The sparking spreads beneath my skin, turning my insides warm and bubbly. “You’re on thin ice,” I whisper, finding it suddenly hard to breathe.
Claude smirks and flips my hand over. He presses a slow kiss to my palm that feels far more sensual than it has any right to, and then returns our clasped hands to his lap.
He holds my hand the entire ride to the party, and even by the time we arrive, my heartbeat still hasn’t slowed.
Chapter Twenty-Three
As we step out of the car and I gaze up at the venue, a new kind of anxiety fills me. I turn to Claude, who is shutting the door behind me.
“This is a gallery,” I say. “It’s… an art exhibition?”
“Indeed.” He stops at my side, his expression flat as he stares at the tall, boxy building with its walls made almost entirely of glass. Within are glimpses of moody lighting and large portraits, and a small crowd wandering throughout. “A big opening for one of the younger Vulpe vampires.”
“You said it was a party.”
“I said it was an event.”
I chew my lip. Maybe I did assume, but he also hid the truth from me. I understand his behavior on the way here, now, because I can only imagine the kind of emotions an event like this would stir up in him.
I wish he had given me a chance to better prepare myself. But we’re here now, I suppose. And Ishouldbe able to do things like this for him, even though I feel unqualified to be any source of emotional support.
“Well, then.” I slide my arm into his. “Let’s get it over with, shall we?”
His lips quirk before dropping again. “Give me a moment.”
I wait by his side, unsure what to do or say. After a couple of moments, he clears his throat, nods, and leads me up the stairs and through the doorway.
Inside, the dark walls and dim lighting lend everything an almost sensual air. As I catch my first glance of a painting, and then do a double take, I realize thatsensualis an understatement. As I glance from painting to painting, all I see is skin. Skin of all colors, displayed on bodies in all manner of interesting, intertwined positions. The art is hyperrealistic and hypersexual. Looking at it makes me feel voyeuristic, bringing a heat to my face that makes me thankful for the dim lighting.
I probably shouldn’t be feeling this odd heat in my belly. It’s art, after all. It’s probably supposed to be meaningful, and symbolic, and highbrow, not…
“Remarkably horny,” Claude mutters into my ear. I stifle my startled laugh with a cough.
“Don’t be inappropriate,” I whisper. “We’re supposed to be admiring the art.”
“I’m not sure it’s possible to admire itappropriately.”
“Sure it is,” I say. “And it starts with being silent.”
He manages it for a couple minutes, but then speaks up again to say, “Onemustwonder at the artist’s process. Is it all from memory? Or photograph? Or perhaps they arrange an orgy and set up the canvas nearby—”
“Shh!” I elbow him in the side, blushing furiously, and his eyes brighten in mischievous delight.
But as we continue to wander through the building, that amusement fades. He studies the paintings with more care, his brow furrowed. As the shock of all the nudity wears off, I find myself doing the same. It’s certainly not the kind of art I’d choose for myself, but I can appreciate the care that went into them. The artist has a great eye, and every body has been so lovingly recreated in paint that it feels like an act of worship.
We stop in front of one and spend a while just staring up in silence. This one feels different. Almost private, like I’m looking in through a window. A couple is entangled on a bed so thoroughly that their skin blurs together, and it is impossible to tell where one begins and the other ends.
It makes my heart ache in a way I can’t explain.
“They’re quite talented,” Claude says. “The Vulpe Court must be very proud.”
His tone is impossible to read, obscuring the heavy emotions I’m certain are warring within him. When I glance at him, his face is stony too. But his eyes… his eyes always reveal his sadness.
I squeeze his arm. “I prefer your work.”
A brief twitch of a smile. “You hate my work.”
“I donot!” I bump my shoulder against his. “I’m never going to live this down, am I? I like your paintings, I really do. All I said was that the last one wasn’t your best.”
