Page 98 of Eternal Surrender

“And you and Ingrid?” I immediately regretted asking, not wanting to hear the answer.

“She seems ready to take things to the next level.”

I hated him.

“I never discuss my personal life with Lola,” he said. “So I’d appreciate it if we don’t discuss things in front of her.” James reached for a glass of Chardonnay. “Champagne gives me a headache.”

Outside the traffic sped by, the hum from the cars disrupting the classical music and staining Bach’s genius with its modern din.

“Drink, sir?” The voice sounded far off.

I realized a waiter was offering me wine and declined it.

James peered into his glass. “Damn good collection you have.”

“So where’s Ingrid now?” I asked.

He seemingly realized our conversation was lingering on her. “At the British Museum.”

My phone vibrated, and I removed it from my pocket and glanced at the screen, reading a message from Sebastian. “He’s here.”

“There was some kind of robbery.” James studied me for the longest time.

“I’m sorry?” I asked, distracted.

“At the Museum.”

“I see.”

“How did you meet Ingrid again?” he asked.

The string quartet struck up, and James turned round to watch the musicians.

I took advantage of the opportunity to slide away, navigating the crowd and trying to make it to the rear of the gallery before Jeremy Montague entered through the front door.

Strolling through the vast collection of marble and bronze lifelike sculptures, I heard high-pitched gasps and then turned the corner.

There in the very center was Lola, her skirt hoisted up around her waist, leaning forward over a reclining, naked, male, stone statue. The sculpture reminded me of Auguste Rodin’s Thinker, only this flawless model lay on his back upon numerous marble pillows, his arms leisurely by his sides.

I was astonished at how fast Marcus had seduced her. He was introducing Lola to an uncommon pleasure, dangling her over both the statue and a lust-filled edge, threatening to shove her over at any moment. His right hand cupped her breast, and with his left, his hand tucked into her panties, he strummed her clit.

He saw me and grinned.

Half of me had never been a voyeur, and yet the other half, the curious, indulgent side—had always found a sharp pleasure in watching. In this moment, I could not deny the satisfaction of what unfolded before me.

In true Marcus’ fashion, he savored her with deliberate, almost theatrical desire, licking and kissing, sometimes locking eyes with me, daring me to react, teasing the most effortless way.

Lola let out a sharp breath when he ripped off her panties, “I need it,” she begged him.

Marcus was a revelation, lost utterly in her. She was nothing to him, and yet in this moment, she seemed to hold the weight of everything, radiant in his gaze.

With his zipper undone, and his cock out, he buried deep, hips thrusting, the familiar echo of flesh slapping against flesh filled the air, that filthy, erotic rhythm that made every nerve sing with reckless abandon.

Music drifted from the gallery, winding its way into the room, an exquisite, haunting compliment to the sumptuous, almost decadent lushness that filled that corner of the room.

She leaned against the structure, arching, and thrusting with a desperate, almost feral need, driving herself back against him with an unrelenting desire. Her face was taut with longing, eyes dark with the desire, each movement drawing her closer to the edge. And then at last, she shuddered, shattering with a release so consuming it seemed she craved it more than breath itself.

He gripped her hips as he pursued his own release, this time, deliberately slowing, saving each moment, drawing it out, taking exactly what he needed, letting the intensity linger.