บททั้งหมดของ PAINTED IN SIN: บทที่ 21 - บทที่ 30

Creating art has always come easily to Verity. It was her escape, her language, the one place where she felt completely free and in control. But right now, standing inside the beautiful private studio Quentin provided for her at the Pacific Palisades estate, it felt like the hardest thing she had ever tried to do. The irritation was building inside her like a storm she couldn't outrun. Three days. It had been three long days since Quentin left for his unexpected business trip, and every hour seemed to drag heavier than the last. Three days since he left the Pacific Palisades estate in the middle of the night. She told herself it didn't matter. She told herself she was fine. But the truth was much more complicated, and she refused to let the real reason even cross her mind. She stood in front of yet another ruined canvas, staring at the mess she had created. The strokes were rough and uneven, the limbs crooked, the facial expressions completely bland and lifeless. It wasn't salvag

Quentin ended the call and slipped his phone back into his pocket. He stood in the quiet restroom of the luxurious Paris hotel, staring at his reflection in the marble mirror. The conversation with Verity still echoed in his head — her soft voice, the hesitation when he said he missed her, the way she had gone quiet instead of replying. He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. Four days. It had only been four days since he left New York, and already he felt like he was losing his mind. The meeting with the investors was supposed to be straightforward — securing new capital for the family business after Kingsley’s mess had scared some of them off. Ordinarily, his younger brother should have handled this. But after the divorce and the very public scandal, most investors didn’t want anything to do with Kingsley. So Quentin had taken it upon himself to fly to Paris and clean up the damage. He should have been focused on the numbers, the projections, the contracts waiting in

Verity stepped away from the table and moved toward a quieter corner of the club before finally answering the call. “Quentin,” she breathed softly. A low chuckle came through the phone. “Where is my wife?” The question was simple, yet it made her heart jump unexpectedly. “What?” she asked, trying—and failing—to sound unaffected. “Are you back already?” “I missed my wife,” Quentin replied. “And I decided the rest of the meeting could wait. So tell me, where are you? I can come get you.” For a moment, Verity simply stood there. He was back. After five long days, he was finally back. A strange warmth spread through her chest before she could stop it. “I’m already on my way,” she replied quickly. “Are you?” “Yes.” “Drive safely then.” The concern in his voice only made the smile on her face widen. “Goodnight, Quentin.” “Not goodnight,” he corrected softly. Verity felt her pulse skip. “See you soon, wife.” The line disconnected. For several seconds, she r

Quentin was shirtless as he sat in bed, his back leaned against the headboard. His eyes were shut, more like he was meditating, his powerful chest rising and falling in a slow, controlled rhythm. Verity walked out of the walk-in closet, dressed in a white, thin, transparent short nightie. The delicate silk clung to her curves, her long wavy dark brown hair cascading down her back. Her nipples were clearly visible through the sheer fabric, already hardened from the cool air and the nervous anticipation humming through her body. Just as she reached the edge of the bed, she paused. Quentin looked like he was already sleeping. Verity thought he must be exhausted after the long day. She smiled softly, a quiet warmth spreading through her chest at the sight of him like this — relaxed, unguarded. But before she could take another step forward, Quentin’s eyes opened. In one smooth, predatory movement, he rose onto his knees in front of her on the bed. Verity gasped at the swiftness of it

Quentin finally shifted above her, his body a wall of controlled heat as he gazed down at Verity. The deemed light, inside the bedroom, traced the sharp lines of his jaw and the dark hunger in his eyes. For a long moment, he simply looked at Verity, his thumb brushing a strand of hair from her damp forehead. “You are so beautiful,” he said, voice low and rough with something deeper than desire. “More than I ever let myself admit. I am the luckiest man alive to have you as my wife, Verity Langford. To have you here, like this, trusting me with your body.” The words settled over her like warm silk, but they carried an undercurrent that made her heart stutter. ‘Long before now.’ The thought flickered through her mind, unbidden — the way he spoke as if he had carried this want for years, not mere weeks since the contract. His words confused her, pulling at threads she was not ready to unravel in this haze of pleasure. Kingsley’s betrayal still lingered somewhere distant, but here, in Q