41. Gideon
41
Gideon
T he penthouse feels empty without her. I check my watch again. 1:07 AM.
I reach over to the side of the bed where Ava should be, my fingers finding only cool sheets. These past few weeks of sharing my bed with her have changed me in ways I didn’t anticipate. The scent of vanilla and linseed oil lingers on her pillow, but her warmth is missing.
I pick up my phone and open the security app. Two quick taps and I have her location. The Brooklyn studio. Of course. Her security detail is standing watch at the entrance.
“Fuck,” I mutter, running a hand through my hair.
I consider telling them to forcefully bring her home. No, I can’t imagine she’d be very happy if I did that. There’s only one other option...
But I shouldn’t go. She’s allowed her space. Our arrangement is temporary, a fact I’ve been finding increasingly difficult to stomach. But the thought of her alone in that warehouse district at this hour twists something inside me. Even if she has her security detail present. I tell myself it’s just concern for my investment.
I know it’s a lie even as I think it.
Twenty minutes later, I’m standing outside her studio building, having dismissed my driver with instructions to return in two hours. My security team joins hers, and they do a sweep of the perimeter before giving me clearance to enter alone. Even in my current state, I notice how the neighborhood has improved since her first visit here. The Riverside Corridor project is already changing the area.
The freight elevator groans as it carries me to the third floor. When I slide open the heavy door to her studio, the scent hits me first. Turpentine. Oil paints. Creativity made tangible.
And there she is.
Ava stands before a massive canvas, her back to me, completely unaware of my presence, totally engrossed in her work. Her black curls are piled messily atop her head, secured with what appears to be a paintbrush. She’s wearing loose gray sweatpants splattered with a rainbow of colors and a thin white tank top that’s seen better days. Even in this disheveled state, the sight of her makes my chest tighten.
For a moment, I simply watch her. Her movements are different here. Fluid, confident, uninhibited. This is Ava in her element, the artist in her natural habitat, not the woman playing at being my wife. She steps back, tilts her head critically at the canvas, then lunges forward to make a broad, decisive stroke with her brush.
“You’re a long way from the penthouse,” I say finally .
She whirls around, paintbrush brandished like a weapon, paint splattering across the concrete floor. Her eyes widen.
“Jesus, Gideon. You scared the shit out of me.” Her chest rises and falls rapidly, the thin fabric of her tank top doing little to conceal the effect of the studio’s chill. God, those nipples... “How did you get in here?”
“The studio door was unlocked.” I step further into the space. “You should be more careful.”
“Diana and Michael are standing watch downstairs...” she says.
“So? Security personnel can still be ambushed. Especially at this hour.”
“Why are you here?” She sets down her brush, wiping her hands on a rag that appears to have more paint than fabric at this point.
“You didn’t come home.”
The words hang between us. Home. Such a simple word, loaded with implications neither of us is ready to address.
“I lost track of time,” she says, tucking a stray curl behind her ear, leaving a smudge of blue on her cheek. “Sorry. I should’ve texted.”
I move closer, taking in the space she’s created. The warehouse studio has transformed since I first saw it. Large canvases lean against walls, some complete, others in various stages of creation. In the corner, a small but comfortable-looking sofa sits beside a mini-fridge, electric kettle, and hot plate. It’s organized chaos, every square inch imbued with her essence.
“This is quite the operation,” I say, circling a freestanding metal shelving unit full of jars, tubes, and brushes.
“It’s not extravagant like the penthouse, but it works for me.” There’s a defensiveness in her tone that makes me pause.
“I didn’t mean it as criticism.” I stop in front of the canvas she was working on. “Is this new?”
The painting is unlike anything I’ve seen from her before. Massive, at least eight feet tall, with layers of color building into something both chaotic and controlled. At its center, a form that might be human emerges from what could be flames or wings or both.
She hesitates, then nods. “Started it tonight.”
“After Blackwell confronted you.”
Her shoulders tense. “I needed to process.”
I understand this need to channel emotional turmoil into something productive. For me, it’s always been work, building my empire higher as if the altitude might somehow separate me from my demons. For Ava, it’s this. Raw emotion transformed into something beautiful and lasting.
“May I?” I ask, gesturing to a stool nearby.
She looks genuinely surprised. “You want to watch me paint?”
“If you’ll allow it.”
Ava studies me. I keep my expression neutral, though my heart rate has inexplicably accelerated.
“No one watches me work,” she says finally. “Not even Lucy. You know that.”
“I understand.” I turn to leave, an unfamiliar disappointment washing over me.
“Wait.” Her voice stops me. “You can stay. Just... don’t talk too much. And don’t expect me to explain what I’m doing.”
I nod, taking a seat on the stool, positioning it where I can see both her and the canvas. “I wouldn’t dream of it. ”
She returns to her work, hesitant at first, glancing over her shoulder as if expecting me to interrupt or criticize. When I remain silent, she gradually loses herself in the process again.
My head of security sends a message, asking if everything is all right.
All good, I text back. Settle in for the long haul.
Minutes stretch into an hour as I watch her transform the canvas, adding layers, scraping away others, her entire body engaged in the creation.
It’s the most intimate thing I’ve ever witnessed.
More intimate than sex. More revealing than any financial disclosure or business negotiation. This is Ava stripped to her essence. Passionate, focused, ferociously talented. No masks. No pretense.
I realize I’m holding my breath when she steps back to study the canvas.
“What do you think?” she asks without turning.
The question catches me off guard. “I’m... I...”
Now she does turn, wiping sweat from her brow with the back of her hand. “That bad, huh? You can be honest. I can handle it. What do you feel when you look at it?”
“No, it’s just...” I study the painting again. “I feel... like I’ve been let in on a secret. Like I’m seeing something that was never meant to be seen. Like you’ve exposed yourself raw.”
Her eyes widen slightly. “That’s... exactly what I was going for.”
“Really?”
“The vulnerability of creation.” She sets down her brush and approaches me. “Every time I finish a piece, I’m terrified. It’s like standing naked in a crowded room.”
“Yet you do it anyway,” I observe. “You create knowing your work will be judged.”
“Because the alternative is worse.” She’s standing close enough now that I can see gold flecks in her brown eyes. “Not creating would kill something essential in me.”
“I’ve never felt that way about anything.”
“Not even your buildings? Your developments?” She gestures toward the window where, just visible in the distance, the lights of Manhattan glitter. “You create too, Gideon.”
“That’s different. Real estate is controlled. Calculated.”
“Is it?” She smiles slightly. “Then why did you fight so hard for the Riverside Corridor project? That wasn’t just about beating Blackwell.”
She’s right, though I’ve never articulated it, even to myself. The project represents something beyond profit margins and market share. A vision of what could be, should be .
It helps that she had a big hand in that vision, of course.
“Perhaps we’re not so different,” I concede.
“Perhaps not.” She reaches out, her paint-stained fingers hovering just above my cheek. “You have vulnerability in you too, Gideon. You just hide it better.”
I catch her wrist, feeling her pulse quicken beneath my grip. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?” she challenges, eyes flashing. “Don’t see you? Too late.”
“Ava—”
“You tracked me down in the middle of the night. You watched me paint for an hour. You’re not here as my fake husband or business partner. Why are you here, Gideon?”
The truth rises in my throat, dangerous and raw. “I couldn’t sleep without you there.”
Her expression softens, and something shifts in the air between us. She leans forward, pressing her forehead against mine, and I breathe in the scent of her, that paint and vanilla and that subtle, deeper smell that’s so uniquely Ava.
“I’m here now,” she whispers.
My control shatters. I pull her onto my lap, claiming her mouth with mine. She responds instantly, her fingers threading through my hair, her body melting against me. I taste the coffee she must have had hours ago, feel the softness of her lips contrasting with the firm press of her body.
“We can’t do this here,” she says. “Nowhere to shower off. You’ll get smeared with paint.”
“I don’t care,” I murmur against her neck. “I’ve wanted to do this since I walked in. You’re fucking magnificent when you create.”
She laughs softly, the sound vibrating against my lips. “I’m a mess.”
“A beautiful mess.” I run my hands up her sides, feeling her shiver. “My beautiful mess.”
Her breath catches at the possessive tone, and I feel her press closer, seeking more contact. I stand, lifting her with me.
“Mattress?” I ask, already walking.
She points to a door at the back of the studio. “Through there.”
The small room beyond holds a mattress on a low platform, covered in rumpled sheets. A practical solution for late nights working, now serving a different purpose. I lay her down, bracing myself above her.
I pause, as I usually do, to give her one last chance to turn me down. One last chance to stop me before I lose all self-control.
But in answer, she pulls her tank top over her head, revealing she’s wearing nothing underneath. The sight of her bare breasts, small and perfect, makes my cock strain painfully against my pants.
“I need you, Gideon,” she says, eyes dark with desire.
“Fuck.” I lower my head to her breast, taking a nipple into my mouth, swirling my tongue around the sensitive peak until she arches beneath me, gasping. Her hands fumble with my shirt buttons, then give up and simply pull, sending buttons scattering across the floor.
“Impatient,” I growl, nipping at her collarbone.
“Four weeks of sharing your bed has taught me what I want,” she replies, running her nails gently down my chest.
The reminder of our shared intimacy these past weeks ignites something primal in me. I’ve been careful with her, contained. Tonight feels different. Here in her space, surrounded by her art, her raw vulnerability calls to something equally raw in me.
I strip away her sweatpants, finding simple cotton underwear beneath. The practical choice only makes me harder. This isn’t performance or pretense. This is Ava, unfiltered. I don’t think I’ve ever felt my cock throbbing so hard in my life.
“So beautiful,” I murmur, trailing my fingers along the elastic waistband. “My vixen.”
Her eyes darken at the endearment. “Show me,” she challenges.
I lower my head, pressing my mouth against the cotton, feeling her heat through the thin fabric. She whimpers, hips lifting involuntarily. I hook my fingers in the waistband and pull the underwear down her legs, revealing her completely.
“Fuck, Ava,” I breathe, taking in the sight of her spread before me. “Look at your pussy. It smells so good.”
A flush spreads across her chest and face. “Gideon, please.”
I shed the rest of my clothes quickly, reaching for my wallet to extract a condom. Her eyes widen as she watches me roll it on.
“Even after all this time, the size of you still surprises me,” she whispers.
I smirk, unable to help myself. “Good. I like surprising you.”
Instead of covering her body with mine, I pull her to the edge of the mattress. “I want to watch your face,” I explain, positioning myself at her entrance. “I want to see every expression as I take you.”
She nods, eyes locked with mine as I push slowly into her tight heat. The sensation is exquisite, her body yielding, then gripping me, drawing me deeper. When I’m fully seated within her, we both pause, breathing heavily.
“You take my cock so well,” I praise, stroking her cheek. “Such a good girl for me.”
She moans at the words, inner muscles clenching around me. “Please move.”
I withdraw almost completely before thrusting back in, establishing a rhythm that has her clutching at the sheets. Her responses drive me higher, each gasp, each whimper, each breathless “yes” urging me to take more, give more.
“Touch yourself,” I command, wanting to see her pleasure herself as I fuck her. “Show me what you need.”
Her hand moves between us, fingers circling her clit in time with my thrusts. The sight is intoxicating. Ava taking her pleasure, uninhibited and demanding. Her other hand grips my forearm, nails digging into my skin, marking me as hers.
“That’s it,” I encourage, increasing my pace. “Take what you need from me.”
“Harder,” she gasps. “I need more.”
I comply, driving into her with renewed force, the sound of flesh meeting flesh filling the small room. She wraps her legs around my buttocks, changing the angle, taking me impossibly deeper.
“Gideon, I’m close,” she warns, her movements becoming erratic.
“Look at me,” I demand, my own release building. “I want to see your eyes when you cum for me.”
Her gaze locks with mine, vulnerability and trust shining through the haze of pleasure. It’s the most honest moment we’ve shared, more intimate than any contract or conversation. As her body tightens around mine, waves of pleasure washing over her features, I feel something fundamental shift within me.
This isn’t just desire. This isn’t just release.
This is connection. Raw, unfiltered, terrifying connection.
I follow her over the edge, my climax tearing through me with unexpected force. For a moment, the world narrows to just this. Her body joined with mine, her eyes holding mine, nothing between us but truth.
After, I dispose of the condom and gather her against me on the narrow mattress. Her body fits perfectly against mine, head tucked under my chin, legs tangled with my own. Neither of us speaks.
“Thank you,” she says finally, her voice soft in the dim studio light.
“For what?”
“For watching me paint. For seeing me.”
I tighten my arm around her. “Thank you for allowing it.”
She traces patterns on my chest, her touch leaving trails of heat on my skin. “This wasn’t supposed to happen, you know.”
“Which part?”
“Any of it. The sex. The sharing a bed. The... feelings.”
My heart stutters at the mention of feelings, but I force myself to remain calm. “Are there feelings, Ava?”
She’s quiet for so long I think she might not answer. “Would it matter if there were? Our arrangement has an expiration date.”
The reminder is like ice water on my heated skin. Six more weeks and our contract ends. She’ll take her settlement and open her gallery. I’ll retain control of my empire. We’ll go our separate ways, as planned.
The thought makes me physically ill.
“What if...” But I can’t finish. What if it didn’t have to end?
She lifts her head, eyes searching mine in the dim light. “What if?”
The businessman in me is screaming to retreat, to maintain the careful distance I’ve cultivated for years. But lying here, surrounded by her art, her scent, her warmth, I can’t imagine returning to a life without this. Without her.
I shake my head. “I’ve never felt as connected to another person as I do right now, lying on this shitty mattress in your studio. And... that terrifies me.”
She presses her lips to my chest, right over my heart. “It terrifies me, too.”
“Why?”
“Because I’ve built my defenses so carefully. Because I have plans. Because men like you don’t end up with women like me except in fairy tales.”
“Men like me?”
“Powerful. Wealthy. Perfect.”
I laugh, the sound harsh in the quiet room. “I’m far from perfect, Ava. You know that better than most.”
“Still.” She sighs. “We come from different worlds.”
“Maybe,” I concede, stroking her hair. “But right now, we’re in the same one.”
She doesn’t respond, but I feel her relax against me, her breathing slowing as exhaustion claims her. I should leave, return to the penthouse, maintain some semblance of the boundaries we’ve established. Instead, I hold her closer, breathing in the scent of her hair, feeling the steady beat of her heart against mine.
I’ve never felt this connected to another person in my life. The realization both exhilarates and terrifies me. Exhilarates because I never knew such connection was possible. Terrifies because in six weeks, according to the contract we both signed, it ends.
Unless I find a way to change the terms of our arrangement.
My mind races with possibilities as I watch her sleep, her face peaceful in a way it rarely is when she’s awake. I’ve built an empire through strategic decision- making and calculated risks. Surely I can find a solution to this.
Because lying here in her creative sanctuary, surrounded by expressions of her soul on canvas, I know one thing with absolute certainty.
I’m not ready to let Ava Redwood go.