Maura’s plush lips part in surprise. I pull her tight to me, taking advantage and licking my way inside her mouth. She tastes like spice and sex, just as wet and hot as her perfect cunt.
She rides me while we kiss, her hips rolling over me in long, sensuous strokes. The movement lets me feel every part of her in turn. The soft curve of her ass, the ripple of her stomach, the ridges of her nipples through her shirt. Her thighs grip mine for support. Soft, loose strands of hair fall forward and brush against my face.
I can tell by the way her inner muscles flutter when her orgasm is close. Even though every instinct tells me to press my fingers harder against her clit, or lift my hips to rut against her, I don’t change a goddamn thing. I let her ride me, not varying my rhythm one goddamn bit.
“Let me watch you,” I urge her. “Let me watch you come for me.”
“I’m close, I’m cl—I’m?—”
She breaks off as it hits her. I hiss through my teeth at the way her tight pussy milks me, drawing my own orgasm out in a thundering jolt right after. I groan as satisfaction streaks through my veins, making my muscles feel heavy. Through a haze of pleasure, I see a smile ripple across her face.
I wrap my arms around her, holding her while we both come down. From now on, I’m going to do a better job, showing her how much I crave her body. I’m going to treat her like the most important thing I’ve ever invested in.
19
MAURA
The red paint sparkles on the canvas. Mixing the ground opal and red beryl in gave the paint a warm, textured look that reminds me of magma bubbling inside a volcano. As I stand to get a look from a different angle, my body whines from soreness. Whoops. I guess staying seated in front of a canvas for hours didn’t exactly make my muscles happy.
I'm stretching when I hear my phone pinging. Absorbed in my work, I haven't checked it for hours. James should be busy all day with work, so I'm guessing it's a text from my father, unwanted, or Brinley, preferred.
Instead, it's an email from the Whitmer Gallery, one of Toronto's most prestigious art galleries. I assume that they're just sending a promotion email for a show. Then I see my name in the subject line.
Suddenly, my heart starts buzzing like a hummingbird. There's no way the Whitmer would be interested in me…would they?
My fingers tremble as I open the email.
Dear Mrs. Keller,
I'm Sydney Meyer, the Senior curator from the Whitmer Gallery. I saw several of your paintings at the Copper Cup, and I wanted to reach out to explore your interest in putting on a solo show at the gallery. We feature a new local artist every April, and based on your work, I think you’d be an excellent candidate. Please reach out if you have any interest.
Yours,
Sydney Meyer
-
“Oh my god,” I breathe. This can’t be real. Major studios don’t just reach out to unknown artists like this. It’s got to be some scam, targeting small local Toronto artists.
Even in my head, that sounds ridiculous.
Quickly, I search Sydney Meyer’s name on my phone. Her photo pops up immediately, an older woman with calm brown eyes. When I click on her bio on the Whitmer’s website, her email matches the one that contacted me.
Okay, maybe this email is a real offer. But I don't believe for a second it's because of my paintings. I've just gotten married to one of the city’s wealthiest and most famous men. Of course, any gallery would want access to him. All they have to do is offer his wife a gallery show, and they'll expect him to spend his billions there. Besides, the publicity is irresistible. The name Keller alone will draw people in, maybe in the hopes that they'll meet James himself.
I can just imagine people, snickering at my paintings, whispering about how my husband funded my vanity project. If I say yes to this, I'll only be embarrassing myself.
Then, bizarrely, a phrase from Peppermint’s article pops into my head.
Her own promising career as an artist.
Maybe I'm not giving myself enough credit. I've been working for years now, and people have bought my paintings offthe wall at the Copper Cup. Maybe—maybe—I'm just standing in my own way here.
I screenshot Sydney's email and text it over to the one person I know won’t bullshit me, Brinley.
Maura
Is this real or am I about to be murdered for my art?
