Page 61 of Brazen Deceits

He dives to my mouth, the tartness of my release bright on his tongue, and we both moan, my fingers digging into his hair. His head dips down to suck one nipple into his mouth, then the other, shivers skating through my body, his rhythm growing jagged and urgent as he pants above me, sweat slick between us.

He reaches down, and with a single circle of his finger, slings me over the edge again, his own groan meeting my yelp, as we collapse into each other.

Neither of us move, my arms finally finding the energy to trace lines over his back, up into his hair, down the divots of his spine, his weight on top of me, spent, my heart light.

The last of my tremors ease, lethargy stealing any lingering agitation, and I breathe in the scent of him, maple syrup and pine enveloping me, my eyelids heavy.

“Mmm,” I say, nuzzling his neck.

He rolls off me, folding me against him, his arms banding around my waist. “Worth the wait?”

I nip his pec. “Mostly, you jerk.”

“Only mostly?” He pulls on my hair until I’m looking at him, my bun long lost and trailing down my back. His eyes glitterlike he’s teasing, but there’s a hard edge there, an urgent question hiding behind his smile.

“Fine. It was totally worth it. But now I just want to sleep, only I think I need to clean up, again, and I don’t know how I’m going to make it all that way on jelly legs.”

He laughs, and I match his grin, giddy to see him happy after weeks of grimaces and avoidance. “I’ll get you there. It’s the least I can do. You begged so prettily.”

I mock glare at him as he pulls me into his arms, snagging a towel for us to clean up with before carrying me to the bathroom.

“Jansen announced to everyone that you have an IUD,” he says, his gaze shuttering again. “Fuck, I should have asked first. I’m sorry. I’m clean.”

Running my hand along his jaw, I drag his eyes to meet mine. Kissing him on the lips, I can’t figure out how to answer, so I avoid it, like we’re avoiding all the messy bits right now, wanting to revel in the afterglow. He should have asked. Or I should have. But fuck being mad at him. I don’t want to be.

The spray of the shower knocks the last of my thoughts from my mind as I burrow against his neck, wishing this ache around my heart would just disappear. I don’t want it, not here, not now, not with him.Go away.

Chapter 27

Clara

It turns out being a tourist is exhausting, especially when I’m pretending to be Walker’s muse. I’ve spun more times in the last four hours than I have in the last ten years.

I’m prancing around him in leggings and a tutu paired with an off-the-shoulder long-sleeved shirt. The look is Brigitte Bardot meetsThe Nutcracker, and I feel as flighty as I look. Two museums down, two to go. “Walker, do you think they’ll have almond croissants here? I really want an almond croissant,” I purr, pulling his arm so I can press a kiss against his cheek.

He smirks, laughter glowing from his eyes. There’s no doubt he’s been all-in on me playing his muse. He’s laughed more today than I’ve ever seen, and the people pleaser in me I’m trying so hard to kill off is positively thrilled. “Princess, it’s amuseum, not a cafe.”

I pout—an almond croissant sounded fantastic. And breakfast was three bus rides and countless miles ago. I want food. “What about sandwiches? Granola bars?” Not wacky enough, Clara. “Oh! I really could go for some fresh-squeezed blood orange juice. Do you think they have that? One with a little paper umbrella, to make it fancy?”

Walker snorts, pausing in front of one of the big green lions guarding the entrance of the Art Institute of Chicago, turning me so my back is to the statue. “They don’t have blood orange juice with little umbrellas. Now, pose.”

I strike a series of increasingly ridiculous poses next to the lion. Walker stops me from licking the thing while asking me to lift my chin, lower my chin, shift to the right into better light, his phone snapping shot after shot. Finally, he lifts me away from my third mock lick, both of us laughing as he sets me down on the stairs.

“Are you actually hungry?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

We both eye the Starbucks across the street.

Ten minutes and two pastries later, we’re back on the steps to the museum, me skipping up them backwards, Walker catching me every time I trip.

He links my arm with his as he picks up our tickets. If I weren’t doing this tour with Walker, I’d be over it by now. But every time he pauses, his eyes bright as he takes in the composition of a photograph, the color of a painting, the detail in a carving, and then turns to me, explaining what is special about this piece, asking me what I think, what I feel—it’s like his soul is so close I could reach out and nuzzle it withmy cheek.

We decided this morning to spend one to two hours per museum, and with so much to see here, we’re on a bit of a time crunch. We hit up selective parts of Asia and bypass the Americas in their entirety. Upstairs we spend an hour in Europe. Walker explains how the various masters influenced each other, how different color palettes and styles denote different times and places.

On the third floor, we venture out to the sculpture terrace. Walker tells me how badly he wants to learn to do major metalwork. He wants to do a full installation, but he’s worried that he’ll light his hand on fire with a blowtorch and not be able to draw anymore. “I know it’s a stupid fear, but…” He shrugs.

I giggle, sprinting from his side, doing a loop around the display as he trots half-heartedly after me.

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