Page 10 of Sinful Crimes for the Artistically Inclined
“No!” Joe choked out. “No, it’s beautiful.”
“Are you sure? It’s new. It was teal before, but a darker teal, you know?”
Joe didn’t know at all. “Yeah.”
“But now I’m worried it’s too matchy.”
“No, it’s great. It looks so…” Joe wondered what colour the sheets were beneath the duvet. He wondered if Percy slept naked. He wondered if he would ever feel Percy’s flesh against his own in that bed. His voice broke like he was fourteen years old. “So good. With—with the art… there. On the walls. It’s so good. Do you— What do you do again?”
“I’m an art historian.”
Joe racked his brain in an attempt to figure out how much an art historian might earn, but he hadn’t the vaguest idea. And, while Joe could generally hold his own in any gallery displaying the works of the masters, given his wide biblical knowledge, he wasn’t sure what sort of comment he could make about the utterly non-biblical and somewhat arousing art on Percy’s bedroom walls that would make him sound cultured. Thankfully, he was also Italian, so he went with, “That explains the Caravaggio.”
Percy’s eyes thrilled, and Joe knew he’d said the right thing. “My specialisation.”
Fuck.Joe didn’t think it was possible to be even more taken with Percy. So, so beautiful. So, so sexual. So, so sweet. He ventured, “Where… Where did you study?”
“Padua.” Slipping effortlessly into fluent Italian, Percy continued, “For seven years. But I’ve done residences in Milan, Florence, Turin. Rome, obviously.”
“Obviously,” sighed out a smitten Joe.
“I return frequently. It’s a home away from home. All my favourite works are there. Except this one.” He raised his chin to Caravaggio’sNarcissus. “It’s so lovely, isn’t it?” He sent half a glance over to Joe and added, “It’s only borrowed, of course.”
Joe had already sunk into the painting, perfectly lit in soft light, just as tender and beautiful as it had ever been. He imagined himself there, staring into the pool, and Percy staring back at him, and how he, like Narcissus, would be trapped forever, caught in that exquisite vision, never able to leave again, so completely obsessed?—
Percy’s words finally sank in, and he choked on them. “B-borrowed?”
That was when he noticed how intently Percy seemed to be watching and listening for his reaction. A few beats of silencefell between them and Narcissus, then Percy broke the tension by laughing out, “Borrowed? Is that what I said?”
But despite Percy’s suddenly flippant air, an odd feeling crept over Joe.
He paid a little more attention to the cracks in the painting, zeroing in on the fine lines, wondering at the bold strokes. Could they have sat there on that canvas for four hundred years? “Yeah, no, I know.” He also laughed, unable to shake that strange feeling. “I mean, there’s no way that could be…” He looked closer at the painting, murmuring, “That couldn’t be the real thing…”
“Shower?” Percy suggested, holding out the clothes he’d chosen for Joe.
Joe took the excessively soft bundle, successfully distracted, especially when Percy touched a switch on the wall, and a section of it slid back just as unobtrusively as the wardrobe door had.
The light came on automatically, and the very first thing Joe saw was an enormous golden bathtub, glinting beneath soft, warm lights. Gold handles, gold faucets, so much gold, and everything of the best, most intimidating quality.
“I’ll be out there. Best leave through the side door. This one will be vacuum sealed.” And Percy was gone, back to his living room, leaving Joe to have one of the most luxurious, most confounding showers he’d ever had.
CHAPTER SEVEN
BOYFRIEND BULLSHIT
Percy wasn’t cooking for Joe, so it was fine. A few crackers on a plate meant nothing. Brie is barely a cheese at all, so that wasn’t a thing. Though it was Brie de Meaux. The strongest and best one he knew of that he got delivered monthly as part of his cheese subscription. But it needed to be used anyway. Just like the Roquefort he was putting out. And the pear. And the semi-dried muscatel grapes still on the vine. And if Percy was sitting down to enjoy a late-night snack, it wasn’t that unusual that he might light a few candles, regardless of Joe’s presence. Not unusual at all. Maybe a scented one too…
Percy’s selection of a twenty-four-year-old Chateau Ducru-Beaucaillou, Saint-Julien, was—strictly—a treat for himself, because it had been a long and miserable week, and he deserved it. But it wasn’t as though he was going to drink the entire bottle of wine at that time of night all by himself, and it wouldn’t be half as good the following day, so Joe may as well join him.
And why not set the whole thing up on the fluffy white rug by the fire? Why not lay himself outlong next to it? It was warm just there. Warm enough to roll the sleeves of his charcoal shirt to show off his wrists, what with them being almost as aesthetically pleasing as the platter and the fire and the wine and the rug.
He heard the door to the bathroom click shut, swiftly undid an extra button, then almost passed out from swollen, constricted, hard-beating, near-exploding heart.
Joe looked good.
Joe lookedreallygood.
Joe’s cheeks were pink from both the hot shower and the completely unexpected vision of Percy. Joe’s hair was wet again and curled a little darker and tighter with it. But Percy’s clothes on Joe’s body were the nail that shut Percy’s heart up tight in a Joe-shaped box.
