He stops laughing. In seconds he’s looming over me, dark and dangerous, expression tight.

“I would never pressure you to do something like that. Ever. Is that what you think was happening? That I expected, or would coerce you into a freaking threesome?”

Confusion snuffs my anger. “But… Finn gave me a note…”

A throat clears nearby. “I’m really, really sorry my wording was so vague. I just didn’t want to show up without you knowing. Shit, I’m so sorry.”

I’m torn between wanting to jump back in my car and drive away—potentially to Canada—and the stubborn need to push the point.

Stubbornness wins.

“Show up to do what?” I demand.

Gideon leans forward, blocking my sight of Finn. His lips hover at my ear as he whispers, “Drink beer and hang out while I work on sketches of you.” He nuzzles the hair at my temple. “Don’t be embarrassed. We’re not. And don’t misunderstand me—we would be very, very amenable to that proposition.”

My throat closes. My thighs clench.

Gideon continues. “But the only way that happens is if you initiate. You’re in control, Deirdre. It’s up to you to step out of your cage.”

“I thought you didn’t sleep with your models.” It’s all I can come up with, my voice thick with raw lust.

“I don’t,” he says with strain.

I stiffen. “Then what the f—”

He nips my earlobe, shocking me silent. “Listen. Finn likes you, and I know you’re attracted to him. You have my blessing. Because honestly? There’s no way he can take you from me. So fuck him or don’t fuck him, Deirdre, but either way, I’m watching.”

He steps back and stalks toward the house, leaving me gasping. Adrift. Utterly confounded. And more turned on than I’ve been in my life.

“I have no idea what just happened,” murmurs Finn. “But say the word and I’ll leave. I don’t want you to be uncomfortable.”

My gaze veers to his face. He’s standing near the hood of my car, uncertainty radiating from his posture. Delicious in jeans and an open flannel over a white T-shirt. Bare feet and the neck of a beer bottle in the fingers of one hand.

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