Back when I was a kid, less so. But now? Nah.
I didn’t mind working with criminals, didn’t mind having people buy my art to launder their cash.
The Lancaster family pissed me off because I hadn’t realized they were traffickers. The Irish Mob was many things, but they weren’t human traffickers. That was dishonorable.
The thought slipped inside me, and I knew, when we got up, I’d be making a call to my broker, asking them to release funds in the amounts of what Lancaster and his apparent associates had paid me, and I’d donate it to a human trafficking charity.
I’d find one, become a goddamn sponsor. I owed the women who’d suffered that much at least. I was a sponsor for over a dozen charities, and I tithed a massive chunk of my income to them, but one more just got added to the list.
“Hey, I lost you,” he rumbled, his fingers trailing down to smooth some locks of hair over my ear.
It felt so delicious that shivers rolled down my spine.
“I was just thinking.”
“About what?”
I spotted the tension in his eyes, then whispered, “About Caroline Dunbar. She said the Lancasters were involved in trafficking. I’m going to donate my earnings to a charity.”
He’d tensed at the mention of Caro’s name, not too difficult to fathom why considering our recent conversation, but then he relaxed. “How much does an original Aela O’Neill cost?”
I smiled. “I think you could afford it.”
He snickered, and as one, we tilted ourselves to stare at the wall. As silence fell between us, he murmured, “I should have known you’d get it.”
“I’m an artist. How couldn’t I? I studied these paintings in college, and I taught the artists’ techniques in class.” I released a shaky exhalation, wondering if I had a strange fetish because I knew I was getting wet again. Licking my lips, I gritted out, “I’ve never seen anything more beautiful in all my life. Which is your favorite?”
“That’s like asking me which is my favorite ball.”
I blinked then, utterly outraged, twisted to glower at him. “You did not just compareThe Concert,Poppy Flowers, andLandscape with Obeliskto your testicles.”
His lips curved into a smirk. “I did. Because I can’t choose. How can I? It’s nothing to do with value, and everything to do with how it makes you feel.”
That answer satisfied me more than anything he could have said. “Where did you buy them?”
He tapped his nose. “I have my sources. People know I’m interested in certain things, and they find a way to get in touch with me.”
“How?”
Dec stared at me for a second, then his voice was gruff as he growled, “You’re wet again, aren’t you?”
I gulped then nodded. He released a groan before he slipped his hand between my legs and cupped me through my jeans. A hiss escaped him and I knew he could feel my slickness through the denim.
Rocking my hips, I ground into his fingers, loving that he didn’t ask, that he read my cues. I got so fucking sick of men asking me if I liked this or that—I mean, I knew it was sweet and all—but that was never how it had been with Dec.
He just knew.
It was like he’d read all the instructions to my body on day one, and after that, I was tied to him through ecstasy alone.
“I think you should strip.”
Somewhere in the apartment, Shay was doing his own thing. Maybe literally, knowing my sex-mad kid. But hell, I couldn’t just…
I mean, Dec couldn’t either.
Like he knew what I was thinking, he whispered, “Get naked, lock the door, and I’ll tell you everything you want to know. I won’t move anything but my hand.”
Ugh.