Page 50 of Art of Sin

The sound of the door closing shoves my stomach off a cliff.

Gideon takes a final drag of the clove, smoke curling around his face, obscuring his eyes. Then he tosses the butt in a nearby cup of water.

“Come on, let’s get you cleaned up. You’re going to need help.”

Without even a glance in my direction, he stalks across the room and swings open the door Finn just disappeared through.

“Wait, what about—” I gesture helplessly at my paint-covered feet. “I can’t—”

Gideon pauses but doesn’t turn. “Fuck the carpet, Deirdre. Once all that paint dries completely, it’ll be a nightmare to wash off. Get moving.”

The command crackles hotly in my body, pushing blood to my skin. My inner thighs. Fingers. Back of my neck. I have no confidence. No control. And I have no idea what the consequence of following him will be, only that it will leave invisible scars.

But I have so many of those already—what’s a few more?

* * *

Gideon’s masterbathroom is one of those modern masterpieces that look like it’d be nice to visit but faintly depressing to use every day. All white, chrome, and slate gray, with glossy cabinetry and frosty white marble. The shower is a dark behemoth—a glass-walled walk-in with two waterfall showerheads, plus rows of additional sprays marching down both sides.

As Gideon opens the glass door, I manage to squeak, “I’ve got it from here, thanks.”

He ignores me, cranking dials until the sudden, torrential water flow is accompanied by billowing steam. Then he steps back out. Hands planted on his hips, he stares down at me with that distant look I loathe and crave. Like he sees me as art instead of flesh and blood.

“If I don’t help you, you’ll never get it all off.” The words are soft, almost questioning, like maybe he wants me to insist he leave.

But I can’t.

Because I’ll die if he doesn’t touch me again.

I pull my paint-sodden thong away from my body and wiggle the material down my legs. The novelty of being covered in paint has worn off, and I’m itchy and eager to get rid of it.

“I’m not fucking you,” he says.

My thong splats when it hits the shower floor. Colors swirl from the material, reds and blues and yellows. Washing them is pointless; I’ll have to trash them.

“I know,” I reply, stepping past him. Close enough that paint from my shoulder and arm smears across his pale chest.

He mutters something under his breath. I feel him watching me as I step into the heavy spray. My back to him, I stare, transfixed, at the thick swirls of color dripping down my chest and stomach.

“You really piss me off, you know that?” he says from behind me. A second later, a soapy cloth drags across my shoulders.

I’m so fucking relieved he’s touching me, warmth melts my kneecaps. Sagging forward, I brace both hands on the wall to stay upright.

“I know.”

“You know everything, do you?” he murmurs. I don’t answer, shocked silent by the feel of his bare hands on my spine, digging into my waist, dragging across my hips. “Let’s get your face clean.”

He turns me by the shoulders. “Deep breath, close your eyes.”

I gasp at the first touch of a cloth on my nose.

“Close your mouth, Snowflake.”

His touch is gentle and thorough, and the process takes several minutes. Small circles of astringent soap cross my brow. Eyes. Jaw and cheeks. Finally, my lips. Then the cloth is rinsed, and the process begins again. On the third round, my face feels raw but clean.

“All right. Turn back around. Let’s get your hair clean.”

Another slow process, his strong fingers massaging my scalp. Rinse, wash. Rinse, wash. He slathers an aromatic conditioner on the strands, then drops another, clean washcloth on my shoulder.

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