Dirty Secret

Faster.

I take him again.

Harder.

Deeper.

His thighs shake.

His breaths run together.

His cock pulses against my lips.

He groans my name as he comes. He pulls me over him as he spills into my mouth.

Warm and sticky and a little sweet.

I just barely manage to swallow.

He tugs at my hair, letting out another groan of appreciation. This beautiful sound that means I'm his entire fucking universe.

Then he pulls me up, wipes my lips with his thumb, helps me into my clothes.

"Good?" I smooth my tank top.

"You couldn't tell?"

"I still want to hear it."

"Fucking perfect." He pulls me into a slow, deep kiss.

And, once again, I'm somehow completely satisfied and entirely in need at once.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Sienna

Cam gives me two minutes to catch my breath, then he pulls me into his lap, rolls my jeans to my ankles, rubs me until I come.

"Fucking beautiful," he purrs as I groan his name.

It is. I understand his obsession with my bliss now. It feels fucking good making him come.

I want to do it again.

Now.

Forever.

Also now.

Did I mention now?

"Could you?" I run my fingers over his neck.

"Could I what?"

"Go again."

He chuckles. The same chuckle from earlier. You're ridiculous and I like it. "I really like you, Sienna."

"That isn't an answer."

He pulls me into a long, slow kiss.

"Also not an answer."

"Are you complaining?"

"No," I murmur into his lips. "I just…"

"No." He helps me into my jeans. "Not yet."

"But in… thirty minutes?"

Again, he chuckles. "Usually, about that."

"Can I set the clock?"

"Tonight. If you have the energy."

"You promise?"

"What do you think?"

"That really sounded like a promise."

He smiles. "If you convince me."

Mmm. Yes. Okay. I can work with that.

Again, I fix my clothes, check my hair, shoot him a wink as I reapply my lipstick.

When the car stops, I have no idea where we are and I don't care. I want to stay in this perfect small space forever.

But the driver opens the door and offers his hand.

Uh… I should probably wash my hands first. "I've got it."

Cam catches my meaning right away. He motions something to the driver—some rich guy code—and helps me out of the limo.

And we're the last place I expect.

We're actually at the MoMA.

God help me.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Sienna

"Art?" My nose scrunches. "Really?"

"I know it's no Ninety Day Fiancée."

"Obviously."

He chuckles. "But there are paintings you'll like."

"Really?"

"Really." He presses his palm into my lower back to lead me into the space.

Mmm. I'm not sure I can turn down anything that includes that steady, reassuring gesture.

After we wash up in the bathroom (separately, tragically), he shows me around the museum.

For a museum supposedly devoted to modern art, there's a lot I recognize. Not just that guy who paints an entire canvas blue (he's at the Met, apparently). A sculpture garden, realistic self-portraits, impressionist work.

Usually, I don't get it. It's some bushes and the sky only all swirly.

But Cam explains the movement to me. (He knows a lot about art). It started as a small movement of artists, mostly in a single neighborhood in Paris, reacting to the previous realistic movement.

They wanted to create something new. To capture their unique point of view of the world instead of a literal reading of it.

And isn't that the point of art? Even if it's Ninety Day Fiancée.

It entertains, yes.

But it also expresses a world view, whether it's a big blue canvas, a graphic novel, a reality TV show, or a swirling painting of cypress trees.

Impressionists wanted to create the sensation of viewing something rather than recreating it line for line or hue for hue. They made big advances in paint and color theory. And the reason why Van Gogh painted those bright yellow sunflowers everyone knows is that the medication treating his mental illness changed the way he saw yellow.

His story isn't one of an artist's madness or darkness turning into art. Not completely.

It's also of healing creating art.

The yellow sunflowers.

All the paintings he made in the institution.

I don't know a lot about the guy besides the swirling colors and the whole chopping off his ear thing, but after a semester in Amsterdam (and an art history class on Impressionism), Cam knows everything.

His voice changes when he explains Van Gogh's supposed descent into darkness. It's something he's thought about a lot.

Something meaningful to him.

Because of how he hated himself?

How his first experience with sex was fucked up?

I'm not sure. I don't ask.

Instead, I let him talk about art and artists and Amsterdam and how he wants to show me the neighborhood in Paris that housed the impressionists and the rest of the city too.

Is that really possible?

I'm not sure, but I let myself believe it anyway.

We stop in front of the crown jewel of the museum.

The Starry Night.

I've seen a thousand prints. On walls, t-shirts, mouse pads, screensavers. None of them do the painting justice.

There's an energy to the paint strokes. Somehow frenetic and calm at once.