My palms smacked against his chest, fighting his control. “Let me go.”
“No.” His lips smashed on mine. His tongue broke into my mouth. And the ferocity of his kiss was precisely what he said.
This was an assault.
Unwanted. Unprovoked. Assault.
His lips were warm and wonderful.
His body felt like home.
Every part of me screamed to give in. To rock with him, dance with him, explode with him.
But a final shred of common-sense made me squirm in his embrace.
You can’t do this.
You’re not strong enough.
My fingernails dug into his chest. I wriggled and fought to get free.
But he kept kissing me, holding me, forcing me to take what he gave.
He’d never been coldblooded before. Icy and impenetrable. Explosive and stubborn. But never violent against my wishes. Never tried to take something that wasn’t his.
He groaned into my mouth, his tongue withdrawing, his lips leaving mine.
Our eyes locked and he showed me everything. The fear. The apology. The pain.
“Be my canvas.”
“It’s too late,” I whispered.
His forehead pressed against mine. “It is too late. Everything is too fucking late. I’m too late to make any money. Too late to fix my business. Too late to save my daughter. Too late to repair everything broken between us. But it’s not too late to say goodbye.”
My heart jackhammered as he clutched my hair and tugged, forcing my neck back, kissing his way along the column of my exposed throat. “I’m running out of control. I’ll ask one last time before I won’t ask anymore. Be my canvas, O. Let me paint you, fuck you. I need to remember you for always.”
I shivered at the naked beg in his voice. “I can’t.”
“You can.” His lips were cool, but his tongue hot as he captured me in another kiss. He breathed against my mouth, “Fuck me one last time, O. You said your goodbyes the other night. You used me for closure. I pleaded with you not to make me do it. I begged you to stop. But you didn’t. You took from me. And now, I’m taking from you.”
I tried to push him away again, cursing how my blood bubbled and wetness gathered between my legs. “I didn’t rape you, Gil. Don’t you dare insinuate I’m anything like that bitch who—”
“You’re not.” Capturing my wrist, he jerked my hand down and pressed it over his erection. “I wouldn’t be hard if I didn’t want you. I’ve never been with anyone else. It’s always been you. It will always be you. You’ll move on after this. You’ll travel the world and find a perfect ending, all while I rot in my jail cell. The only thing that will keep me going is my memories of you.”
He rocked his hardness into my palm. “Let me have you, one last time. Let me paint you, love you, fuck you, imprint you.” His lips trailed along my jaw until he found my mouth again, kissing me long and slow.
I did my best not to respond. Not to kiss him back. But a low moan echoed unwillingly in my throat.
“Let me try to forget you, Olin Moss, even though I know that’s impossible.” Stepping back, he let me go.
My hand fell from touching him. My lips tingled from his kiss. And we stood facing each other as if drawing the battle lines for war.
He acted as if he’d force me against my will, and I actually believed he would do it. But I also knew, he’d hate himself the entire time. He’d use me, but he’d ultimately suffer.
He was right.
We’d run out of time.
Everything was too late.
The end was here, and there was no right or wrong anymore.
I couldn’t be with him. I shouldn’t do this. But...it was all over anyway.
Another night together wouldn’t change that.
Gil shuddered, his eyes dark. His erection wedged against his paint-splattered work jeans while the black hoodie he always wore in his time-lapse videos held colours from other canvases.
I might be the last one he ever painted.
All the rage inside me vanished.
He’s losing everything.
Not just his freedom but also his art.
He’d stood in my apartment a few months ago and asked how I’d tolerated losing dance. He’d genuinely seemed perplexed that I’d survived having such an integral part of me stolen.
He’d told me he wouldn’t survive if he couldn’t paint.
I’d believed him then.
I believe him now.
Jail wasn’t just an institution where he would be captive. It was the accident, the car, the restaurant window. Jail was going to strip him of his ability to paint. Possibly forever.
I sighed heavily, allowing my body to shed its terror and embrace lust.
Deep, deadly, unhealthy lust.
“Will Olive be okay if you’re gone for a while?”
Gil stayed frozen, his hands balled by his sides. “She’s with Justin. It’s best they have time to figure their shit out before I can’t be there.”
“What happens after?”
His throat worked as he swallowed. “I walk away.”
“And if this destroys us even more?”
“Then we’re destroyed.”
“This won’t change anything.”
He nodded. “I know.”
“I can’t be in love with you anymore, Gilbert Clark.”
“I’m not asking you to be.”
“I should curse you. I should hate you.”
“You should.”
Tears erupted out of frustration. “So why can’t I?”
He stepped into me, cupping my cheeks with quaking hands. “Because I can’t stop loving you either.”
I couldn’t feel anymore.
I didn’t have the strength.
But I also couldn’t lie anymore.
I didn’t have the power.
“You’re a walking gift of pain, Gilbert Clark.”
“And you’re the ultimate gift of redemption, Olin Moss.” Brushing his thumbs over my cheekbones, he let me go to flip his black hood up and over his messy hair.
His mask in place. His face obscured.
I flinched. “You’re going to record this?”
“Yes.”
“Will you post it?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
He captured me again. “Because I deserve a lifetime of agony for what I did. This video will always be there. It will be waiting for me on the day that I’m free. It will be a constant reminder of my one and only canvas—my true work of art that I did nothing but try to destroy. You.”
“I don’t want to see it.”
“Then you won’t.”
“I don’t want to see you.”
“But you’re the only one who does.”
I shuddered.
I didn’t want to love him, need him, miss him.
The Master of Trickery.
The Wizard of Paint.
The Love Executioner.
But my head tipped up.
His tipped down.
We kissed.
And our denials were over.
Chapter Twenty-Six
______________________________
Gil
O STOOD ON the centre of the black sheet.
Her breasts bare.