Art of Sin: Illusions Duet : Book One

by Halloran, L. M.

  His voice is soft, rough. He doesn’t wait for an answer, the question itself unimportant.

  “He believed there are only two kinds of people in the world. The righteous who think they are sinners, and the sinners who think they are righteous.”

  His thumbs dive beneath my panties, dipping into wet heat. He groans. A small sound. Involuntary. My pussy flutters, aching and wanting. Beckoning.

  “Which are you, Gideon?” Somehow, my voice is clear.

  Eyes on mine, he drags wetness to my clit and presses down with his thumb. No movement. Just soft, insistent pressure. My hips twitch, looking for rhythm. I could come easily. We both know it.

  “Neither. I’m a sinner through and through. Move for me.”

  My need is savage. Clawed. Gripping the arms of the chair, my head falling back, I tear myself apart against his thumb.

  I tear myself apart for him.

  When I’m teetering on the edge and half-mad, Gideon grabs the back of my neck and draws me close, anchoring our foreheads together.

  His breath touches my lips. “I don’t want to save you, Deirdre,” he breathes. “I want you to save me.”

  My climax takes me by surprise. Loud. Helpless. I tremble against his hand, anchored to earth by his molasses eyes that watch… watch… and devour the pleasure rolling across my face. When I think it’s over, his thumb presses harder, and lightning strikes again.

  I slump in the chair, my breath ragged and loud. No mask. No real thoughts of time or place.

  But I do have enough wits to ask, “Why did you do that?”

  Sitting back on his heels, Gideon withdraws his hand from beneath my dress. The second his touch is gone I want it back. With a little smile, he brings fingers to his nose and breathes deeply.

  Mortification burns my face and chest, then morphs to fascination as he sticks his thumb in his mouth and groans. His heated stare takes in my confused state.

  “Because I wanted to. Why else?”

  “But you don’t even—you aren’t—”

  Bright laughter truncates my fumbling argument. “Oh, Snowflake.”

  He grabs my hand and presses my palm to his thigh, squeezing our fingers together around his thick erection. Before I can say a thing—think coherently—he drops my hand and sighs.

  “But I meant what I told you. I don’t sleep with my models.”

  Affront straightens my spine. Hurt, too, but I ignore the useless emotion. “Then why did you just finger me? To prove you’re irresistible or something equally egotistical?”

  Worlds of emotion swim in his eyes. Wonder and respect and naked desire. He blinks and the moment is gone. Blinks again and I see only the jaded artist.

  The connoisseur of sin.

  “No,” he says, then pauses. “Despite your clear opinion of me, I’m not usually a slave to impulse. But I couldn’t resist touching you. I had to see you come apart. I think you enjoyed it, too. Should I apologize?”

  “Fuck you, Gideon.”

  Rising in a smooth flex of muscle, he wanders back to the canvas. His profile is hard, gaze fixed, seeing nothing. I stand, unsteady, my limbs looser than I’m used to. I can’t remember the last time a man fingered me to orgasm. Or a time it happened so quickly. Easily. Panic streams at the edges of my mind, building into a waterfall.

  I’m going to drown in him if I don’t get away.

  “I saw you, you know.”

  I’m halfway across the room when his voice stops me. “What?”

  “Three or so years ago. The service hallway at Crossroads a few months after they opened. It was dark. You came around the corner and stumbled. Do you remember?”

  Blonde on her knees.

  The floor is unsteady. Soft gravel instead of cement. I sway a bit before regaining control. Of course I remember. Her bobbing head. His smirk as he noticed me watching. That moment is flash-frozen forever in my mind.

  I’m stunned he knows it was me, that he recognized me after all this time. I’m not sure what that means.

  It doesn’t mean anything.

  “Why are you bringing this up?” I ask, glancing over my shoulder. He’s still staring at the canvas.

  Finally, his eyes move to mine. “Because sometimes, we have to let the animals inside us off the leash. Let them hunt and feed and satiate themselves. If we don’t, the pressure builds and builds, and bad things happen. Like they happened for you that night. Right, Deirdre? That was the night you got those scars on your back, was it not?”

  My back twinges with recall of the barbed whip. Blood and helpless fury, impotent regret. Screaming—mine.

  Blackness, unconsciousness, and waking up in a hospital room with Nate in a chair next to the bed.

  “Why, Dee?”

  I can’t look at him, at the pain and worry in his eyes. “Because I needed to feel something.”

  Now, I lift my chin and square my shoulders. A front for the crumbling woman inside.

  “Good night, Gideon.”

  I leave.

  19 isolation

  When I walk into work Monday morning, Trent almost spits out his coffee. “Shit, Deirdre, you look like a different person!”

  Maggie elbows him, then grins at me. “It’s gorgeous. I can’t believe you’ve never gone brunette before. It’s perfect.”

  I listen with half an ear as her compliments and Trent’s backpedaling continue, saying thank you at appropriate times, while dumping my purse and settling behind my desk.

  When I walked into the salon yesterday for my standing appointment, I had no idea I’d walk out with my natural color. But I do know who’s to blame.

  We have to let the animals inside us off the leash or bad things happen.

  Lying alone in my bed last night, Gideon’s pronouncement found a home inside me. A key fitting in a forgotten lock. I slept all night without a pill and woke up feeling… different. Calmer. Sharper. Like some of the jagged pieces inside me were filed down to slick, smooth glass.

  Or maybe it was the epic orgasm I’m doing my best not to think about. Especially since it was clearly a one-off, a freakish detour in our unorthodox relationship… friendship… partnership?

  Who fucking knows. All I know is that it can’t happen again, regardless of whether my body clamors for more.

  “Uh, boss?”

  I clear my throat, focusing on Trent. “Sorry, lost in thought for a second. I’m listening now.”

  Maggie chuckles. “Who are you and what have you done with Deirdre Moss?”

  I roll my eyes, keeping a blush away from my neck and face by sheer force of will. “What’s on the agenda today? Please tell me it’s packed.”

  “It’s packed,” confirms Trent.

  Thank God.

  * * *

  I stay busy until six. So busy I don’t think about Gideon at all—well, not often. I’m so proud of myself that when Maggie throws out the usual drink-invite, I say yes.

  After she and Trent get over their shock, we step into the hazy evening light and walk two and a half blocks to a popular boutique hotel. On the roof is Bar Blue, Santa Monica’s newest it-locale for happy hour. At least that’s what Maggie and Trent tell me as we join a crowd of suits in an elevator.

  The rooftop is already packed with businessmen and women, voices loud and glitzy watches flashing. Trent finds us a café table before disappearing with our drink orders.

  “Okay, spill it.”

  My wandering gaze snaps to Maggie’s grinning face. “What?”

  She gives me a pointed look. “Come on, who’s the guy? I’ve known you, what, five years? Is it Frank from accounting? He’s been following you like a puppy for months. Always thought he was cute—has that Clark Kent thing going on.”

  I laugh in spite of myself. “Who the hell is Frank?”

  Maggie throws her hands up. “Fine, don’t tell me who it is.” She grins, shaking her head. “I’m just glad you’re getting some.”

  “I’m not—”

  “Ladies?” asks a svelte,
black-clad server, not waiting for a response before setting two drinks on the table. “Our signature cocktail, compliments of the gentleman.”

  She gives a suggestive head tilt, and we turn as one to see a group of three men and one woman sitting on low profile couches around a totally superfluous, blue-flamed fire pit.

  “Is that—” begins Maggie in a hush.

  I scan the faces, settling on one in particular.

  “Gideon.”

  The man in question raises his glass in a mock salute.

  Is there nowhere I can escape him?

  I’m unaware of asking the question aloud until Maggie chortles. “Certainly seems that way.”

  Sitting beside Gideon is a man no less powerful in presence. The owner of Crossroads, Dominic Cross, whose intervention saved my life on a dark night three years ago. If he notices my stare, it’s ignored.

  The woman next to him, however, is waving and grinning at me—London Limerick, Cross’s girlfriend and true-crime novelist of recent fame. We met at Nate’s birthday last year. I wave back, wishing I didn’t feel as awkward about it. She was kind to me; pretty sure I was my usual, standoffish self.

  “Where’d these drinks come from?” asks a disgruntled Trent, shifting them aside to make room for our glasses of Chardonnay.

  A speculative sound comes from Maggie. “Gideon Masters.”

  Trent scans the bar until he sees Gideon, then frowns. “That dude is everywhere.”

  I swallow inane laughter. My skin prickles with anticipation. Foreboding. Before the thought fully forms, I’m on my feet with one of the cocktails in hand.

  “I’ll be right back,” I tell them.

  Behind me, I hear Maggie murmur, “Do you think Boss and Gideon—”

  Trent replies, “No way. Don’t even think it...”

  I don’t hear the rest of their conversation, drawn inexorably away, into the orbit of my personal black hole. He watches me approach, eyes narrowed, that damned smirk still on his lips.

  “Hello, Snowflake. You remember Finn, don’t you?”

  At the name, energy zings through my bones, a deep jolt of fluttery awareness. I follow Gideon’s twinkling gaze to the adjacent couch and find bright blue eyes staring up at me. In tattered jeans, Converse, and a T-shirt showcasing his muscled, tattooed arms, Finn looks like every woman’s bad-boy wet dream.

  A slow smile spreads on his handsome face. “Hi, Deirdre. I like the hair.”

  “Thank you.” The words come out startled and breathy. I clear my throat, my eyes veering back to Gideon, who for some unknown reason is the safer port. “I just came over to thank you for the drink.”

  His smile grows, a silent response to my bullshit. I should have downed my cocktail before coming over here.

  “Join us?” he asks.

  “Sorry, I can’t. I’m with friends.”

  “Aww, Deirdre, can’t you sit for a few?” This from London, who leans around Dominic to smile at me. “We need more estrogen in this sausage fest.”

  Dominic barks a laugh and finally looks at me. His dark eyes are surprisingly warm. “It’s good to see you, Deirdre. How’ve you been?”

  “Fine, thanks, and you?”

  “Great, thank you.”

  “That’s good to hear.”

  Silence settles. This isn’t awkward at all.

  “Okay, well… I should get back.”

  “Next time?” asks London with a grin.

  “Sure.” Not a chance.

  “See you tomorrow evening, Snowflake?”

  I glance at Gideon. Sunlight kisses his copper hair, and as always, shadows and secrets thrive in his eyes.

  “Yes.”

  With a final wave, I turn to leave. As I do, Finn leans forward, his hand grazing mine and clasping momentarily. My stomach twirls, my heart pounding as my fingers curl around a folded cocktail napkin.

  I make it back to my colleagues.

  Hide the napkin in my purse.

  Pretend nothing happened.

  Have two drinks.

  Trade stories. Laugh. Gripe about Maxwell’s arrogance and Skylar’s underhanded tactics. Talk about Maggie’s upcoming trip to New York and Trent’s second date with a grad student at UCLA.

  Act normal.

  Pretend…

  Act…

  Hours later, alone in my condo, I pull out the little napkin and unfold it. I’m expecting Finn’s number, and it’s there. But the message above it brings a shock so intense my knees give out. Slumping into a chair at my kitchen table, I smooth the napkin with shaking fingers.

  Gideon invited me tomorrow. He said you okayed it. Text if you change your mind.

  20 lust

  “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 l
eave. 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.

  “Gideon wants to watch us have sex.”

  I’m shocked the words survive my mouth, that they come out clear and strong. There’s also a small part of me surprised I’m not immediately consumed by hellfire. But that feeling is old and stale, easily ignored, and has been proven a lie a thousand times over. No matter that Gideon truly believes himself a sinner—or that my mother’s dogma persists somewhere inside me—I’ve seen true sin. This is not it.

  Finn coughs out a laugh, then takes a long swig of his beer. “I’m… flattered?”

  “You don’t want to?”

  Again, the words come from some other place. A different me. A dark dancer who spins and glides past all my shoulds and shouldn’ts. She isn’t familiar, and yet, she is achingly so.

  The look on Finn’s face—half surprised, half feral—gives me all the answer I need. Satisfaction warms my chest. Brings the barest smile to my lips. It feels good to be wanted without complication or obligation. It feels… freeing.

  “This has to be the weirdest conversation I’ve ever had,” he says at length.

  The tension breaks. We laugh.

  “Me too,” I admit, grabbing my purse from my car and locking it. I glance toward the house. “Sorry I dropped that on you. I needed someone to share the burden. Fucking Gideon and his verbal bombs.”

  Finn grins. I’m distracted by the appearance of dimples.

  “I’m not sorry at all. And isn’t it me you’re supposed to be fucking? Gideon’s just watching, the freak.”

  Astonishingly, I giggle, which makes Finn laugh, and we’re still laughing as we walk up the driveway toward the open front door, where light and Gideon beckon.

  21 virility

  I’m not drunk.

  I’m not high.

  I’m not crazy.

  Crazy.