Chapter 37

Denial is a powerful thing.

The next two days passed by in a blur of lovemaking and pretending our troubles didn’t exist. Every time I mentioned I wanted to check on the outcome of the gala and what the press was saying about Gordon’s disruption, Maxwell would pull me to him and tell me he didn’t give a shit.

He’d wake me up in the morning with his face between my legs, drinking from my pussy like it was his sustenance, or I’d feel him prodding my back as he curled me tightly against him, raining kisses down my neck.

“I promise not to love you,” he groaned as he thrusted into me from behind yesterday afternoon, his thick cock slipping into my wet core as he plastered me against the windows of his bedroom.

Unlike the times before, where we were clothed, and he’d avoid touching me any more than necessary, we were both naked, our bodies writhing as he held me upright, my nipples pebbled from pressing against the cold glass. Even though he was still his usual gruff self, I could feel the palpable connection between us—the way his body would seek mine, his hands touching me, his lips kissing me as though he couldn’t get enough.

It felt different. We felt different.

I remembered how he reached around and gripped my neck, turning my face toward him before he crushed his lips to mine. His hips snapped against my ass in a punishing rhythm, each pass of his cock hitting my G-spot .

I thrashed in his tight embrace, my legs trembling as he reached between my thighs with his free hand and circled my clit.

“If someone were outside right now, they would see you being well fucked by your husband, your tits bouncing against the windows, your tight pussy swallowing up my cock like it couldn’t get enough,” he whispered in my ear, his voice low and guttural.

Wetness flooded my core at the image he painted.

“My little muse likes it. Being taken in front of people. That turns you on, doesn’t it?”

“Maxwell,” I breathed, my pussy clenching against his punishing thrusts, the pleasure building and gathering from deep within. “I-I’m going to come, oh shit.”

“Yes, little muse,” he rasped. He pistoned harder such that our bodies slammed against each other and the glass window, the sounds lurid. “All your orgasms belong to me now.”

Every muscle in my body tensed as I shook in his embrace, my cries uninhibited, which seemed to only drive him crazier.

“I’m addicted to you, Belle,” he grunted, his fingers rubbing harder at my swollen clit and my body locked in tension, the pleasure reaching a peak.

He bit my neck, and the sharp burst of pain sent me over the edge.

I screamed as I fell over the precipice, euphoria flooding my veins, and I collapsed on his body.

“Fuuuuck,” he roared, his cock lengthening and swelling, before unleashing ropes of cum deep inside me, the heat of his release prolonging my high.

He slammed his mouth over mine, swallowing my cries, his tongue tangling, swiping before he whispered, “I promise not to love you.”

While my heart would flinch every time he said that, I couldn’t help but feel the passion in his voice, see the piercing intensity in his eyes, taste the hunger in his mouth.

He’s lying , I’d tell myself, you’re getting through to him .

But it still hurts to hear, even if I understand his fear. I wonder if I’ll ever be able to convince him to believe me, to believe in us, to believe that fate hasn’t put us together only for a curse to tear us apart.

Now, on the third day after Christmas, I traipse through the secret passageway to the Elysium, eager to distract myself from my thoughts and finish my sketches before Maxwell seduces me with his kisses again.

Silas howls as he runs ahead, clearly excited about me venturing outside of the bedroom I was practically chained to by my sexy husband.

I enter the room and find a fire already roaring in the hearth, two mugs of hot drinks set on the writing desk, the tendrils of the steam twirling before vaporizing in the air. An easel is set up, and a few blank canvases are propped against the wall.

He was here.

Maxwell told me the other day there are two more secret passageways he discovered years ago in the blueprints, but we haven’t visited them yet. One goes to a back garden. Rumors were, the Andersons would use it as an emergency escape route. Another one goes to the rooftop garden, a place I still haven’t visited yet. He said there’s nothing up there, that he himself didn’t care for the abandoned garden.

I’m curious about it, but something holds me back every time I pass by the fourth floor stairwell. A strange feeling, a sadness which seems stronger whenever I approach it, and so I’ve avoided it altogether.

Maxwell said most people didn’t know of these passageways, and the only reason he knew I discovered the Elysium was because of the light shining through the windows when I cleaned out the space.

I toss Silas a bone I got from the kitchen and he happily settles in front of the fire and attacks it vigorously.

Grinning, I walk over to the easel and admire the painting there—a somber piece of charcoals and blacks, of what looks to be a blistering sea against murderous skies, and a lonely lighthouse perched atop a cliff, the David against nature’s Goliath. My breath catches as I marvel at the thick paint strokes. I can see the passion in them, the leashed down emotions, much like the artist behind the piece .

The lighthouse looks like it’s fighting a losing battle. It’s forlorn. Hopeless. A tiny beacon of light in a sea of gray. I purse my lips in contemplation.

I don’t think so, Maxwell. Nope, not on my watch.

Excitement tremors inside me, my work temporarily relegated to second place in my list of priorities. Picking up a brush and the oil painting palate on the desk, I get to work, starting with mixing different colors to create the new shades I’m envisioning. Thank goodness I took enough art classes in college to know what I’m doing. After all, fashion is art.

“I knew you’d go crazy if you didn’t work a little. And why are you smiling like that?” his voice rumbles behind me and I shiver, thinking back to yesterday when he had me pinned against the window.

Seconds later, I feel his heated body pressed against my back, his lips trailing soft kisses over my cheek and neck. My blood heats and my core pulses, my body obviously not satiated, ready for another round between the sheets with him, but I have things to do.

More important things than sex. Like convincing him there’s hope in the world.

“Maxwell,” I moan, pushing him away, “I’m trying to be helpful.”

He growls and nips my neck. “Trust me, you’re very helpful.”

“Ugh, you are impossible!” I laugh, wiggling out of his grasp.

He gives me a flirtatious wink, and I melt a little bit more inside.

“What are you doing with my paints?” His attention finally catches on the palate I’m holding in my hand.

“Your painting—something is missing, don’t you think?”

A troubled exhale escapes him and he frowns at his art.

“I painted this based on a sketch I did in April at Lake Superior. It always felt off, like it didn’t have a soul. I still can’t figure it out.”

“Do you trust me?”

Maxwell’s gaze flickers to mine, his frown softening. “Of course I do.”

“Let me do something then… I think I know what’s missing.”

He quirks a brow, his lips curved in amusement, and he steps aside.

Grinning, I work on the canvas. Soft, feathered strokes to highlight the clouds and the morning light, shorter, precise strokes for the lighthouse beacon and the birds.

Soon, I find myself immersed in his painting, transporting myself to the shores of Lake Superior on a chilly April morning. I hear soft scribbles in the background, no doubt him making notations on my new sketches, as we work in comfortable silence with the crackle of the fireplace as companion.

“What do you think?” I ask twenty minutes later, stepping back, my fingers rubbing at an itch on my nose.

Holding my breath, I watch him step in front of his easel, his dark eyes piercing, assessing the changes I made. He crosses his arms, his muscles rippling in his gray cable-knit sweater. A muscle twitches in his forehead.

Unease circulates inside me. Does he not like it?

After a few minutes, he turns to me, his face flushed, his throat working as he swallows.

“Belle…this, what you did there…” He seems to be at a loss for words.

“Too much? Did I mess things up? I haven’t been to the exact location you went to, but I have been to Lake Superior before. But it was during summer, in the afternoon, with my girlfriends. So maybe my memory is faulty. Or maybe—”

He pulls me to him and hugs me tightly, pressing my ear to his chest. I hear the thumping of his heart, sprinting, soaring like the birds I painted on the dark skies.

“It’s beautiful. The soul…what was missing. It’s breathtaking.” His voice is rough. “ Thank you. You fixed it.”

I release a relieved exhale, pull back, and beam at him, thrilled I’ve solved his problem when he has taken care of many of my problems for me.

I can fix him. Save him from the so-called curse .

“I only did minor touches—the painting felt like it was missing hope. So I added a dash of gold and pink to the clouds. You can’t really see it, but it brings in more light to the stormy skies. It’s like the bit of red in atrovirens, which makes all the difference. Because,” I glance at the painting, “even in the darkest storms, there’s always light, you see? It’s always there—it might not be sunshine, but that glimmer of light is lurking in the background, telling you the storm is just passing by.”

I point to the lighthouse and continue, “I added some white and amber here. Just a tad, so it looks like it’s a beacon of hope, cutting through the dark clouds. Because that’s what lighthouses do. They give hope to sailors, protecting them and telling them the shore is near. Not huge changes, but I think they’ve made all the difference, don’t you think?”

Hearing no response, I turn back to him and fall silent. Maxwell’s dark eyes glitter, the gray pools iridescent, like the clouds I just painted. His chest moves rapidly, like he’s struggling to breathe.

“Maxwell?”

“You fucking amaze me, Belle, my little muse. God, I…I lo—” He stops himself. He balls his hands into fists at his sides.

He’s going to say he loves me. My heart leaps in joy.

But he says nothing and I can’t help but feel the crushing disappointment in my chest.

Clearing my throat, I strain a smile and change the subject. “Your art is beautiful. I saw your paintings in the studio. They’re full of passion. Have you ever thought about displaying them in a gallery?”

I don’t ask him if he wants to put on a huge art show—it’d be a nightmare for him, dealing with the crowds, not to mention people critiquing the work that contains part of your soul.

I would know since my designs all have a piece of myself in them.

His gaze is somber as he replies, “I’m surprised you aren’t asking me why I’m not touring the country with my art or having exhibitions at The Met.” He bites his lip before releasing it. “That’s what most people would do. ”

“I don’t think you’d like it—being in the spotlight. And that’s perfectly fine. But that doesn’t mean your art can’t be admired. Didn’t you tell me, ‘What’s art if not to be loved and admired?’”

His body stills. “You wouldn’t mind hiding away from the spotlight with me?”

I shake my head. “The only spotlight I care about is you. Everyone else doesn’t matter.” My lips wobble as I try not to touch him, because I’m afraid he’ll bolt from the way his muscles are coiled tightly.

“Plus,” I whisper, “I’m not hiding in the shadows when you’re shining your light on me.”

He rakes in a sharp inhale and for a moment, the world quiets and all I can hear are the sounds of our breathing.

“I promise not to love you,” he rasps before pulling me to him and crushing his mouth against mine. His lips seek, taste, and drink from my mouth while I do the same.

A warm furry body slinks away to the passageway, Silas’s mournful howl echoing into the room, like he understands the ache I’m feeling inside.

Maxwell’s words still hurt, but his crushing embrace stems the bleeding. If this is all he can give me, perhaps I’ll learn to be okay with it.

Because I can’t foresee living a life without him by my side.