The Sculptor's Seduction (The Gentlemen's Guild Book 2) Page 15

  From that position, they didn’t move for a very long time. Just as he promised, Sloane devoured her again and again and again. Each time his mouth encouraged her to break through the barrier of pleasurable pain, her body fighting against another onslaught, only to realize after a few moments that it was on the brink of another orgasm that was more intense than the last… and she fought for it.

  Hours later, when she lay limp and breathless on the floor, did Sloane finally pull his mouth from her, laying gentle kisses on her thighs and stomach before he pushed himself up to sit, grunting as all of his muscles revolted for having been in the same position for so long and on the floor no less.

  Her eyes fluttered open. “Sloane…” she murmured, shutting them again.

  Lifting her up off the floor, he carried her into his small, spare apartment and laid her down on the bed, tucking the covers around her. The bed was small, but he wouldn’t have joined her anyway. Too dangerous.

  His body had realized long ago that it wasn’t going to get what it wanted tonight, yet his arousal remained firmly defiant inside of his pants. Closing the door softly behind him, he walked back into the studio, immediately drawn to the spot on the rug where he’d just been lying. His head flicked towards the mirror; his fist clenched as his mind flashed back through all the images he’d stored of what had just happened.

  With a silent curse, he stalked over to the mirror, turning around to sit with his back against the cool glass. His head fell back and he tapped it against the mirror a few times to solidify his idiocy. With one knee bent, he looked down at his straining pants and, emitting a groan of surrender, he unzipped his fly and took his raging erection in his hand.

  Closing his eyes, he let him mind go exactly where it wanted to. Cyn. He pictured her on the floor underneath him, spread open for him to feast on, giving him complete control of her body and pleasure; his orgasm was quick and merciless. There was no way in hell he could go as many times as she did, but for how much he’d denied himself tonight, Sloane knew that one release wasn’t going to cut it.

  So, he sat there, pleasuring himself to images of the vibrantly erotic vixen who lay sleeping in the next room and cursing himself for his weakness.

  This could never happen again.

  Chapter 11

  Cyn sighed and snuggled deeper underneath the covers. Strange… where was the comforter on her bed? She pried her eyes open, bolting up in the bed when she didn’t recognize where she was.

  Her heart pounded. She was naked, in a random bed. Alone.

  Her head turned rapidly looking for clues as to where she was… and where her clothes had gone. She let out a small sigh of relief, spotting her clothes folded on the other side of the bed.

  Just breathe, Cyn. You are fine.

  As soon as the momentary anxiety subsided, the memories from last night began to come back to her. The video shoot. Her dance. Sloane. Pierce. Sloane.

  She swallowed hard. That last part had to have been a dream. She gingerly squeezed her thighs together and immediately felt a searing soreness, followed by the dull ache of thorough muscular exhaustion.

  Oh my God – it hadn’t been a dream.

  He’d actually kissed her… and then he’d consumed her until she thought her heart would stop. She couldn’t remember anyone ever giving her… she couldn’t remember the last time she’d orgasmed so many… No, she just plain couldn’t remember anything – anything except Sloane’s mouth between her legs, devouring her, bringing her to one climax after another.

  It had been incredible.

  Cyn wasn’t sure if she’d finally blacked out from the pleasure of it or passed out from the exhaustion. Regardless, he must have brought her in here. But, the question was, where was here? And, where was he?

  Well, it definitely wasn’t One57.

  Cyn stood up, wincing as her leg muscles protested. Walking over to her clothes, she saw the scrap piece of paper sitting on top of them.

  Had a meeting.

  I didn’t have time to wake you properly, beautiful.

  Heat pooled between her thighs, dissolving the soreness that had been present. The second sentence looked like he’d added it hastily – as though the first line was written too harshly and he’d needed to soften it. Probably because it left her wondering, what possible meeting he could have on a Saturday morning?

  That speculation dampened her contentment as she grabbed her clothes. She quickly tossed them on and made her way to the door. As soon as it opened, she realized where she was.

  So, that was what was behind the other door at the top of the stairs…

  She turned to go into the studio. Opening the door, she stood back for a second absorbing the brightness of the large room. She’d never been there during the day and she wasn’t sure which setting was more magical. Light diffused through the frosted glass, setting everything in a warm glow.

  Or maybe the warm glow was just coming from around her.

  She should just go home since Sloane wasn’t there, but she couldn’t stop herself from taking a minute in the precious space.

  She walked over to the marble slab that seemed to slowly be coming to life; the outline of her form was present, the curve of her face. She stared in awe at how he could turn a block of… nothing… into a life-like version of her. Her hand came up to rest on the shoulder of the stone version of herself, its cool smoothness warming underneath her touch.

  Cold, unfeeling, and alone.

  The thought came unbidden to her mind and it gave her pause, wondering if it was referring to the statue or to herself?

  Unwilling to linger on it, she turned and walked towards the furniture.

  Heat diffused into her cheeks remembering the moment just before he kissed her; she’d been so angry, so hurt, and so incredibly on fire for him. Cyn didn’t know how she managed to accomplish it – even what she’d said had become jumbled in her mind. All she remembered was hearing was him say that her body was for his eyes only, seeing the searing intensity of possessiveness in his crystal stare, before he claimed her mouth.

  Then, she remembered her body pressed up against him again; the rock-solid feel of his chest against her aching breasts, his enormous erection teasing her naked core through his pants. Her shock and anger and frustration of the night erupted in an explosion of desire. Her body had been crazed with lust like she’d never experienced before.

  The couch. His confession.

  She sunk down onto the seat, closing her eyes for a moment; his words coming back to her with perfect clarity.

  “I’m not paying you for this” … “I need to know you’re here because you want this” … “I will make you forget that there was ever anyone else between your thighs but me.”

  She felt her body wanting to come again just thinking about those words – that promise; a promise that he’d fulfilled. All she could think about were those blue eyes staring straight through her and that tongue claiming her for his own.

  Cyn felt another surge of wetness into her already damp thong.

  She needed to get out of here.

  She stood, unable to suppress a moan that escaped her as she walked over the carpet, remembering what she could of how the night had ended. Walking straight out the door, she shut it behind her, resting her back against it for a moment to catch her breath and her sanity before heading back to her and Tash’s apartment for a much-needed shower.

  Sloane tapped his pen on the table in front of him.

  Where the fuck was Pierce? This shit was supposed to start twenty-minutes ago.

  He’d woken up this morning, cramped, on the couch in his studio, to his phone buzzing. It had been messages from the Guild’s group chat. Apparently, last night Morgan had asked if they were all available for an emergency meeting this morning – something to do with his sister and a lost painting. Sloane wasn’t sure yet if the two were related – he assumed they would find that out as soon as Pierce decided to show his face.

  While the Tristan and Morgan c
hatted, Sloane sat in annoyed and frustrated silence as his mind drifted to the vixen he’d left in his bed.

  He hadn’t slept much, but that hadn’t stopped him from dreaming about her… dreaming about having her on the couch, again. Which meant that he’d woken up hard… again.

  He cursed, realizing that he would have to leave her to meet his friends, but Morgan said it was an emergency. Then again, it was probably for the best; he needed to figure out how the hell to handle seeing her now after what had happened last night. He debated whether or not to wake her as he carefully opened the door into the apartment to check on her before he left. But seeing her there, fast asleep with the sheet barely covering her gorgeous body – he knew that there was only one way that he was going to wake her from that… and that was with his mouth back between her thighs.

  But he didn’t have time; he also couldn’t show up to a meeting with his arousal being any worse, otherwise he’d never make it through the day.

  So, he left her a quick note that he had to go to a meeting. After everything that was said… and done… he looked at the curt sentence and grimaced. He should say something else so that he didn’t look like a complete asshole and what came out was the unfortunate truth.

  God. Even now he could perfectly remember the taste of her orgasms on his tongue.

  And this was why it could never happen again.

  He struggled to focus, to keep his cool, to converse with his friends; this was how the addiction started.

  “Pierce! Where the hell have you been?” Morgan’s booming announcement brought Sloane back to the present moment.

  His eyes moved slowly over to his bastard of a friend. The anger in his expression partially mitigated by the slight confusion at seeing a very large red mark on the left side of Pierce’s face – like he’d been struck.

  Who had hit him?

  Whoever it was, Sloane wanted to befriend them.

  Pierce met his gaze and at least had the decency to have a grain of remorse glazed over his face. Still, he said nothing to him, addressing only Morgan and Tristan with a nod to explain his tardiness as he took his seat around the table.

  They’d met at Black Box – Tristan’s investment firm; it was the most convenient and most likely to be the quietest on a Saturday morning.

  “Alright, Morgan. What’s going on? What’s the emergency?” Tristan spoke up, eager to get to the point of their meeting.

  “Alright. Sorry to interrupt your weekends, but you guys know my sister, Ana, is in town; you met her last weekend.” He didn’t wait for confirmation before continuing. “She works in the white-collar crimes department for Interpol; her team specializes in art crimes.”

  “Seriously?” Tristan asked. “How did we not know about her, especially since she works in art crimes?”

  “There was some family drama a while ago and we weren’t on speaking terms until recently. However, my family shit is not what I came here to discuss.” Morgan took a sip from his water bottle. “She’s in New York for the foreseeable future because there have been rumors about an iconic painting that’s been stolen and is going to be put on the black market for sale.”

  “What the hell does this have to do with us?” Pierce rasped from his corner of the room. “We don’t steal art, forge it illegally, or buy it.”

  “If you’d just let me finish, you’d know exactly what this has to do with us… and more specifically, you.”

  Everyone watched as Pierce’s body went completely rigid. His black eyes darkening with anger as it dawned on him just what was about to happen.

  “Do they think someone is trying to sell one of our reproductions and claiming it as the original?” Sloane asked, trying to decipher the looks passing between Pierce and Tristan.

  “No. In fact, just the opposite.”

  “Goddammit.” Pierce cursed, slamming his fist on the table. “It’s the fucking ‘Bridge,’ isn’t it?”

  Morgan just stared at him. “So, you do know.”

  “Fucking hell.”

  “Pierce, just chill for a second man and let Morgan finish,” Tristan interjected calmly, staring his friend into silent submission.

  “Will someone please explain what is going on here?” Sloane asked. Even though his voice was calm and collected, there was no mistaking his frustrated annoyance since he seemed to be the only one in the room that didn’t have any clue as to what had happened.

  “Monet’s ‘Bridge Over a Pond of Water Lilies’.”

  “Yeah. Pierce reproduced it a few years ago so that we could restore it. So what – it got stolen?” That was all that Sloane knew.

  “Yes and no,” Morgan began. “Someone has been hinting around the art black market that they have Monet’s original ‘Bridge’ and that they will be able to prove that to the buyer.”

  “Except the original is still at the Met, which means it hasn’t been stolen yet…”

  “No,” Pierce said sharply, finally filling in the last critical detail. “The original isn’t in the Met, my reproduction is. The original painting was stolen from my studio in London four years ago while I was in the process of restoring it.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Christ—”

  “Pierce.” Tristan took over as their darkly irate friend stood and began to pace. “The Met asked us to create a reproduction of the painting a few years ago that they could display while we completely restored the original. Pierce did that. Unfortunately, shortly after he delivered the forgery and took possession of the original, it was stolen and we still haven’t been able to track it down.”

  “Does the museum know?”

  “No.” Pierce cursed again. “We pretended to switch them out, but left the fake one.”

  “How the hell did you let it get stolen? That is what I want to know. Who the hell even knew where your studio was to break into?” Morgan asked.

  Pierce began to let out a dark, irrational laugh. “Ahh… no one broke into it. I fucking carried that little thief right over the threshold, right before I fucked her… right after which she royally fucked me.”

  Oh, shit.

  “Your model stole the original?!” Morgan exclaimed. “Jesus Christ, Pierce.”

  “I know. I. Fucking. Know.” He swore vehemently. “In my defense, it’s not completely my fucking fault. Tristan here—” Pierce pointed his finger at his fair-haired friend. “Got me so wasted that night and then bet me that I couldn’t get both of them into my bed.”

  “Dear God, there were two of them?”

  “Yeah, there were. And for the life of me I can’t remember much about that night. I don’t know if they were both in on it or if one of them saw an opportunity and took it. I might have been drugged; it’s the only plausible reason for me not to remember anything about that night after we came back to my studio.”

  “Jesus…”

  “Ok, so what else do you know, Morgan?” Tristan asked, trying to refocus the group.

  “Ana doesn’t know everything, but when she told me she was going to be in town, I didn’t think anything of it. Then, last night, she told me what the rumors were. They are still following up on some leads because she – and the rest of the world – think that the original hangs safely in the Met, they haven’t gone to the museum or to any major outlets with this. Her whole team isn’t even here yet because she’s basically following a hunch. Which is why I figured we needed to fucking meet – before her legitimate concerns spread farther.” Morgan looked at Pierce again. “If the museum learns that not only did we pass a fake off on them, but also let one of their most valuable possessions get stolen, the Guild’s reputation will be completely ruined.”

  “So, what do we do?” Sloane asked.

  “Pierce, weren’t you following up on a lead a while ago?”

  “Yeah, I still haven’t heard back. People are fucking worthless.”

  “Hold on,” Morgan said. “There’s another reason that I called for this meeting – another reason that I wanted to
talk to all of you. Even though Ana works for art crimes, she has no idea just what we do or what, I think, we are capable of doing.” He tapped his fingers on the table. “Like I said, Ana knows what I do, but she doesn’t know much more about the Guild other than what they do for museums. I think we should enlighten her for two reasons: one, because if I can explain to her what we do, then she can help us get the ‘Bridge’ back before that shit comes back to bite us and two, assuming this ‘bridge-gate’ scandal doesn’t break and we still have jobs, I think we could start offering our services to her team in order to catch art thieves.”

  His words had come out in a rush, trying to elucidate his reasoning before anyone had a chance to object on so many levels.

  Of course, Pierce was the first one to let out a bark of laughter in response. “This meeting keeps getting better and better. First, that painting, the fucking bane of my existence has finally come back to haunt me, and now, Morgan wants to invite a woman into the Gentlemen’s Guild so that we can fight crime.” His hand came up to cover his eyes. “Like, you do fucking know the meaning of the word ‘gentlemen,’ right?”

  Morgan scowled at him. “Well, the way I see it, I don’t know that we have much of a choice since you couldn’t fucking keep it in your pants.” That got Pierce to shut up real fast.

  “Ok, hold on,” Sloane finally said. “Do you think that if you tell Ana what happened with the original painting and our predicament – do you think she will be willing to help us, instead of just reporting it or going straight to the museum?”

  Sloane saw Tristan nod out of the corner of his eye, agreeing with the logical line of his questioning.

  “She will help us. There is no way that she would go behind my back like that, not after… well… she won’t; I can guarantee it.”

  “And do you think that she has more leads than Pierce right now?”

  Morgan scoffed. “Well, considering pretty-boy over there sounds like he’s got shit to follow up on, I would say yes. When she told me this last night, she looked like she wanted to say more, but was holding back.”