Page 64 of Art of Sin

I don’t know which of us speaks, but I’m abruptly aware of Gideon’s hands on my cheeks and his eyes fierce on mine.

“You don’t get to leave,” he rasps.

“You don’t get to hurt me.”

The words surprise me more than him. His gaze softens. He kisses me. Tenderly, deeply. Because he knows I don’t mean he can’t fuck me hard, or mark me with his hands, mouth, and cock, but that he can’t damage my mind or soul.

He knows because we are the same broken.

Gideon’s hips roll leisurely, a testament to his iron will as his body continues to vibrate like a live wire. That, of everything, is what brings me back to the present—how hard he’s trying to be careful with me.

“Faster,” I order, groaning when he complies.

Tongues taste.

“Harder.”

Hair pulls.

“More…”

Fingers clench.

“More, yes…”

Nails dig.

“Don’t stop. God, don’t stop…”

Sweat drips.

“You’re mine, Deirdre. My masterpiece.”

“Yours.”

I’m on top when he comes. A vengeful angel in control of his pleasure. He lets me see it all—the deep, glittering dark inside him. The lonely boy. The jaded man. The sinner and the believer. The tragedy and pain, the opalescent joy.

All of it belongs to me.

He’s mine.

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