28. Gideon
28
Gideon
T he financial reports blur in front of me as I stare at them for what feels like the hundredth time today. I run my hand through my hair, frustrated at what I’m seeing.
“Fuck.” I slam the folder down on my desk. “Have you figured out who on our team is feeding Blackwell information yet?”
The thought has been eating at me all day. Someone I trust is betraying me. Again. The familiar acid taste of betrayal burns the back of my throat.
“We’ll find the mole,” Jonas assures me. “I’ve already started looking into unusual communications, access patterns—”
“I want them destroyed when we find them,” I cut in. “Professionally. Personally. I want them to regret the day they decided to fuck with me.”
Jonas gives me a measured look. “We will handle it appropriately. About your seven o’clock...”
I glance at my watch. Six thirty. Another meeting in a day full of meetings, all while trying to figure out who’s feeding our plans to Blackwell. Fantastic .
“Cancel it,” I tell him. “I need to review these property assessments and figure out our next move.”
“Already done,” Jonas says. “I read the room. You weren’t exactly in a diplomatic mood.”
Thank fuck for Jonas. He’s been by my side long enough to know when I’m about to bite someone’s head off. Not that I can blame him for his concern. After discovering Blackwell’s play, at work I’ve been burning with the kind of rage that makes people clear hallways when they see me coming.
“Thanks.” I loosen my tie, feeling like it’s choking me. “What about the construction timeline for Riverside? If Blackwell is rushing his project—”
“We’re still ahead,” Jonas interrupts. “As long as we keep moving forward with Ava’s original vision, we maintain the advantage of being first to market.”
Ava. Her name pulls something tight in my chest. Her graduation exhibition keeps replaying in my mind. The pride in her eyes as she showed me her work. The reimagined portrait of her grandmother that clearly meant so much to her. The way she lit up when talking about what she created in that Brooklyn studio I initially questioned.
“The difference is authenticity,” I say, more to myself than to Jonas. “Ava actually understands the creative mindset. Blackwell’s just copying a concept he stole.”
Jonas gives me a long look. “You really believe in her vision, don’t you?”
“It’s a solid business strategy,” I reply automatically.
“That’s not what I asked.”
I ignore him, turning back to the reports. Jonas knows me too well, and I’m not in the mood for his insights about my wife .
My fake wife.
The woman I’m absolutely not developing feelings for.
“That’s all for today,” I tell him. “Go home to your actual happy marriage.”
Jonas sighs but knows better than to push.
After he leaves, I lose track of time buried in financial projections and property values, trying to anticipate Blackwell’s next move. A soft knock at my door pulls me from my concentration. Security wouldn’t let anyone up without alerting me first, which means it’s someone who already has clearance.
“Come in,” I call, not looking up.
The door opens, and the familiar scent hits me before I even see her. Paint and vanilla. Ava.
I raise my head, surprised. She’s standing in my doorway in a simple, short black dress that hugs her curves, holding two crystal tumblers and a bottle of scotch. Her security detail is nowhere to be seen, which means they’re waiting downstairs.
“Hard day?” she asks, stepping inside.
I straighten, suddenly aware of my loosened tie and rolled-up sleeves. “What are you doing here?”
“I came so we could go home together,” she says, approaching my desk. “You know, maintain the illusion that we’re a couple.” She offers me one of the glasses. “And I thought we could properly celebrate my graduation. You know, like a husband and wife should.”
I take the tumbler. She sets down her own, opens the bottle of scotch, and pours us each a generous helping.
I take a sip. The scotch is top-shelf, exactly what I keep in my private bar in the corner of my office. She’s been paying attention.
“I still have work to do,” I tell her, even as I down another mouthful.
“You always have work to do.” She perches on the edge of my desk, closer than she normally allows herself. “But right now, you look like you want to murder someone.”
I snort, taking a sip. The burn feels good going down. “That obvious?”
“Your left eye twitches when you’re fantasizing about corporate homicide.”
Despite my mood, I find myself smiling. “That’s oddly specific.”
“I’m an artist. I notice details.” She gestures toward the floor-to-ceiling windows behind me. “And I thought we could give any watchers a good show.”
The implication sends a jolt of heat through me that has nothing to do with the scotch. I study her face, trying to read her intentions.
“A good show?” I ask.
Her cheeks redden. “I meant, like show them we’re still on good terms.”
We haven’t touched each other since that night before our arrangement, unless you count the occasional hand-holding or arm-around-waist for public appearances. And that one kiss we shared in the penthouse. A kiss I—
I bury the thought. “What’s really going on, Ava?”
She takes another long sip of her scotch, then reaches for the bottle, pouring herself another generous measure.
“You planning on finishing that bottle?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.
“Maybe.” She shrugs, a slight flush spreading across her cheeks, deeper than before. The scotch is hitting her, softening her edges. She takes another slow sip, gathering her thoughts. “Lucy told me about Blackwell’s new project. About how it’s copying the Riverside concept.”
Of course she did. It was probably a bad idea to share that with her best friend at the graduation, but I had my guard down. “And?”
“And I thought you might need a distraction.” Her eyes meet mine, unflinching. “Plus, if Blackwell has people watching you, what better way to cement our cover than being seen leaving together? Like an actual married couple.”
I put down my glass. “Thoughtful of you.”
“I’m a very thoughtful wife.” There’s something in her tone I can’t quite identify. Frustration? Resignation?
I reach for the scotch and refill my own glass. The liquid amber catches the light as I swirl it, watching her over the rim as I take another sip. The burn spreads through my chest, loosening something that’s been wound tight all day.
I lean back in my chair, studying her. “Your exhibition was exceptional.”
The subject change catches her off guard. More color fills her cheeks. “You already said that.”
“It bears repeating.” I stand, needing to move, to put some space between us. “Your professor was right about the emotional depth in your recent work.”
“Professor Marshall talks too much,” she mumbles, but I can tell she’s pleased.
I walk to the windows, looking out at the Manhattan skyline as twilight settles over the city. Blackwell is out there somewhere, plotting his next move. Possibly watching us at this very moment.
“What happened to the original?” I ask, turning back to her. “The portrait of your grandmother.”
Her expression shutters. “I told you, it doesn’t matter.”
“It clearly does.” I step closer. “Everything that matters to you matters to me, Ava. That was part of our arrangement.”
She laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “No, it wasn’t. Our arrangement was about saving your company and my getting financial freedom. Emotional involvement wasn’t part of the deal. Remember?”
“Then why are you here?” I ask quietly.
The question hangs between us. We both know she didn’t need to come. Phone calls or texts could have maintained our cover story just fine.
She drains her glass and sets it down with a decisive click. “I already told you,” she says, her words slightly softer around the edges from the alcohol. “Celebrate my graduation, give you a break from all this corporate bullshit, and so we could be seen going home together.” She waves her hand dismissively. “God, do you always interrogate people bringing you drinks?”
I can see through the lie. Her eyes don’t quite meet mine, and she’s biting her lower lip. It’s a tell I’ve come to recognize when she’s holding something back. The scotch has lowered both our guards, and I find myself moving toward her, drawn like a magnet.
“Why are you really here?” I ask again, my voice dropping to a near whisper as I stop directly in front of her, close enough to feel the heat radiating from her body. I’m barely holding myself back. Barely hanging by a thread.. .
Her eyes flick to my mouth, then back up. Her breath catches visibly. The air between us feels electric, charged with something we’ve been fighting for weeks.
“Gideon, I—”
The thread snaps.
Before I can stop myself, I lean down and press my lips to hers. The kiss is gentle at first, questioning, but the taste of her mixed with scotch ignites something primal in me and it’s all I can do to pull back. When I do, her eyes are wide, pupils dilated.
“I’m sorry,” I say automatically, shocked at my own lack of control. “That was—”
She surges forward, cutting off my apology as she crashes her lips against mine. This kiss is nothing like the first. It’s hungry, desperate, weeks of denied need pouring out at once. It’s like a match to gasoline. All the tension, the frustration, the barely contained rage at Blackwell, it transforms into a different kind of heat entirely. The scent of her fills my senses, sending blood rushing south so fast I feel light-headed.
I grab her waist, pulling her against me as the kiss deepens. Her mouth opens under mine, and I taste scotch and something sweeter, something purely Ava.
My brain screams at me to stop. We have an agreement. No emotional involvement. But my body has other ideas, and right now, it’s winning the argument.
The agreement doesn’t actually say we can’t fuck.
“I want you,” I growl against her mouth. “I’ve wanted you since the moment you walked into this office tonight. I’ve wanted you every fucking day of the past few weeks.”
I back her against my desk, lifting her onto it and stepping between her thighs. Paperwork scatters to the floor. I don’t care. For the first time in days, I’m not thinking about Blackwell or moles or business threats. I’m thinking about nothing but the soft curves pressed against me and the little sounds Ava makes as I kiss down her neck.
“What about the windows?” she gasps as my hands slide under the hem of her dress, her eyes darting to the floor-to-ceiling glass behind us. “Anyone could see.”
“We’ll give them a good show,” I promise, kissing the exposed skin of her shoulder. “Let Blackwell’s goons see what I do to my wife.”
The possessiveness in my voice surprises us both. If this is supposed to be for show, a performance in case we’re being watched, why does it feel so goddamn real?
Her hands are at my belt, urgent and eager. “Condom?”
I reach for my wallet, grateful for the packet I keep there out of long-standing habit. It’s been months since I’ve been with anyone. Not since her. Not since that night. And the morning after.
“Are you sure about this?” I ask, needing to hear her say it.
“Positive.” Her eyes hold mine, pupils blown wide with desire. “Now fuck me on this desk before I die of frustration.”
I don’t need to be told twice. I unzip her dress enough to expose her breasts, groaning at the sight of her nipples already hard and waiting for my mouth. When I take one between my lips, her back arches and she clutches my head to her chest.
“God, Gideon,” she moans.
I reach under the short hem of her dress. Her underwear is delicate black lace that tears easily in my hands. She gasps at the sound of ripping fabric, her eyes darkening further.
“I’ll buy you new ones,” I promise, slipping my fingers between her legs to find her already wet and ready. “So fucking wet for me.”
“Just for the show,” she pants, but the way she rocks against my hand tells another story.
I slide one finger inside her, then two, watching her face as she bites her lip to keep from crying out. The floor-to-ceiling windows behind me linger at the back of my mind. Anyone in the building across from us with the right angle could see us. The thought shouldn’t turn me on as much as it does.
“Let them see,” I tell her, rubbing circles with my thumb as I pump my fingers. “Let them see how beautiful you are when you come.”
Her eyes fly open, locked on mine as her inner walls begin to pulse around my fingers. “Gideon, I’m gonna—”
“That’s it, good girl,” I encourage her, the words falling from my lips without thought. “Come for me.”
Her orgasm washes over her, and I swallow her cry with another kiss. She’s still trembling when I roll on the condom and position myself at her entrance.
“I want you so bad,” she whispers against my mouth, and something in my chest cracks open at the simple admission.
I push inside her, intending to go slow, to savor every inch of her. But the moment I feel her heat surrounding me, my control shatters completely. I thrust hard and fast, burying myself to the hilt in one desperate movement.
“Fuck,” I groan, my forehead dropping to her shoulder. “ Sorry, I didn’t—”
“Don’t stop,” she gasps. “Please don’t stop.”
I lift my head to look at her. Her cheeks are flushed, her lips parted, her eyes glazed with pleasure and scotch. She’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. I don’t think I’ve ever been so turned on in my life.
“Move,” she pleads, wrapping her legs around my waist.
I begin to thrust, faster than I intended, as her nails involuntarily dig into my shoulders. The edge of the desk will leave bruises on her thighs, but neither of us cares. Papers cascade to the floor. A pen holder crashes next to them. The obscene sounds of our bodies joining fill the office, punctuated by her moans and my grunts.
“Fuck, Ava,” I groan as she tightens around me. “So good. So fucking perfect.”
She’s close again. I can feel it in the way she’s clenching around me, in the pitch of her cries. I slide my hand between us to where we’re joined, finding that bundle of nerves with my thumb.
“That’s it,” I encourage her. “Come on my cock. Be a good girl and come for me again.”
Her second orgasm hits harder than the first, her entire body convulsing as she cries out my name. The sight of her coming undone, the feel of her pulsing around me, it’s too much. I follow her over the edge, burying myself deep inside her as release crashes through me.
I slump, and for several moments, we stay just like that, panting and still joined. Reality slowly seeps back in. What we just did. Where we did it. The rules we broke.
I carefully withdraw, zip up my pants, clasp the belt. I dispose of the condom in the bathroom attached to my office. When I return, Ava has zipped up and straightened her dress, and is attempting to gather the scattered papers. Her hands are shaking slightly.
“Leave those,” I tell her. “I’ll get them later.”
She nods, not quite meeting my eyes. The air between us feels different. Complicated.
“So,” she says finally, “that should convince anyone watching that we’re a real couple.”
And there it is. The out we both need to take. The way to pretend this was just part of our arrangement rather than what it really was.
“Exactly,” I agree, adjusting my tie. “Now they’ll never be able to prove it’s a… you know.” Fake marriage. I don’t say the words, just to be on the safe side. While I doubt Blackwell has bugged my public office, it never hurts to err on the side of caution.
Still, this little talk we’re having… we’re both lying. And we both know it. But acknowledging the truth would mean facing the feelings building between us, and that would violate the central clause of our contract.
“We should head home,” I say, gathering my jacket.
“Right.” She smooths her hair. “This doesn’t change anything about our… you know .”
“Of course not.” I keep my voice neutral, professional.
She nods, relief and something else—disappointment?—flashing across her face.
“You were right, I should have closed the blinds,” I add, glancing at the windows. “We don’t really need Blackwell filming this—”
“Why? We’re doing exactly what we’re supposed to,” she interrupts. Then instinctively lowers her voice. “We’re acting like a married couple who can’t keep their hands off each other. Which we are.”
I nod.
As we ride the elevator down in silence, standing further apart than necessary, I can’t shake the thought that’s been haunting me since her graduation: this fake marriage is becoming dangerously real, at least for me. And based on the way Ava’s avoiding my eyes, maybe for her too.
The problem is, I’m not sure either of us knows what to do about it.