Burn Me Once

I love it.

But I do not love the idea of being here now.

Not when Ethan Ash hasn’t kissed me in days. Not when Ethan Ash hasn’t fucked me in days. Not when we could be back in his hotel, doing all the things I’ve been fantasising about all afternoon.

‘Well?’

I step out of the car, staring up at the building with grudging admiration. From this vantage point it is modern and it is beautiful, but my favourite place to admire it from is two blocks away, from where you can see the higgledy-piggledy arrangement of the various levels, all precariously balanced on top of one another. Like a three-year-old might build a high-rise.

I could write a thesis on what that incautious, irreverent juxtaposition means. The balancing of lines and order with chaos and random-seeming placement. The way it makes sense even when it shouldn’t.

‘You look at this place like I’m looking at you,’ he observes with sensual heat.

‘Like I’m a mix of order and disarray?’

‘Something like that.’ His wink is a flirtatious whip across my spine. ‘Shall we...?’

Desire to be alone with him is fighting a battle—and losing—with my love for this place. I nod and move towards the entrance, the pull of the gallery strengthening with every step.

Grayson has procured us some kind of special entry. We don’t queue, and a museum staffer greets us. She is a stunning young woman, with caramel skin and chestnut hair, enormous brown eyes and an impressive cleavage barely contained by her museum uniform. Her eyes cleave to Ethan in a way that makes me think she wishes it were her body, not just her gaze.

An unpleasant tang of adrenalin flavours my mouth. My sense of anticipation is somewhat dimmed by the prospect of being accompanied by anyone other than Ethan but that’s not why I stiffen.

Ethan Ash is seriously hot.

Hot in that way that is unusual and distracting. Hypnotic. He is also hugely famous. And he’s here with me. But in the space of a little over a week he won’t be. In a little over a week he’ll be with someone else. Making love to someone else. Charming the pants off them with his husky voice and smile. Someone like this obviously very willing museum staffer.

My jealousy is misplaced, and yet it’s real.

When he dismisses the woman with, ‘Miss Douglas is an art expert. I’ll be fine in her capable hands,’ I am childishly relieved.

‘Oh, sure, no problem. But you just shout out if you need anything at all, okay?’

‘So, is this how it is for you?’ I ask as we walk away. ‘All special entry and people tripping over themselves to serve you?’

He grins at me and reaches for my hand, squeezing it in a way that speaks once more of intimacy and closeness. I squeeze back.

He grins. ‘Nah.’

‘Nah?’

‘Where to?’

We pause outside the sculpture garden and I nod towards the stairs. ‘Contemporary, of course.’

‘Why of course?’ he asks, taking my lead and walking with me.

‘I like to start at the end and work my way backwards.’

I smile up at him and I’m shy suddenly. It’s inexplicable; I don’t like it. I look away, focusing on the wall ahead. This isn’t a first date. It’s an aberration. A distraction.

‘It’s easier to make sense of contemporary art in some ways. It speaks to people because it fits within the sphere of our current tastes and wants.’

‘Not me,’ he says with a shake of his head. ‘Give me the Impressionists any day.’

My lips twist in acknowledgement but I try to hide my cynicism.

He sees it regardless. ‘What? You don’t approve?’

I select my words with care. ‘The Impressionist movement is probably the most adored of all.’

‘So I can’t like it because everyone else does?’

‘You can like whatever you like,’ I demur. ‘I’m just saying that its accessibility gives it a head start. Sunflowers. Lily pads. They’re borrowed from so heavily in popular culture. You can see Monet splashed through airport advertising. People don’t necessarily like the Impressionists so much as recognise them.’

He clutches a hand to his chest in mock pain and stops walking.

‘What?’