He pulled me through the crowd, through a side corridor lined with framed canvases, into a narrow storage room behind the main gallery. The door shut, leaving us in silence except for muffled music outside.
We were breathing hard.
“You think that’s funny?” he asked.
“I think you don’t get to be jealous.”
His eyes dragged down my body slowly.
“You don’t get to tell me what I feel. You left me, remember.”
I stepped closer. “You’re the one who made sure I walked away.”
That landed. All that control in him. All that discipline. I hated it. It was that control that pushed us apart.
“You always do this,” I said softly. “Stand there like you’re above it. Like you don’t feel anything.”
His nostrils flared.
“You think I don’t feel you?” he muttered.
“Prove it. If you feel me.Show me.”
That was it. His mouth crushed into mine. This kiss washungry.
My hands flew to his head, fingers brushing over his hair, his jaw. I’d forgotten how good he felt under my palms.
He lifted me easily, placed me on a cabinet stacked with canvases and supplies. My thighs opened for him without instruction.
His hands slid up my legs slowly. I was already wet. Dripping wet.
He hadn’t even touched me yet. Not really. Just his voice in the dark, that knowing murmur in my ear, the weight of everything we hadn’t said pressing between us.
When his fingers reached the thin strip of my thong, he paused.
“Already?” he murmured.
“Don’t start.”
But he did.
Dragged the fabric aside with two fingers—slow and taunting—then tore it straight down the middle. The rip cracked through the air like a whip. It made me jolt. Gasp. My breath caught, thighs trembling like they already knew what was coming.
He didn’t say a word. Just held the torn lace in one hand, his eyes devouring mine as the other dipped between my legs.
His fingers found me soaked—with no hesitation. He swiped slow, his knuckles brushing my folds, then drew his fingertips through the slick seam of me, gathering everything I’d been holding in.
The glisten caught the light—his eyes darkened.
“Still like this for me.”
“Shut up,” I whispered, my voice barely there. Weak. Wanting.
He smiled—but it didn’t reach his mouth. It was in his eyes, in the hunger pooling there. Then he dropped to his knees. Like he’d worshiped here before and knew exactly where to place his hands.
He spread me open with both palms, fingers biting into my thighs like anchors. I was perched on the edge of that narrow table, knees bent, ass just barely on the edge. Paintbrushes clattered behind me. My spine arched. I couldn't think.
“Fuck,” he muttered. “You smell the same.”
