by Kitty Thomas
He watched as she slowly moved through his collection, her mouth frozen on a gasp. Multiple times she reached out as if she would touch a piece, but each time she jerked her hand back before he could say anything to stop her.
“Is this real?” Claire asked, pointing at the Monet.
“It's real. I have one of the few pieces in private collector hands. I also own a Van Gogh.”
She seemed impressed. She moved on to a section of contemporary art and stopped in front of a Quill nude.
“This looks like the painting you had made of me,” she said finally.
“It's the same artist. I bought that one from another collector, but I wanted one of my pet.”
She blushed.
He would never get tired of seeing her blush. It was such an innocent gesture in the middle of all their debauchery.
“We should go. It's a long drive. We'll be late.”
Claire felt giddy with more excitement than nerves when they arrived at Kane's estate. She wasn't surprised Ari's interest in art went beyond his friends' paintings, but she had been surprised by the massive amount of art he'd acquired. And its quality. It was an enviable collection. Some of the pieces he had were coveted by museums around the world.
She'd played dumb with Ari when she'd seen the nude, but she'd known. Quill's work had grown a great deal since the piece in Ari's private art gallery—though she wasn't sure the man was capable of making bad art.
Kane had signed the painting of Claire with a Q in the lower right-hand corner, which was odd, because he'd normally signed his work with his full name—or a closer scrawled semblance of it anyway. He had to know he couldn't get away with selling this work to the public now. Joseph Quill was dead. Or at least the news had said he was. A plane crash over the Atlantic.
His work had sold for high prices before his far-too-young-and-tragic death had sent them into the stratosphere. Had he faked his death? Well obviously, since he was alive and well now. It was possible Kane could just be an obsessive fan of Quill, mimicking his style, but if he was, he was better than the original artist. And that seemed unlikely.
Claire wondered if Kane could be charged with fraud? After all, his death had caused his paintings to go into very high demand overnight. Suddenly everyone in the art world had been nostalgic for Quill nudes. She still couldn't believe he'd painted her while she'd been oblivious to his true identity—at least she had been until she'd seen the finished product.
And now she found herself nervous over the prospect of seeing him again because not only had Quill painted her, but he'd touched her. When Claire had studied Quill's work, she'd developed a bit of a crush on him in the way one might have a crush on a long dead classic literary figure. She'd never seen so much as a picture of him but somehow she felt that a man who painted like that had to be hot.
The living version did not disappoint. Still, as stimulating and attractive as he was, no one compared to Ari for her. If Kane and his pet were bound by art, Claire and Ari were bound by secrets and captivity. They were bound by the things they'd done to each other both dark and painful, and beautiful.
Ari parked around the back of Kane's property and helped her out of the car. He led her through a large, well-lit elaborate garden, through pathways of entangled rose bushes and sculpture art, all in classical styles. There was not a single modern harsh geometric metal art installation to be found. Ari had obviously been here many times before to know his way so well.
The garden opened out at a large building with columns and climbing vines.
They were greeted by a very good-looking bald guy at the door. He looked like a bodyguard or a bouncer.
“Marcus,” Ari said, nodding.
Claire tried to hide the reaction she was sure must have flitted across her face at the revelation of the man's identity.
Marcus gave her an assessing look. “I see you got rid of Holly,” he said, his eyes not leaving Claire.
“Actually, she left. She got a modeling contract overseas,” Ari said. “This is Claire.”
“Is she a brat like the last one?” Marcus asked.
Apparently Holly had a reputation with these people.
“No,” Ari said simply, “she isn't.”
“Good. You deserve to be with someone who can appreciate you.”
She felt Ari tense beside her at that statement. She grabbed and squeezed his hand, and the tension seemed to deflate out of him.
“You're a little late,” Marcus said. “Some of the art has already sold. If you want something, I'd grab it fast. The alcohol and money are flowing. And Saskia's work has only gotten better since you last saw it.”
Ari nodded. “Thanks for the tip.”
They were about to go in, when Marcus put a hand up, blocking their way. “Wait. I almost forgot.” He turned and picked up some papers from a table behind him. He handed one to Claire and one to Ari. Each bundle was 3 sheets of paper stapled together. He gave each of them a pen.
“You can't go in unless you sign. We know we can trust you but it's protocol, you know that.”
Ari sighed. “Kane and his NDAs.” He skimmed it, initialed a few things, and then signed the last page, printing his name underneath on the indicated line. “Claire, sign,” he said. There was no room for argument.
She initialed on her pages in the same places Ari had initialed, and then signed the last page, likewise printing her name on the bottom.
Marcus took the papers from the two of them and put them in a second pile on the table behind him.
“And cell phones,” he said, indicating a basket behind them filled with phones.
Ari took his phone out of his pocket and put it in the basket. “Claire doesn't have a phone,” Ari said.
Marcus looked her up and down and smiled. “Where would she possibly put it?” He looked back to Ari. “Okay, you can go in. Have fun, kids.”
The fact that they'd had to sign non-disclosure agreements to get in the door, even though they were invited guests, made Claire suddenly nervous again. Nobody had to sign an NDA to go to an art show or buy art. So what else was about to happen in this building? Ari squeezed her hand and guided her inside.
When they stepped into the outer lobby, she whispered, “Is everyone here...”
“Kinky?” he supplied.
Claire nodded.
“Probably seventy-five percent of them. The rest are tourists, but Kane knows and trusts them to have invited them.”
“Tourists?” Claire asked.
“People who like to brush up against the darkness but for whatever reason can't bring themselves to really go there. It gives them a little thrill but they don't need it.”
Even though he didn't say it, Claire could feel the “like us” at the end of his statement. Was that true? She couldn't speak for Ari's needs, but did Claire need this?
The few men she'd been with before hadn't been kinky. The fantasies had existed as mere theory inside her head—until Ari. She hadn't been able to get off with those few men she'd dated years ago in college, but she'd thought it was just her. Didn't a lot of women fake it? Didn't a lot of women have trouble with orgasm with a partner? She was sure she'd read that somewhere.
She'd told herself that maybe in a long term relationship it would get better. Maybe they'd introduce toys. Maybe they'd figure it out. But she just hadn't had the opportunity to find out. With Ari, there hadn't been a single time he'd touched or fucked her that her body hadn't responded like some starved creature in the desert, arching toward him, moaning and writhing, and yes, coming. Not a single moan or whimper had been artifice with him.
So did she need this? Yes, she probably did. And how the fuck would she have ever trusted a man again after the basement? How would she have trusted a man for a sweet vanilla fuck let alone the absolute power Ari wielded over her? She would have died alone in that apartment if this fucked-up thing hadn't happened between them. No one else would ever understand, but Ari had saved her. Claire took a long, steadying breath,
willing herself not to cry.
Instead, she turned to Ari and whispered, “W-what do I call you in here?”
The subject hadn't come up in the car. They'd spent the hour-long drive discussing his art collection—Ari obviously surprised that she knew art as more than just a tourist—but they hadn't discussed this most basic issue. She'd assumed she would call him by his name, but now she wasn't sure.
“Master, of course,” he said. “There will be other people here with pets using the same titles. You'll blend. And you won't be the only woman wearing a collar tonight.”
Claire wasn't sure how much she would blend, but she nodded and allowed him to lead her through the doors into the art show.
The space they entered was a huge, incredible art gallery, with a high ceiling and a domed skylight in the center of the room. The walls were white—to showcase the art. Imposing columns stood around the circular room which looked as if they were holding the gallery up and supporting it.
The art hung on the walls, protected inside glass cases which were obviously fireproof, given all the candelabras standing at what might otherwise be a little too close to the art. At the moment, though, the candles weren't lit.
There were a lot more people in the space than she'd expected—maybe fifty. Or maybe it felt like too many because of the NDA and the suspicion that art wasn't the only thing that would be passing from one person's hands to another tonight. She smoothed down the beautiful teal dress Ari had given her and stayed close to him.
Claire's eyes immediately found Kane's. He was dressed sharply in a tux, looking as suave as Ari at the moment. She quickly looked away from him. The only thing she could think when she looked at him now was Joseph Quill had painted her. She was one of Quill's nudes.
Claire was pretty sure every woman under the age of fifty—and maybe some older—who knew contemporary art had fantasized about being the subject of a Quill nude. She'd always thought the women in his paintings looked well-fucked. And now she knew why, having been up-close-and-personal with the artist's illicit process.
The place between her legs flared to life at thoughts of the dirty debauchery she'd somehow become a part of every time she'd looked at one of those paintings. There had been secrets that had been shared with her, encoded in the expressions on those women's faces. And now that she was one of those women, she had the decoder ring. She knew exactly what those women had felt as they'd sat perfectly still while Quill painted them.
Ari was stopped by a handsome man going gray at his temples. “Ari?”
“Yes?” he replied, guarded.
The man chuckled. “Our host said to look for the towering viking,” he said in a cultured British accent.
“I get that a lot,” Ari said.
“I'm Lindsay. Kane tells me you'd like some of that cream. I order it wholesale by the crate. I'm afraid I can't share my supplier, but I can get you a crate if you'd like. It should last you and your lovely pet quite a while.” His gaze cut appreciatively to Claire, and she felt the blush overtaking her again. But she wasn't afraid of him. None of the men here had the same creepy terrible feel of those men in that basement.
Claire glanced away and noticed a dark-haired man speaking to a blonde woman wearing a glittering back collar and a sleek black floor length gown that also glittered with rhinestones.
“Kiska,” he said in a thick Russian accent, “Would you like one of these paintings for our room at the house? Or perhaps more? I will buy you whatever you like.”
“Yes, Master,” the blonde said.
“Go. Choose something.”
The woman noticed Claire watching her and smiled, then went to look at the paintings.
“Claire,” Ari said, calling her attention back to him.
The words, “Yes, Master?” tumbled out of her mouth without her thinking about it, and she was oddly grateful that few seemed to notice this title being thrown around.
“Let's go look at the art before it sells out.” He took her hand and guided her toward the paintings.
In the background she heard various endearments like pet, kitten and my little slut, and responses of Sir and Master, floating on the air around them.
Many women wore collars. They weren't dog collars. They were elegant jewelry like hers. Some were gold, some a silver-white metal. Some had jewels, some were more simple. Claire could immediately spot the tourists, as Ari had called them. They'd huddled amongst themselves toward the back of the gallery, eating hors d'oeuvres off passing trays, whispering and staring open-mouthed at the art—what they could see of it from that distance anyway. They reacted whenever a woman said the word Master, as though it were shocking and dirty—even as it clearly excited them.
“Start over there.”
Both Claire and Ari spun at Kane's voice.
“There are twenty-five paintings in the collection. They tell a story. So you should view them in order before the story gets broken up by buyers.”
“Like kittens at the pound,” a woman beside him said. The artist.
Saskia had long dark hair and eyes the color of rich melted chocolate. She wore a platinum collar with black diamonds, long black opera gloves, and a floor-length red evening gown with thin spaghetti straps and a high slit up one side. In fact, as Claire looked around, she noticed every woman wearing a collar seemed to also be wearing an evening gown with a high slit up the side. Had Kane explicitly requested extreme side-slits in the evening gowns or had the men in attendance just wanted to be able to touch their pets in any way they wanted at any time without clothing getting in the way? It seemed too planned to be coincidental.
Had Kane demanded Ari buy Claire a gown like this, or did he already know the dress-code from previous visits?
“I'm Saskia,” the artist said, “Kane's pet. You must be Claire.”
Claire smiled awkwardly at the woman, feeling suddenly guilty about the things she'd done with Kane. Did Saskia know he touched other women? Was he cheating on her? Did they even look at it that way? Claire had no idea. She'd had a hard time thinking through that sort of complex calculus while dealing with the potent effects of the cream.
But the my slut is your slut frat-boy mantra between Ari and Kane had to be known by her. Which meant... Ari had been with her as well.
“My pet is gaining quite a following in certain circles of the art world,” Kane said, sounding proud. His hand rested possessively against her lower back. “We had a waiting list for the entire six months it took her to complete the collection. I drove her the whole time like a relentless bastard, but the results speak for themselves.”
Given her brief experiences with him, Claire could just imagine the depravity he'd introduced into Saskia's creative process.
Ari led Claire to the spot Kane had indicated and they started to work their way through the series, looking at each painting in turn. They were each titled simply and enigmatically: Chapter One, Chapter Two, and so on—as if Saskia had written a book with pigments rather than words.
As they moved around the gallery, Claire could see a story unfolding. Each painting had a woman with dark hair. Saskia. All the images were kinky, each a tableau of dominance and submission. A shadowy male figure was in each image with the woman.
In the beginning he seemed undefined, blurred. He felt distant and cold and cruel. Terrifying. Claire could feel the woman's fear and disgust toward him shining out from her eyes. In some of the paintings there were other people present. Sometimes someone else was fucking the woman while the cruel distant stranger looked on.
But at some point things started to shift. Instead of pulling away from him, she moved toward him. He became more defined in each painting, less blurred around the edges, less shadowy. Light started to come in and by the last painting, Epilogue, one could see it was definitely Kane. In that last painting, rather than overt dirty kinky images, rather than power and surrender, the two of them were cuddled together in a bed.
Claire gasped when they stopped in front of one of the paint
ings in the series to get a closer look. Chapter Seventeen. There was Kane, Saskia, and... Ari. There was no mistaking his tall broad frame, the hair, or those arctic blue eyes that could both freeze you and melt you in a single glance.
“I want this one,” Ari said to no one in particular.
Claire took a closer look at the price. Each painting was selling at a hundred thousand dollars. And they were selling. It wasn't vanity pricing meant to stroke an ego but not fill a bank account. People were happily paying the price. Over half of the paintings already had red sold stickers on the title cards affixed to the wall beside them.
Kane appeared suddenly behind them. “I knew you'd pick that one,” he said. “Fond memories?”
“I can't believe you'd let her paint all this... as private as you are,” Ari said under his breath.
Kane shrugged. “I won't stand in the way of her art. She's brilliant. She can paint what she likes. Anyway, only the last painting in the series clearly shows it's me, and that one isn't for sale. I'm keeping it.” He pulled a roll of round red stickers out of his jacket pocket and marked Ari's painting as sold. “Marcus is handling the money, so you should go pay him. I'll keep Claire company.”
Ari looked back and forth between Claire and Kane. “Will you be okay, little one?”
“Yes, Master,” Claire said. Even though she wasn't sure how she felt about being left alone with an artist she'd once had sexual fantasies about.
Ari hesitated but finally nodded and went off in search of Marcus.
She'd thought all the women at this party were free agents who had some kink they'd woken up to and that they'd each gone in search of a man to scratch that itch, but these paintings spoke of something darker. And she wondered suddenly if Saskia was a slave in the way that Claire was a slave. A prisoner. Though she surely didn't seem like one. Then again, Claire knew nothing about her screamed, help me, a psycho is holding me hostage. Not with the way she'd clung so close to Ari since they'd arrived.
Ari had been consistently kind to her. Saskia obviously hadn't seen her own situation with Kane in the same way. Claire glanced across the room to find the artist mingling and speaking with the guests about her work.