Chapter 34
THIRTY-FOUR
STERLING
My chest heaves as I stare at the canvas before me. My naked torso and arms are covered in bright crimson paint, the colour blending with the sweat that slides over my skin. Harlow’s performance tonight has unleashed a rage within me.
Not at her, never her, but at everything else.
At my father for being the coldhearted bastard he is.
At Melody for treating Harlow with such contempt.
At Councillor Hoxton who wants to hurt the woman I love.
At Dalton’s father for thinking only of himself and forcing Dalton and Daisy to make a decision that could break the both of them.
And most of all, at myself for not acting sooner.
I should’ve claimed Harlow the second I saw her at our parents' wedding. I should’ve made it clear that we belonged together and maybe Councillor Hoxton would’ve backed the fuck off.
I’m angry, so fucking angry.
After hearing Harlow sing, I came straight here to unleash the turmoil I felt from every beautiful, poignant note that she sang. Daisy might have asked her to sing, but that performance was for me. I felt every drop of longing, I heard every uttered cadence telling me how trapped she feels by our secret, by the man who’s been terrorising her. Fuck, I’d wanted to go to her. I’d wanted to pull her into my arms and kiss her pain and fear away. I wanted to soothe her. But I fucking couldn’t. I could only watch as she poured her heart and soul into her performance, my own desperation making me stiff with tension, with rage. I still feel it now, despite trying to purge myself of it. Every stroke before me is a violent declaration of how much she means to me, how far I’m willing to go to keep her safe.
Dropping the paintbrush that’s dripping with crimson and black paint, I snatch up my phone and open the app, clicking through to the messages. I’m done with this shit. It’s time I draw the bastard out once and for all. Moving towards the far wall where more paintings of Harlow are situated, I take a photo of the very first painting I did of Harlow, and press send. Then I wait. Within minutes I see that he’s typing a response. My anger blazes as I read.
What is this?!
I can feel his shock and confusion through the message. Good. I hope the motherfucker feels a fraction of how I’m feeling now. If he’s as consumed by Harlow as he appears to be, seeing her image that I captured in a state of arousal will incense him. It will force his hand. Blowing out a steadying breath through my lips, I wait a moment before responding, but in the meantime he sends another message.
Who the fuck painted you like this? Have you been disloyal to me, Harlow? Are you trying to make me mad?
“Yes, motherfucker, that’s exactly what I’m doing,” I grind out, my thumb flying over the screen as I type out a message in response.
No. I’m afraid. That’s why I sent you these photos. He’s been acting strange around me, making lewd comments under his breath, pretending to our parents that he hates me when all the while he’s been painting images just like this. There are so many of them. I didn’t know.
He responds instantly.
Who? Tell me who!
Rolling my head on my shoulders to ease the tension, I reply.
My step-brother, Sterling. Tonight I overheard him speaking with his friends. He’s going to sell these paintings at a private viewing. People will assume we’re together. How could he do this to me? It’s sick.
For long moments, I wait. I can see him typing out a response, but nothing comes back straight away. He seems to be typing a message, then thinking better of it. I wonder what thoughts are rolling through his head right now. I hope he’s fucking raging, but more than that, I hope he takes the bait.
When?
His short response has a wicked smile curving up my lip. “Got you,” I mutter.
When? I reply.
When is he having this private viewing?!
Next Saturday in an art gallery in London. What should I do?
He replies within seconds.
I will sort this out. Leave it with me my sweet songbird. I’ll protect you from that deviant bastard and from anyone else who thinks they can own a piece of you. I’ll buy every damn painting if that’s what it takes.
“The fuck you will,” I grind out, slamming my phone onto the table, and cracking the screen in the process.
“Sterling, is everything okay?”
My head snaps up as I watch Harlow step into the studio, gently closing the door behind her. Her eyes are wide and her cheeks tinged pink from the cold as she takes me in. I know what I must look like, standing here covered in paint, trembling still from the aftermath of hearing her sing, from being so fucking angry at everyone and everything, of both wanting to protect her and struggling with my feelings that I’ve had to keep hidden. Hell, from needing to claim her as mine in front of our friends.
“No, Harlow. I’m not,” I admit, resting my arse against the table as I drop my head.
“I shouldn’t have sung. It’s my fault,” she says, her voice laced with concern as she comes to me.
Within moments her arms are wrapped around my back, her hands running up and down my spine. I melt into her embrace, hauling her close.
“It’s not that. It’s not you.”
“Then what is it? Talk to me, Sterling,” she begs, pulling back slightly so she can read my expression.
“I’m so fucking angry,” I admit, my body trembling with suppressed rage.
“Was it something to do with the conversation you had with the guys earlier? You seemed so tense after you spoke with them, what happened?”
I nod. “Partly.”
Cupping my cheek she strokes the pad of her thumb against my skin. “Tell me,” she urges.
“Do you remember when I told you that Dalton is afraid that if his father finds out about Daisy’s miscarriage that he’ll force him to divorce her and find another wife?”
“Yes,” she nods, her brows pinching together with concern.
“Well, part of the reason they got married in the first place was so that a debt Drix owed Carl would be paid in full, so long as Daisy agreed to marry Dalton and provide Carl with an heir to carry on the family name.”
“They married to clear a debt that Drix owes?” she repeats, shock widening her eyes.
“Yes. It would also mean that Dalton would receive his inheritance.”
“I thought he was in love with her.”
“He is, very much so.”
“But you said–”
“Daisy agreed to marry Dalton because she loves her brother and wanted to free him of the debt so he could be with Lia, and Dalton initially agreed to the marriage for selfish reasons,” I explain.
“And now?”
“And now he’s so in love with her that he’s willing to do anything to keep her, including walking away from his riches. The problem is, if he does, then the debt Drix owes still stands. Carl holds all the fucking cards.”
“What are they going to do?” she asks.
“ I’m going to help them.”
“How?”
“I can cover most of the debt with my own savings from paintings I’ve already sold, but I’ll also have to sell these,” I explain, watching her carefully for a reaction.
“By these, you mean the paintings of me ?”
“Yes…” My voice trails off as I let that news sink in.
Harlow thinks for a moment, her eyes drifting around the studio. She has every right to refuse, to insist that I don’t sell them, but instead she reaches up with her other hand and palms both my cheeks.
“If it will help them, then do it. Sell the paintings, Sterling.”
I should feel relief at her agreement, but all I feel is guilt because I hadn’t sought her permission before promising I’d help Dalton, least of all using the sale of these paintings as an opportunity to draw out that cunt Hoxton.
“What?” she questions, sensing there’s more.
“I should’ve consulted you first…” My voice trails off as I grit my jaw.
“Sterling, just tell me.”
“I can’t wait any longer, Harlow,” I blurt out, cupping her wrists and feeling my stomach churn with desperation. “This is the only way I could think of to force Hoxton’s hand, so that he makes a move and we can deal with the bastard once and for all. Fuck, I don’t know if I’ve done the right thing.”
“How are you forcing his hand?” she asks, her gaze flickering with a sudden unease that makes my throat constrict with panic.
“Fuck,” I exclaim.
“Sterling, how?” she insists.
“I sent him a photo of that painting,” I say in a rush of breath, pointing to the painting that has captured Harlow in pure ecstasy. The one where her head is thrown back in surrender, her mouth parted on a moan, her beautiful face surrounded by an array of colours that represent the intensity of our first time together. It’s an incredibly personal piece that I never intended for anyone else to see, least of all that cunt, but I also knew that it was the only one that would ignite a reaction from him, and finally draw him out of hiding.
Harlow gasps, her hands dropping from my cheeks as she takes a step back, processing my words. For a moment I think she’s going to walk away, and I wouldn’t blame her, but instead she lifts her eyes to meet mine, pulls back her shoulders and nods.
“I trust you, Sterling. I trust that you’re doing what you think is best to protect us,” she says firmly, determination and gritty resolve shining in her eyes.
I feel a surge of gratitude and love for Harlow at that moment. Despite my reckless actions and questionable decision, she trusts me with this and that means so fucking much to me. Without hesitation, I bridge the gap between us, pull her into my arms and slam my lips against hers.
The second our lips meet, a current of electricity shoots through me, igniting a crazed kind of passion that has Harlow responding with equal fervour. Her hands grip my shoulders as our bodies press together with a powerful connection that cannot be contained. Everything that has happened tonight is eclipsed by our feelings for each other, and in its place is a raw, wild kind of need that drives us closer together. Harlow’s hands slide into my hair as I lift her effortlessly, her legs wrapping around my waist as we continue to kiss. Carrying her to the table, our kisses become frantic as I lean over and swipe my arm across the surface, knocking paintbrushes and tubes of oil paint to the floor. Our fingers race over one another, fumbling with buttons and zippers as we strip off our clothes until there’s nothing left but skin on skin. I devour her with hungry kisses, nipping and licking her skin as I trace the curve of her neck and the swell of her breast before clamping my mouth around her nipple and sucking hard.
“Sterling!” she hisses, arching into me, her voice begging for more. I oblige without hesitation, drawing her nipple deeper into my mouth.
Our moans fill the room, mingling together in a frantic cacophony of sound whilst the air around us thickens with palpable heat. The faint scent of her arousal mixes with spilled paint creating an erotic cocktail that only serves to turn me on more. My hands roam over her body, tracing the curve of her hips and the softness of her thighs as I push them apart, my fingers finding her wet and wanting.
Smashing my lips back against hers, I slide two fingers inside of her slick pussy whilst she clings to me, her nails digging into my skin. Her moans intensify and my cock drips with pre-cum, begging me to drive the thick shaft inside of her.
“I need you, Harlow. I need you so fucking much,” I rasp out as I remove my fingers and grip my dick, her slickness coating my shaft as I fist myself.
Her eyes seek mine, heady with lust and love. “Fuck me, Sterling. Please, just fuck me!” she cries.
Reaching up, I press my palm against the middle of her chest, urging her back against the table, then I line my cock up with her entrance, wrap my fingers around her throat, and slam into her with one firm thirst. My cock drives home, slipping effortlessly into her wet heat.
She gasps, the force of my entrance shoving her across the table, causing my fingers to slip from her throat. So I reach for her hips, holding her in place with a bruising grasp as I rut into her. There’s a desperate edge to our fucking, a culmination of so many pent-up emotions, and I feel them all. There’s frustration and fear, need and longing, desire and love. It churns within my chest, around us both, thickening the air and stealing the oxygen from my lungs. This isn’t just two people fucking, this is a claiming, an intense declaration of our undeniable connection.
“Goddamn it,” I roar as her legs tighten around my arse and I thrust deeper, slamming into her at a frenzied pace.
“Harder,” she hisses, as her hands grasp my back, holding on tight. She needs this as much as I do.
I oblige, each stroke eliciting a high-pitched moan from Harlow that only fuels my need to chase the intense orgasm that’s coiling around the base of my spine. The pleasure builds with every thrust, my moans turning to grunts as every last thread of my control snaps.
“Sterling!” Her voice is a breathy plea and I respond by folding myself over her, each slide of my cock an aggressive claim on her body and soul. Harlow claims me right back, her internal muscles squeezing me tight from her oncoming orgasm.
“Mine!” I grunt, slamming into her. “Mine. Mine. Mine! You’re mine!”
With one last final thrust, I empty inside of her with a roar, my cum coating her internal walls. “Yours!” she screams in response, her body tensing and shuddering with her own powerful orgasm.
Pure pleasure washes over me as I shudder inside of her, riding out the last waves of my orgasm until I can’t hold myself up any longer, and collapse against her chest, spent and utterly satisfied.
It takes a while for us both to find the strength to get dressed, but we do so quietly. I help her to pull on her jeans, my touch gentle as I graze the bruises blooming on her hips from my grip.
“I’m sorry,” I apologise.
“I’m not,” she replies, pressing a chaste kiss against my lips.
“Are you certain that you’re okay with all of this?” I ask, as she pulls on her t-shirt and jumper.
“I am. I want this to be over so that we can finally be together.”
“Me too, but if I’m going to keep you safe, I don’t want you anywhere near the viewing. I want to deal with that bastard alone.”
“Do you honestly think this plan will work?” she asks softly. “Do you think he’ll actually attend the viewing?”
“I’m certain of it,” I reply, hoping to fuck I’m right.