The thought—the fantasy—makes my body tighten. “We can’t,” I repeat, as much to underscore the point as to remind myself of that very basic truth.

“No?” His mouth brushes my ear, his breath disturbing my hair and sending shivers down my spine. “What if I told you that Emily was busy at her computer. That she’s locked the door for lunch. That I’m certain we won’t be seen.”

I swallow and say nothing, afraid that if I speak, my desire will betray my common sense.

“She won’t want to disturb us. Not when we might be contemplating a purchase. Destroy the moment, and she could lose a sale. She knows that. Knows that a client needs to get lost in the art. In the moment.”

His thumb has been making small circles on my breast, and my heart is beating so hard now that I’m surprised Emily can’t hear its echo on the far side of the gallery. On my legs, his fingers move subtly. Not rising, but neither are they still. Instead, his fingertips brush my bare flesh in sensual movements designed to entice and tease.

“What do you want, Nikki?” His words are as tender against my flesh as his fingers. “Do you want me to move higher, millimeter by millimeter, up your wet thighs as you hold your breath in anticipation? Would you cry out if I stroked your clit, unable to hold back the explosion?

“Or maybe I shouldn’t stroke you there at all. Maybe I should slide my fingers deep inside you. Feel how slick you are, the way your body will clench around me, drawing me in as I use my thumb to tease around your clit. Never quite touching, but drawing you up and up, until you can’t take it anymore.”

I can’t take it right now, and I’m certain he knows it. I want to tell him to stop—except I don’t want him to stop.

And so all I do is whisper his name. A plea. A prayer.

“Damien.”

“That’s right, baby.” I hear heat in his low, melodic voice, a passion now equal to my own. “Would you scream my name when you explode? Or would you be so quiet as you tremble in my arms, that I’d be the only one who knows the force of your orgasm rocking through you?”

I’m trembling now, so close to the explosion he’s describing that my skin seems to sizzle. The thin whisper of air from the ducts above does nothing to cool my heated flesh. I want the release, crave it, and yet I can’t quite let myself go. Not here. Not like this.

Damien knows that, of course. His real purpose isn’t to make me come—it’s to take me to the precipice. Pleasure, yes, but underscored by frustration. By need. And, ultimately by anticipation.

“Tonight,” I whisper, then boldly—and a little regretfully—ease his hand off my thigh.

“I look forward to it, Mrs. Stark.”

He takes a step backward, releasing me entirely. I draw a breath, mourning the loss of contact. And, maybe, perhaps, regretting that this encounter didn’t go further.

“It was both, by the way,” he adds.

He is still behind me—just as he’s been since he first approached me in the gallery. Now, I turn, but only enough so that I can see the shape of him in my peripheral vision. “What was?”

“The model. Pleasure, yes, but tinged with a hint of embarrassment. Not because she’s on display—that isn’t what embarrasses her.”

He falls silent, the obvious question going both unspoken and unanswered.

“Then what is?” I ask, when the quiet becomes too much.

He bends toward me, his breath tickling the back of my ear. “That she likes it.”

The words shoot through me, and I tremble from the force of that simple sentence.

“I’ll see you at home,” he says, taking another step back, and this time I don’t mourn the distance. On the contrary, I need it. Distance and time if I’m going to pull myself together by the time I get to Santa Monica.

I turn, taking his hands as I look into his face. It’s the first time I’ve looked straight at him in days, and I revel in his beauty. The raven-dark hair. His dual-colored eyes, one black and one amber. That lean, muscled body that seems to have been designed for a tailored suit, but looks damn perfect without one.

But it’s not his looks that make him so compelling. It’s his bearing. His confidence. As if there’s nothing in the world that he wants that he can’t have. Including me.

The thought makes me smile, and as always, I’m struck as much by the beauty of this man as by the love for me reflected in his eyes. “I’m glad you came.”

“But I didn’t,” he says, managing to keep a straight face.

I bite back a laugh, then flash him a stern look. “Mind out of the gutter. You know what I mean.”

“I do,” he says. “And we’ll take care of my interpretation later.”

I flash a coy smile. “Is that a promise?”

He hooks a finger under my chin, his eyes locked on mine. “Baby, it’s a demand.”

“It’s a wonderful gallery,” Damien says to Emily as we walk back into the reception area.

“I’m so pleased you enjoyed the exhibit. Is there anything that called to you in particular?”

“The Blaine piece with the woman in the chair. I believe it’s called Woman and Blue.” He releases my hand so that he can take a slim wallet from the interior pocket of his suit jacket. He pulls out an American Express Black Card and hands it to her. “Please ask Blaine to call me to arrange a time for delivery and installation. He has my number.”

She doesn’t even bat an eye at his request that doubles as an order. Or at the fact that he didn’t even ask the price. “Certainly, Mr. Stark.”

They finish the transaction at record speed, and after Emily and I say goodbye, I step through the door with Damien and blink in the sunlight.

“Where do you plan to put it?” I ask. “It’s not very kid friendly.”

“That’s true,” he says, with a slight downward curve to his mouth that tells me he hadn’t thought of that. He simply wanted the painting, and so he bought it.

His smile fades, and his expression grows serious. “You do like it?”

“The painting? Of course.” That’s the truth, but I hope he doesn’t see the rest of the answer in my eyes. Because there’s more to it than that. The power of money. The wish fulfillment. And the messages that we send to our kids. But that’s a different conversation. A harder one. And definitely not a conversation we need to have on a Beverly Hills sidewalk.

“Good.” He tilts his head, looking back toward the gallery, presumably picturing the painting and imagining it inside our home. Maybe he’s thinking about the Blaine portrait that hangs on the third floor, affixed to a stone wall at the top of the stairs. A nude of a woman standing, her wrists bound, her face turned away. It’s me, of course, and that simple fact makes it difficult for me to look at it objectively.

Difficult, but not impossible, and the truth is that while there is an element of eroticism in the image, it is not an erotic painting. That wasn’t what he’d commissioned. Instead, the portrait is a life study of nude woman, her face hidden. It’s beautiful and tasteful.

And the girls, of course, don’t yet know that the model is their mother.

In contrast, Woman and Blue is one of Blaine’s overtly sexual images, especially so since the woman is facing the viewer, her legs spread, her body bound.

“We’ll find a place,” he says. “Maybe our bedroom. We can install a recessed frame with automatic shutters. When the girls are in the room, we’ll have a remote that can hide the painting.”

I can’t help myself. I laugh, then slide into his arms. “You have an answer for everything, Mr. Stark. And I think you just increased the cost of that painting—including installation—by several thousand dollars.”

“A small price to pay for the memory of this afternoon.” He releases my waist, then cups my cheek. “I want to see it and remember the package on my desk, then finding you here with your gaze locked on that painting while you remembered that first night at Evelyn’s when we saw the painting of the woman bound in red. And I want to look at the woman in

blue and think about the way I held you today. Touched you. I want to hold the memory of the things I said close, along with the knowledge that if I’d taken it further, you would have gone there with me.” I see the movement of his irises as he studies me. “Wouldn’t you?”

“You know I would.”

A smile touches his lips, conveying both gratitude and a hint of melancholy. “And that’s my final reason. I want to stand in front of it and recall the satisfaction of knowing the depth of your trust today. Do you know how much that means to me?”

Tags: J. Kenner Stark Trilogy Billionaire Romance
Source: readsnovelonline.net