by Eva Ashwood
We head out of the dining room a few minutes later. Max tosses one more look in Aaron’s direction as we leave, and this time I notice that he’s looking her way too.
Huh. I don’t think she’s wrong about his interest in her, but I still hope this isn’t a huge mistake.
My afternoon classes pass by in a blur, and after the guys escort me back to my dorm, I decide I’m going to spend the rest of the afternoon getting lost in my art. Even though the dreams have shut down again, I’ve been painting as often as I can, slowly getting back into the flow of it again.
Settling onto the couch, I pull out a piece of sketchbook paper instead of my usual blank canvas and grab a few charcoals. I’ve had a picture in my head for a while now, one I think I’d like to try sketching out first before I put it into paints. I’ve never really done that before, but for some reason, it feels like what this piece needs.
The world around me fades into the background as I sketch, angling my head this way and that as the image forms under my fingertips. When my hands are completely smudged with charcoal, I pull my focus away and set a fresh canvas on the easel. Then I grab my paint and smear a mixture of blacks and grays and deep purples onto the pristine white surface, blending them out to make a shadowy backdrop.
Time passes, but I barely notice. I’m lost in my own world, not aware of anything other than the brush in my hands, the paint smeared on my fingers, and the colors I manipulate with quick, sure strokes.
A knock on the door makes me jump.
My hand jerks, spattering paint onto the canvas. I blink a couple times like I’ve just been pulled out of my daydream before turning around and glancing at the door, wondering if I was just imagining things.
When there’s another small knock, I unsuccessfully try to wipe my hands off on a rag and go to open the door. I’m surprised to find Declan there, leaned up against the frame with a grin on his face.
“Hey.” I smile even as my brows draw together. “I thought you said you have a test to study for.”
“I do. Couldn’t focus.” He shrugs, those deep brown eyes holding my own. “Can I come in?”
I step away from the door. “Of course, let me just…”
I glance around the living room. It’s not a total wreck, but I’ve got my drawings from the past couple weeks spread out on every surface, and there’s nowhere to sit.
I clear off the couch for him and shrug. “Sorry. I’m not exactly set up for company.”
He grins. “I don’t care. You know I’m not picky about shit like that.”
“Good.” I can’t help but grin back. “Do you mind if I keep working for a little bit? You’re welcome to hang out, but I want to finish this piece I started.”
“Yeah, of course.” He perks up, actually looking excited about the idea of watching me paint.
Ignoring the little flutter of nerves that moves through my stomach at that thought, I head back to my painting as Declan settles on the couch. I glance over it again, feeling a little dazed after so quickly being pulled out of the zone I was in. When I pick up my brush, the familiar weight in my palm is enough to get me back into the groove.
“Oh, hey. How is your single doing?” I ask, dipping my brush in paint.
“Fucking amazing,” he says enthusiastically. “And all because of you.”
My brush falters a little bit, and I flush, warmed by the compliment even though it’s not true. “You did all the work. Not me.”
“I wouldn’t have put it out there if it wasn’t for you,” he insists. “I feel fucking amazing. Like I finally know who I am.”
The heat of his body brushes against my back as he comes up behind me, his hand coaxing my hair over one shoulder before he wraps his arms around me. I lean into his touch and try to keep focus on my painting, but the sparks traveling up and down my arms make that a little difficult.
“I know you don’t believe me when I say it was because of you, Soph,” he says quietly, his lips brushing the exposed skin between my neck and my shoulder. “But it was. You showed me I could be more than what I was settling for. That I could have more. Could dream bigger.”
It’s strange to hear a guy who was born into a world of wealth and privilege say those words to someone like me, but I think I sort of understand what he means.
We’re both trying to find our way off of paths the world has set for us, trying to build a life that fits what we want.
I smile to myself, even though he can’t see it. We lapse into silence as he pulls up a chair and sits close to me, his shoulder brushing against mine a little as he watches me paint, interjecting with questions sometimes.
“It’s beautiful,” he says quietly, watching in awe as I swipe another color across layers and layers of carefully built up paint.
“Thank you,” I stutter out, not quite sure how to take the compliment.
When I glance at him, I catch his raised eyebrow. “Do you not believe me?” he asks, frowning slightly.
“No, I do.” I look back at the painting. I guess it’s good, although I know I see it through my own insecurities as an artist. “I mean, I think it’s beautiful. It’s just strange to hear someone say it out loud.”
“A lot of people would say that,” he says confidently. “You should do a show or something, a gallery. Let people see inside your beautiful head.”
I keep my eyes focused on the painting, wrinkling my nose. “I’m not sure I could do that. It’d be too fucking weird. These paintings are like parts of me. How could I share these with strangers? Like you with your music… it wasn’t easy, was it?”
His nose brushes up against my shoulder. “It wasn’t,” he says. “It’s fucking terrifying. And even now that I’ve done it, I can’t say it was easy, but it was worth it.”
I glance at him, catching the depths of honesty in his brown eyes. “I’m still not sure I could,” I say quietly. “I’ve never painted for anyone but myself.”
“You’re painting with me, right now,” he says, and turning my chin with a brush of his fingers, his lips find mine in a gentle kiss. “How is that any different?”
My heart races in my throat and I turn away from him, looking back at the art as if I have to remind myself why I don’t share them.
“These paintings… they hold everything,” I say. The shit. The messy stuff. All of my fucked up past, my lost memories—there’s nothing good in these paintings. It’s just a physical representation of my broken insides, and I’m not sure anyone would want to see them. “They hide nothing. It wouldn’t be just putting my paintings on display. It would be putting myself on display.”
His fingers find the ends of my hair, brushing through the blue and blonde strands.
“These paintings, Soph? They’re all fucking stunning,” he says, his voice dropping. “And if these paintings are part of you, then they’re not just stunning because of what they are, but because of who they were made by.”
My heart stutters. There’s not even a hint of insincerity in his voice. He really means it.
I don’t know how it happened. How these men saw past the facade I show the rest of the world, how they found their way so deep inside my heart that they know me better than anyone else.
But I’m not sorry they did.
We fall into silence for a little while as I focus on finishing the painting. My brush strokes are confident and sure, but even as I pour myself into my art, I’m hyper-aware of Declan’s body beside mine. I can feel the heat radiating from his skin, and it makes my temperature soar in response.
He waits, patient and quiet, until I place the last stroke and set my brush aside on the palette, which sits on a small table next to the easel. Only then does he touch me again, grasping my hips and turning me on my chair to face him. His lips find mine again, and I sink into his kiss. I’m about to wrap my arms around his neck when I hesitate, realizing that my fingers are covered in paint.
“Shit,” I murmur, barely breaking away from his lips long enough to say the words. “I better go clean up.
”
Declan chuckles, pulling me closer to him. “Soph, if you think a little paint is gonna stop me from wanting your hands on me, maybe I haven’t been making it clear enough how I feel about you.”
With that, he tugs me out of my chair and into his lap, scooting his chair back a little to make sure I don’t bump my painting as I straddle him.
I laugh, grabbing on to him for balance and leaving little fingerprint marks in blue and purple on his shirt. He kisses me hungrily, and I can’t help myself. I kiss him back, forgetting all about paint, all about cleaning up. Forgetting everything but the feel of his body beneath mine, warm and solid and muscled.
When we finally draw back, gasping for breath, I bite back a laugh. All the wet paint on my hands has been transferred to Declan. It streaks his face, his neck, and his hair. It’s adorable, and something about it is sexy as fuck too.
As if I’ve marked him somehow. Claimed him as mine in a visible way.
I like that.
“I think this is my best work yet,” I say teasingly, tracing my finger over a smear of paint that decorates his cheekbone. I shift my hips, grinding down against him as his cock presses against my clit through the clothes that separate us. “It’s fucking gorgeous.”
“See? I told you you’re an amazing artist.”
Declan laughs, but the heat in his dark eyes makes my core clench. Neither of us are really joking, and we both know it.
All the humor fades from his expression as I drop my head toward his again, and this time, we kiss like we fucking mean it. We kiss like we’ve both been waiting for a chance to do this ever since the day he punched Gray, since the day he and Elias stood up for me. Being with the two of them together was fucking incredible, one of the most amazing experiences of my life, but there’s something different—something just as good—about this.
Because this moment is just about us.
About Declan and me, and the connection that forged between us during stolen moments on the stairs, on rooftops and in quiet conversations. Declan, maybe even more than either of the other Sinners, was my friend before he was anything else.
I grind harder against him, arching my back as I move my hips up and down, and Declan groans into my mouth. He wraps his arms around me and stands up, bringing me with him as I twine my legs around his waist. He moves toward the couch, but suddenly stops, seeming to have the same hesitation I did earlier.
I laugh, biting his earlobe as my fingernails rake over his scalp.
“I want you, Declan. Right here. Right now,” I whisper, tracing the shell of his ear and feeling him shudder against me. “And if you think a little paint is gonna stop me from wanting to fuck you, maybe I haven’t been clear enough about how I feel about you.”
He laughs, one hand sliding down to cup my ass, squeezing and massaging it with a hungry grip. “But your couch—”
“It isn’t my couch.” I slide my hands under his shirt, tracing the thick muscles that run along his spine. “And the school can fucking bill me.”
I still have cash from Gray stashed under my bed, and whatever the cleaning fee is if there is one, it’ll be one hundred percent worth it.
Declan laughs again, and then he’s striding forward, laying me back against the cushions. His paint streaked face burns with desire as he kneels on the cushions between my legs, tugging my shirt off, then my pants. He stops to pull off his own shirt, and I bite my bottom lip as I drink in the sight of him. I’ve always had a weakness for tattoos, which is why I have so many myself, but on him? They’re like fucking kryptonite.
My clit throbs, my entire body buzzing as my greedy gaze roams over his chest and shoulders.
“Will you let me paint you sometime?” I murmur before I can stop myself.
Declan freezes. A small flush rises in his cheeks, and he gestures to the paint in his hair and on his skin. “I think you already did.”
I roll my eyes, sitting up to run my fingers over the ink on his chest. “I’m serious. I don’t do portraits very often, but I… I want to. If you’ll let me.”
His grin is dazzling, and he pushes me back down onto the soft cushions as his body settles over mine. He kisses me hard and deep, his tongue tangling with mine as our bodies rock together. Then he pulls back, a smile curving his full lips.
“Sophie, I’ll let you do any-fucking-thing you want.”
My eyebrows shoot up, and I lift my hips as he tugs my panties off. “Dangerous words.”
“True words.”
He kicks his pants off, shoving his boxers down with them, and the second we’re both naked, he’s draped over me again, his broad cock finding my slick entrance.
I dig my heels into his ass, and he groans as he slides inside me. His forehead rests against mine, and I pull him closer, wanting to feel every bit of his weight on top of me, every inch of him inside me. It’s like I’m starving, like I could binge on him over and over and never be satisfied.
“I knew it would be like this,” he murmurs, kissing me again as he begins to move, thrusting hard and deep. “The very first time I kissed you, I knew I needed more. Knew I’d never get enough of you.”
His words are such a close mirror to my thoughts that it makes my heart expand.
Falling in love is fucking terrifying, but it’s a little less scary when there’s someone falling right beside you.
A stupid smile pulls at my lips, but I keep kissing him through the smile. He kisses me back, driving into me as our bodies wrap around each other and we smear little streaks of paint into the couch cushions. When he slides one hand between us and finds my clit with his fingers, I go off like a rocket, arching into him and clenching my thighs around his waist as I come hard.
“That’s one,” he whispers against my skin, dragging his lips over my jawline as I shudder beneath him, little waves of pleasure still cascading through my body. “I’m going for five. At least.”
I blink up at the ceiling, too stupid from the orgasm to grasp his meaning at first.
But when he pulls out suddenly and flips me over, sliding into me again as I sprawl out on my stomach, I realize exactly what he meant. I’ve fucked Declan before, I’ve kissed him like my life depended on it—but this is our first time together, just the two of us.
And he obviously plans on making it count.
17
It’s amazing how much can happen in a week.
It’s scary how much can happen in a week. Because seven days after Declan visited my room while I was painting, I find myself sitting in my little corner studio, adding the final touches to a piece that’s one of many that will be displayed in my show next week.
My show.
The two little words make my heart do a flip inside of my chest. Turns out, Declan can be pretty damn convincing, and so can six orgasms. I still maintain that he cheated by fucking all my brain cells away before convincing me to share my pieces in a gallery show. How the hell could I keep from saying yes when I could barely remember my own name?
Once I was on board, he talked to Gray, whose family is pretty well connected in the art world.
And just like that, I have an art show coming up. Not one where I’m tucked away in some little corner, the smallest fish in a sea of sharks, but one where I am the main event. The star of the show.
I couldn’t be more fucking terrified.
And excited.
I sigh, glancing over my painting. I’ve still got one more piece I need for the show, but I’ve been hesitating about this one. I’m not sure if I’m ready to show it yet.
It’s the hallway from my dreams.
Oh, did I mention my dreams have come back? As if something was unlocked inside of me the day that Declan finally convinced me to share my pieces with the world, the dreams have returned in a flood, more vivid and violent than ever before.
This particular piece is a second draft of the painting I did that first night I dreamed after getting back to the school, one with more details and shadows filled in, one that mak
es my stomach turn every time I look at it.
This painting holds the deepest, darkest, part of me—a part of me I don’t even understand or remember.
I leave it out to dry as I clean up my paints and get ready to head to class, forcing myself not to shove it into a corner where the paint will smudge and I’ll eventually forget about it.
I’ve been painting in the mornings because it’s the time of day when everything seems most fresh and clear, when the images practically spill from my brush onto the canvas. It’s meant I’m getting a little less sleep overall, but it’s worth it.
The guys meet me to walk across campus with me as usual, and Max and I sit together in our first class.
The day drags a little. I’ve been working hard to stay on top of schoolwork, despite everything else that’s going on, but the art show is proving to be a big distraction. I’m not even handling the logistics of it, but all I want to be doing right now is painting, which makes sitting through lectures hard as hell.
In the afternoon, Max escorts me partway to my final class as we chat about the upcoming show. She’s been enthusiastically on board ever since the idea first popped up, and we spend so much time talking about it that we both end up late for class. We split up, hurrying to our separate buildings.
When I reach Hurst Hall, I slip inside quickly. It’s a small building that only holds a few classrooms, so it’s quiet as I head down the hall.
I almost don’t notice a voice echoing through the empty corridor up ahead, but thank god I do, because as I round the corner, I immediately catch sight of Cliff standing alone in the hallway, his back to me and his phone pressed to his ear. I freeze in my tracks before he sees me.
Scrambling back around the corner, I press a hand to my racing heart and strain to listen.
I don’t know who he’s talking to, but he’s pissed as hell.
“I want to act now,” Cliff growls. “I’m sick and tired of fucking waiting. That’s all you ever tell me to do, and I’m sick of it. I can handle this. I can handle her.”
I frown. There’s no doubt in my mind who she might be.