Broken Beast

But he doesn't. Not the way I expect.

He brings his hand to my chin, and he pulls me into a soft kiss.

I pull back with a sigh. "Adam."

"We don't have time."

"But later—" I reach for him.

He wraps his hand around my wrist. "I stay in control, angel."

Angel. It suits the soft lighting here. The look of my images. My desire to take his pain away.

"Please." I look up into his eyes. "Please, Adam."

"Later."

"You promise?"

"Ask again and the answer is no. Understand?"

I barely manage to nod.

"We're late. You should get dressed." He pulls me into another slow, deep kiss.

I have to drag myself away.

I change into my evening attire in the bedroom. Adam's bedroom.

He's slept here.

Fucked himself here.

Fucked other women here, probably.

Will he fuck me here tonight?

God, I want that so badly.

But he's so… controlled.

I don't get it. I don't get him.

But right now, I don't care.

I only care about touching him again.

I wash up, retouch my makeup, grab my bag.

He helps me into my coat, then into the elevator, onto the street. We walk four blocks in silence.

Take another elevator in silence.

Step into the lobby in silence.

Just when I'm ready to declare Adam as cruel as he is cold, he wraps his arms around me, and he pulls me into a slow deep kiss.

It's not loving or romantic.

It's pure sex.

He kisses me like he's claiming me. Like he's going to spend his entire life watching me come.

Touching me.

Savoring my touch.

I pull back with a sigh. Whisper his name.

But he isn't looking at me anymore.

He's looking at a man in the lobby.

He's familiar. A client.

Cole Fitzgerald.

But what the fuck does he have to do with Adam?

Chapter Eighteen

Danielle

"Ms. Bellamy. Is that you?" Mr. Fitzgerald nods hello.

Adam's grip around my waist tightens.

"You must introduce me to your date," he says.

Adam's eyes meet his.

They stare each other down. The way men do. That territorial pissing contest.

But why?

Mr. Fitzgerald is a client. Yes, he flirts sometimes, but he's never expressed an interest. He's married.

And he's not like other married men who whine their wives don't understand them. He speaks highly of his wife's wit and taste.

"Adam Pierce." Adam offers his hand. "We've met."

"Pierce Industries. Of course. I'm sorry." He takes a wide step toward us. Studies Adam carefully. "I didn't recognize you."

"Yes, the shorter hair confuses people," he says.

I fail to stifle a laugh. "Oh my god." I press my forehead to Adam's chest.

He wraps his arms around me. Pulls me closer.

"You have a dark sense of humor," I whisper.

"I know."

"Always?"

He runs his fingers over my chin. "Always."

"You don't make a lot of jokes."

"Should I?"

"I like it when you do." I soak up the warm, hard feeling of his skin. The soft wool of his suit jacket. The Earthy smell of his soap. Can I stay here, in his arms, forever?

Maybe without the clothes.

But absolutely pressed against his warm, hard body.

"Of course. The accident," Mr. Fitzgerald says. "I was sad to hear that news. Your brother was a force of nature."

Adam's grip tightens. "He was."

"He'd do whatever it took to get his way."

"You must understand that." He catches himself. Releases me. "Angel, let me take your coat."

Right. I'm wearing my coat inside. I could have his hands on my bare skin. I could remove one of the horrible layers of fabric between us. "Thank you."

He slips it off my shoulders, one at a time, brings it to the host.

"I didn't see you at the gallery last week," Mr. Fitzgerald says.

"I'm not working there anymore."

"Oh?"

"I had another opportunity."

He motions for me to continue.

That's the polite response, yes, but there's something strange about it.

Something between him and Adam.

Mr. Fitzgerald was interested in The Voyeur. He was going to come in and buy it, have his assistant pack it up and hang it in his study. He was going to do it the day Adam paid double the asking price.

Is he that territorial about his art?

I want that to be true. I want to believe someone is as passionate about photography as I am.

But there's a more likely answer.

Adam bought the painting to fuck with him.

Or he tried to buy it to fuck with Adam.

Rich men think nothing of dropping five figures as a fuck you.

But they're acting as if they barely know each other.

"And, well—" I can figure out what Mr. Fitzgerald wants later. Right now, I have to earn my million dollar pay day. Time to play pretty, supportive girlfriend. "Things with Adam are moving fast."

"Oh." He tries to hide his disappointment.

"He asked me to move in with him. I know, we sound so young. I'm sure it was a million years ago you asked your wife to live with you," I say.

He frowns. "No. Back then, you didn't live with someone before you married them."

"Oh. Of course. My mother's family was…" Not traditional, exactly. And I can't really say they were wrong for disapproving of my father.