Page 75 of Art of Sin

33indulgence

Gideon has spentthe majority of the last week in the studio. Locked door and loud music. There’s a new vacancy in his eyes, but I don’t begrudge it. I’ve been around enough creatives to know when their muse hangs heavy on their shoulders.

His showing at The Voigt is in three days and he’s obsessing over the Seven Sins paintings. Finn tells me they’re perfect, have been in the final stages for weeks, but that he’s never seen Gideon this attached to a series. Obsessed,was his word.

I still haven’t seen the paintings. I want to, but I also dread the eventual moment. What if I can’t separate myself from what I see? What if all I see are mirrors of my darkness? From Finn’s brief comments when he’s popped over for dinner or met us for breakfast, the paintings are shocking and extraordinary.

Unforgettable.

But what if I want to forget?

In Gideon’s long absences, I keep busy for sanity’s sake. And because even with a single client, there’s plenty to do—especially since I’ve fallen into the role of manager as well as publicist.

I spend my days securing press and VIPs for the upcoming event, fielding calls from staff at the museum, caterers, and production companies handling music, lighting, and construction for the showing. Valerie Fischer is especially high-maintenance, calling multiple times a day to check in. Gideon thinks her crush on him is cute, so at every opportunity I tease him about his love of older women.

At least an hour every morning is also spent assisting Trent as he transitions into my role at the agency—poor guy has been on his own with Maggie on her much-anticipated New York trip. I have immense pride for how my protégé has stepped up, as well as gratitude for the loyalty and flexibility of my long-term clients.

Mostly, though, Deirdre Moss the PR Shark now feels like an ill-fitting costume. I know all the lines and can play the role in my sleep, but more and more I’m becoming the other me. Deirdre Anne. Not the young girl from the trailer park—this me is older and harder, yet vulnerable in a way she’s never been. Open to the world, to love, because he demands it.

Because I cannot resist what he gives me in return.

“Those don’t look like wholesome thoughts,” murmurs Gideon wryly. I sigh, melting in relief when he leans down behind my chair to kiss my temple.

Swiveling and upturning my face, I search his. He’s exhausted, running on fumes, blue streaks beneath his bloodshot eyes. Hair in wild disarray and in dire need of a trim, and bare chest an accidental canvas. I draw a finger across his ridged abdomen, smearing together spatters of paint.

“I missed you,” I whisper.

Gripping my hand, still pressed against his skin, he draws me into his arms. I’m locked tight in his embrace, safe and sheltered in our closed circuit.

“Deirdre…” His breath warms the top of my head. “I need something from you.”

I grip him tighter. “Anything.”

“A massage and a blow job.”

Jerking back in his arms, I sputter with laughter. He grins down at me, wicked and charismatic despite his exhaustion.

“Does that mean they’re done?” I demand.

He nods, smile softening. “No painting is ever finished, just halted in process. But I’m done, yes.”

“That’s wonderful, Gideon. Congratulations. Can I see them now?”

My obvious hesitance and an ill-concealed wince make him laugh, the sound weary but still joyous. Hoisting me into his arms, he heads for the bedroom.

“Is that a no?” I ask, smiling into his neck.

“Definitely a no. Are you done working for the day?”

My tongue savors the salt and musk of his skin. A hum of pleasure radiates from my chest. “What work?”

Another rusty chuckle. “Marry me.”

It’s the seventeenth time he’s asked in the last month, and I give him the same answer every time.

“No.”

Gideon angles for the bed and follows me down onto the soft sheets. Elbows propped to either side of my face, he studies me with a frown.

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