The Finished Masterpiece (Master of Trickery Book 3)

by Pepper Winters

  His lips opened wide; his tongue dove deep.

  My bag slipped from my shoulder, smacking against the concrete floor as I rose in his arms, plastering myself against him, placing more of my throat into his control.

  His groan was the headiest, sexiest thing I’d ever heard. Rich with longing and deadly with fury.

  I opened my lips, inviting him to plunge and suffocate. I answered his groan with a moan that strangled my stomach.

  My excuse was I was lonely. I’d always been lonely.

  His excuse?

  He’d lost.

  Lost to me, to him, to us.

  There is an us.

  Reaching up, I tangled my fingers in the hair that’d fascinated me since finding him. Sinking to his scalp, I deliberately dug my nails into his skin as punishment.

  He snarled, kissing me savagely.

  I wasn’t prepared for the wave of aggression. He kissed me so hard our teeth clacked and tongues duelled. His taste was everywhere. Mint and sin and something that woke up long ago memories.

  He was everywhere. All around me. In me.

  I kissed him back, fast and wet, not caring about the hungry noises I made. Not embarrassed that I let myself go. This was the kiss he owed me. And if he wanted more than a kiss...I’d give it to him.

  His answering growl sent kerosene licking across my flesh as he hoisted me off the floor and once again slammed me hard against the twanging metal door.

  Instinct made me wrap my legs around his waist, trapping him as surely as he trapped me.

  I shivered as his hips shot forward, thrusting against me, revealing he was no longer a boy but a fully-grown man with heat and hardness straining against his jeans.

  “God, Gil...” I kissed him harder, faster, tongues and teeth and temper.

  We were evenly matched in speed and lack of finesse, nipping and licking, sucking and plunging. I squirmed against his body to get closer, demanding, inviting.

  I stopped thinking.

  I didn’t wonder what caused this explosion.

  I just accepted it because that was what my accident had taught me.

  Any illusions of a future had been wiped away the moment I felt restaurant glass slice me to ribbons. All we had was now, this moment, this very precious second.

  Grabbing a fistful of his hair, I let my other skate down his body, tracing the rigid strength of him, the unyielding power until I found the only hot piece of him.

  He stiffened as I fisted him, telling him explicitly what I wanted and was prepared to do.

  I wasn’t embarrassed.

  I wasn’t second-guessing.

  This was the boy who got away, and if I could have a taste—a single afternoon where he was mine...I would take it and suffer the consequences later.

  Kissing him with a tongue seeking his with determination, I squeezed his erection.

  His taut stiffness instantly became liquid lust, driving both his cock and my hand against me, rubbing against my clit, turning it into a fireball of sensation.

  Crying out, I locked my ankles together at the base of his ass, pulling him deeper into me, wanton and blatant and far too bold.

  But it didn’t turn him off.

  It only struck a match, and the heat between us was nothing compared to the fire that blazed in the moment it took me to tug at his belt and unzip his jeans. His flesh scalded me through his boxers.

  His hand dropped to fist my breast, squeezing the very flesh he’d ignored only an hour before. Pinching the nipple he’d clinically painted, he growled the most deliciously needy, dangerous snarl.

  I stroked him in reward, in invitation.

  Clothes had no place anymore.

  None.

  My skin prickled with sweat. My heart raced with urgency. We both sped up until our kisses were replaced with one violent mess of melted mouths and rabid teeth.

  I scrambled to get my hand into his tight underwear, desperate to have him, completely irrational with need.

  But then...his phone rang.

  The shrill, hated little ring.

  Slicing.

  Shredding.

  Slaying.

  As quickly as Gil had attacked me with passion, he dropped me with ice.

  Ring.

  My feet splatted to the floor as he unlocked his arms.

  Ring.

  My body wobbled as he stepped away.

  Ring.

  My heart cried as he yanked the phone from his pocket and looked at the screen.

  Instantly, any heat I’d caused in his bloodstream returned to glaciers and avalanches, killing any sign of desire for me with a rush of smoke.

  Wiping his mouth, he glanced at me with crazed, glowing eyes. Partly manic but mostly resigned to making yet another mistake.

  Ring.

  With a deliberate breath, he wrapped himself in a suit made from nasty unkindness. “You were just skin to paint today, Olin. This meant nothing. Just like you meant nothing to me in our youth. Nothing. Do you hear me?” Holding the phone, ready to accept the call, he pointed at the door. “Forget me. Forget this. Get out, and never come back. I mean it.”

  Ring.

  Slightly tripping in his haste to get away from me, he hissed, “I never want to see you again. Trust me on that.”

  Giving me his back, he marched into his office, his only purpose to answer his phone.

  Ring.

  He didn’t care his jeans and belt were undone.

  He didn’t care his mouth still glistened with my kiss.

  Ring.

  He didn’t care...

  About me.

  The office door closed, and the ringing stopped.

  Chapter Eight

  ______________________________

  Olin

  -The Present-

  NO WINE.

  I have no wine in my stupid apartment.

  And I needed wine.

  Desperately.

  My lips sang from Gil’s the entire Uber ride home. My body ached and my mind—well, my mind was drunk already. Drunk on finally knowing what it felt like to be kissed by Gilbert Clark.

  But my heart?

  The useless thing was in tinkling pieces.

  That damn phone.

  Who the hell interrupted us? Why did they have the power to stop something that had felt so unbelievably real?

  Throwing myself onto the tatty couch with its threadbare yellow cushions, I closed my eyes.

  Stop thinking about it.

  It was over.

  Gil had kicked me out of his place.

  He’d bit me, licked me, devoured me, and ordered me to never go back.

  But he’s hurting...

  I grabbed a cushion and curled around it.

  Don’t, O. Don’t torture yourself—

  My mind threw images of Gil in my face. Of the way his anger slipped, revealing bone deep need. Of the way his temper cracked, showing a man gasping for help.

  He doesn’t need help.

  I squeezed my eyes shut.

  That was the problem with me.

  I read into things.

  Alone and with no one to talk to, my mechanism at coping was to solve other people’s problems. At least my life wasn’t so empty if I focused on them and granted them happiness, even if I couldn’t achieve the same results for myself.

  He isn’t like the kids from high-school.

  No, he was worse.

  A thousand times worse.

  Back then, the worst pain a student could carry was caused by a parents’ divorce or the death of a pet. I knew how to help with that. Knew how to be there for them until they were ready to talk and heal.

  But Gil...

  He harboured something monstrous.

  Something that cannibalised him from the inside out. Something so black and vicious, it had twisted him into two versions of himself.

  The Gil I knew was generous, protective, and kind.

  The Gil I didn’t was violent, distraught, and full of malice.

&
nbsp; He needs—

  It doesn’t matter what he needs, I’m not allowed to go back.

  I screamed into the cushion, pressing my mouth to the yellow fabric and exhaling my fear and frustration. I couldn’t just accept his command to forget about him. I’d never been able to walk away from something so inexplicably broken.

  He was Gil! The boy who chose me above anyone.

  I couldn’t just—

  You don’t have a choice.

  Memories of our kiss interrupted my internal argument. He’d kissed me as if he’d been drowning—as if I was untainted air, free from the filth around him. He’d claimed me as if he’d been dreaming of such a thing since he’d walked away from me.

  A kiss like that couldn’t be given and then taken away.

  A kiss like that demanded further investigation.

  You. Are. Not. Allowed. Back. There. Remember?

  Scowling, I plotted a way to disobey Gil and tried not to be carried away with daydreams of us.

  You truly are a sucker for—

  My stomach snarled, reminding me I hadn’t eaten my cucumber sandwiches and adrenaline from kissing Gil had burned through all my reserves.

  My plan had been to buy groceries.

  And that is what I shall do.

  New task. New purpose. No more worrying about Gil. No more torturing myself if I should stay away or go back.

  Hauling myself from the soft couch, I padded barefoot toward my bag where I’d thrown it onto the kitchen table. Rummaging inside, I pulled out the envelope of cash Gil had paid me and opened it for the first time.

  My legs promptly deleted all bone and became useless.

  I slammed onto a wooden chair, clacking my teeth at the force.

  No.

  This can’t be right.

  Shaking hands pulled out a wad of fifty-pound notes. A pile far too thick to warrant the few hours I’d spent being his canvas.

  One, two, three, four, five...fifteen hundred pounds.

  Holy shit.

  Was that the going rate for a model, or had he—?

  He never wants to see you again. It’s bribery to make sure you stay away.

  Don’t read into this!

  Oh, who was I kidding?

  My heart raced, tumbling down the rabbit hole of why he’d given me so much.

  I hadn’t been able to earn this sort of cash in an entire month doing other jobs. It meant I had rent and utilities covered. I could eat semi-decent food. I could—

  I can’t accept this.

  My shoulders rolled, fisting the cash with possessiveness.

  It might be the correct rate for all you know!

  If it was...why didn’t it feel right? Why did it feel far too much for the tiny role I’d played?

  If we’d discussed payment beforehand, and I knew this was what he paid others, then maybe. But now, it just felt dirty. Wrong. I didn’t know why, but it reeked of charity from a boy who couldn’t stand the sight of me.

  And that made my hungry tummy knot because he’d cheapened me. He’d added yet another sensation of not being worthy. He’d bought my silence and my obedience to stay the hell away so he never had to set eyes on me again.

  Tears prickled.

  You’re making this stuff up. Don’t jump to conclusions.

  It didn’t stop pain lancing through me, remembering our kiss. Reliving the way his tongue touched mine, his taste in my mouth, his groan in my ears.

  How could he kiss me as if I was utterly priceless and then fob me off with heartless cash?

  He paid you for being a canvas! He didn’t pay for the kiss, O.

  How could I be so sure? How could I be sure he didn’t give me far too much to ease his guilt over destroying everything?

  I might be making up tales. I might be totally blowing things out of proportion, but Gil was the only one who made me irrational.

  All I wanted was him. Yet he’d pushed me away, his money a firm goodbye.

  Well, I had a good mind to give it all away.

  To prove a point that I might be destitute and made a total mess of my life, but I wasn’t a charity case and I couldn’t be bought by a man who’d gone out of his way to confuse, ridicule, and condemn me.

  I wanted to march back there and throw the money in his face.

  I wanted to kiss that face and—

  You can go back.

  I stroked a fifty-pound note, a plan rapidly unfolding.

  This was my reason to return.

  This was my excuse to knock on his door, stare him right in the eye, and demand to know what the hell was going on.

  But what if he doesn’t ask me to leave next time?

  What if he threw me out physically? What if he hurt me like he had when I’d pushed him too far at school?

  Ripping my fingertips off the money, I couldn’t be alone with my chaotic thoughts anymore.

  Kisses and curses, hopes and fears.

  I was hungry.

  I was angry.

  Today had been a cocktail of past and present, sex and shame.

  I needed wine.

  * * * * *

  Sipping on my second mug of cheap supermarket pinot, I winced as I logged onto the laptop that I’d hammered to death looking for work. Instead of going to familiar websites and trolling for employment, I clicked on the icon of my least favourite location.

  Facebook.

  Ever since my accident, I hardly went on there.

  It was too painful.

  I wasn’t mentally ready to look at the photos of my fellow dancers, see their scheduled performances, read posts of friends complaining about early morning practices and late-night curtain calls.

  Eventually, I would be happy for them.

  But right now...it was a pitchfork to the heart.

  Tonight, I managed to ignore my newsfeed and the urge to click on my dance troupe’s page, and instead became a sleuth, stalking the Master of Trickery himself.

  I sipped another mouthful as I typed in Gil’s name, bracing myself for the search results.

  Nothing came up.

  Other Gilbert Clarks appeared—one in Scotland and a few overseas—but none that sounded, looked, or came close to the one I knew.

  Strange but not really.

  Gil had never been one for company.

  Topping up my mug, I tried another angle.

  Gil might not use Facebook personally, but I had no doubt he’d use it for business.

  Total Trickery.

  The second I pressed enter, his page popped up, complete with fifty thousand likes, hundreds of comments on his photos, and an overall gush fest on his talent.

  For a while, I lost myself in the haze of colour and creation, studying the girls he’d painted, the animals he’d brought to life on their bodies, the landscapes he’d painstakingly used to camouflage human flesh.

  Not one image was subpar.

  And not one image showed it was Gil painting.

  In each one, he kept his back to the camera, his black hoodie obscuring his face and messy hair, turning him nameless—a god of pigment and nothing more.

  There was no mention of his biography, where he learned to paint, or his accolades or aspirations. He was as incognito online as he was in his photos; no hint he was the virtuoso that conjured such beauty.

  There was also no photo of me from today.

  Why?

  I clicked on the little message icon, tensing as the bubble popped up to send him a note.

  What the hell are you doing, O?

  I honestly couldn’t answer that.

  The entire time I’d been in the supermarket, I’d flip-flopped over being so grateful for the fat wad of money in my purse and so annoyed at it. No matter what I did, I couldn’t stop thinking about Gil.

  Gil.

  Gil.

  I needed to talk to him.

  I needed to be around him, to be near him, to look into his eyes and tear his secrets out one by one.

  My fingers hovered on the keyboard. Ope
ning sentences flew behind my eyes.

  Gil, I miss you.

  Gil, you paid me way too much.

  Gil, what are you hiding?

  I slouched.

  An emotionless message would never work. He’d just ignore me, block, me, or never even see it. A conversation with him needed to be face to face, so he couldn’t hide what he battled.

  With another sip of wine, I left Gil’s page and navigated to another man’s profile.

  A man I’d kissed in my youth after another broke my heart.

  Justin Miller’s Facebook was littered with after work drinks, pretty girls taking selfies with him, and a confident, friendly man who seemed successful.

  I was happy for him.

  Glad he hadn’t messed up his dreams like I had.

  With liquid courage and a flush of excess energy, I clicked on a new message bubble.

  Gil consumed me.

  I needed a distraction.

  Olin Moss: Hey, Justin. It was nice to see you at Gil’s last night. I...

  My fingers paused, searching for something appropriate. I hadn’t planned to write. I had no script to follow.

  Another sip of wine, and I added:

  Olin Moss: I wanted to thank you for standing up for me and encouraging Gil to use me as a canvas. He finished the design today. It was amazing to be part of his process.

  I chewed my cheek in worry.

  What am I doing?

  Justin probably didn’t want to hear from me. There was a reason school friends drifted apart—especially exes.

  I’d been mean to him in the end. Shattered beyond repair when Gil just vanished. I hadn’t been able to keep up the pretend anymore—couldn’t let Justin try to help me when I no longer wanted to be helped.

  Dance had been the only thing that’d granted any peace.

  I clicked on the icon to add to my text. To tell him how grateful I was for his help in the past. How stupid I’d been to turn that help away.

  But a chime sounded, delivering his reply.

  Justin Miller: Hey, O! Great to hear from you. He wasn’t too much of a brooding artist, I hope.

  I smiled.

  Olin Moss: No, he was perfectly professional.

  Justin Miller: I’m glad. Do you have to go back tomorrow to finish?

  Olin Moss: No. All done.

  And banished for life.

  Justin Miller: He pay you for your time? He has a bad habit of forgetting.