“You seem to have a way with everyone,” I say, fighting the urge to lunge forward and claim his scheming little lips.
He takes one step toward me, closing the gap between us. He arches over, his breath fanning against my ear as he rasps, “You’re the only one I wish to have my way with.”
I shiver. “People are watching.”
“I’d say let them, but I value your privacy.” He pulls back and places his hand on my waist, guiding me out of the gallery. Before we reach the town car, he pauses, a devious smirk clipping his lips. “One thing I love about private galleries, Miss Jones,” he opens the door for me, “is that there’s no one there to walk in on you.”
My core clenches. “Too bad. I’ve grown to like an audience.”
If Quin were a weak man,he’d be jealous of Damon right now.
It’s only been an hour and Damon’s managed to turn my stoic, stern, and serious mother into a babbling, giggling schoolgirl. I don’t think I’ve seen my mother smile this wide in years. Or laugh this loud. Whoever said money doesn’t buy happiness was clearly broke. All it took was a private gallery tour and mymother has transformed into a walking Prozac advertisement. Instead of dinner at home, Quin should’ve whisked my parents off to Spain for some tapas. I’m sure he would’ve gotten the green light of approval instantaneously.
Ridiculous.
I know I should be glad my parents are getting along with Damon, but this whole encounter irks me. How easily they can go from judging a man to being the best of friends is unsettling. And poor Quinton. He didn’t flaunt his connections. His money. He showed up as himself, and my parents gave him the cold shoulder. Assholes.
“Another glass of champagne, Susan?” Damon asks my mother.
Susan. They’re on a first-name basis now. Incredible. Truly baffling.
“Why not!” Mom exclaims, as if she’s carefree and easygoing, which she’s not.
“I’ll have another as well,” Dad chimes in, sipping on the forty-six hundred Euro bubbly as he and Mom huddle around a multimillion-dollar painting. I feel like I’m in the twilight zone right now.
Damon picks up the bottom of Boërl & Kroff Magnum 1996 and shakes it side to side. “It appears we’re out.” He shifts his cunning gaze toward me. “I’m sure we can find another bottle in the back. Will you help me look, Miss Jones?”
“Do I have a choice?” I glare at him. I know it’s not his fault that my parents are hypocrites, but he’s in thesplash zone of my frustration. If he gets wet, it’s his fault.
“We’ll be back in a moment,” Damon calls out, grabbing my hand. He leads me into the dimly lit back room where stacks of secured paintings lean against the walls.
“This doesn't look like a wine cellar,” I note, biting my lip nervously as Damon faces me.
“No, it appears it is not.” His eyes darken, almost obsidian, as he grabs my waist, slamming our hips together. He walks us backward until I’m trapped between his strong frame and a painting worth more than a Manhattan studio apartment. “You seem frustrated, Miss Jones. Care to tell me why?”
My mind races with conflicting thoughts. On one hand, I'm annoyed at my parents' behavior. How easily they went from judging him to being the bestest of friends. On the other hand, Damon's proximity and the pressure of his zipper pressing against my clit is damn near dizzying.
Damon's voice is low, his breath warm against my ear as leans over and whispers, “Will being fucked up against a VanGust make you feel better?” He lets his hand roam up and down my blouse, over my breast. My nipples harden through my bra. His laugh reverberates in his chest as I shiver under his touch, moaning. “Quiet now, mami. Wouldn’t want your parents to hear you.”
“You’ll ruin the painting,” I breathe out as Damon dips down and places open-mouthed kisses on the slope of my neck. “It’s…” My back arches as his teeth graze my skin, his hips digging deep into me. I fist his jacket for support, head spinning. “Priceless.”
Damon feathers his fingers down my chest to my waist, along the curve of my thighs, and then he stops at the short hem of my dress.
“It’s a fake. Don’t worry.” With three easy movements, he bunches up the fabric and snakes his hand under the dress. His nails scrape along my skin as he dances his way toward my lace panties. He dips one finger under the hem and strokes my sex, a guttural groan sounding from his throat. “You’re wet, mami.”
“Mhmm.”
I can’t form words. Or sentences. Or thoughts. Not anymore.
Not when he’s rubbing me like that. Not when his wicked fingers are flicking and teasing. Not when his belt buckle clangs against the marble floors.
My breath hitches when his cock springs free. He rips my panties off, the tip of his dick gliding up and down my slit. Growling, he hoists me up, my legs wrapping around his torso. Pulling my hair, he lines himself up and slams into me so hard, the frame cracks behind us. He thrusts and thrusts and thrusts until it’s all I feel.
All I see. All I taste. All I breathe. All I fuckinglive. Until I’m no longer frustrated. Until nothing but this moment matters.
Damon dips his damp forehead against mine, his breathing ragged and spent. “Are you still angry that your parents like me more than Quin?”
If I weren’t so sated, I’d roll my eyes. “No, Damon, I’m not angry.”
