I wouldn’t normally have done it, but here in the privacy of this space I’m alone and free to examine the figure.
I wonder if all women are curious about breasts. They are just lobs of fat, but somehow they had become inextricably linked with femininity, sex, and the forbidden.
Even though they are everywhere.
“It isn’t an HD photograph, you know. You can’t zoom in to get a better look at the subject’s rack,” a distressingly familiar voice says from just behind me.
I don’t move, but I’m sure my entire body has just turned bright red.
I’m stunned speechless.
Holy.
Crap.
Now standing just inches to my right, he continues, “Notice the curves Degas uses throughout.”
He gestures with two fingers an inch from the surface of the canvas.
“The curve of her hip,” he speaks slowly, silkily, “the curve of her leg that covers her most intimate place.”
Professor West makes the last two words sound less delicate and more like sex pot.
He moves to my other side and gestures with his left hand. “See the perfectly executed soft curves of her breasts? Degas spent years trying to make those curves just right.”
I refuse to look at him.
Was he goading me?
“Didn’t you like how he executed her breasts?” His voice has softened so much, it sounds like pillow talk. “You were examining them so closely.”
I think my coloring has changed from red to purple I’m so flustered.
But this last statement—a joke at my expense, galvanizes me to speak.
“I prefer his ballerinas,” I say a thousand times calmer than I feel.
Thank you God.
“Of course you do,” he answers icily, like I’m a foregone conclusion.
I hadn’t noticed that he’d been leaning into me before. He’s now slightly further away.
The altered physical space gives me room enough to collect myself with as much dignity as I can muster.
Don’t think about it Elle. Don’t think about it.
I’m trying desperately not to think about him fucking the blonde and how the memory continues to affect my body.
I find my voice, “If you are judging me because you think that as a female I must be enamored with his ballerinas merely because they are pretty you would be mistaken.” My response is formal, with a hint of disdain thrown in for good measure.
I’m determined to prove something. What? I’m not sure yet.
But I soldier on, “The movement he expressed through dancers—it sings. Even in those simple in between moments where the subject isn’t performing—her movements matter.” I pause for effect, like I’m giving a lecture.
“They are beautiful and strong and show the female form in ways that weren’t happening anywhere else at the time. Collectively they are beautiful because they show the fixing of shoes, the stretching, the practices—all of the moments that lead up to a performance.” I manage to hold my intellectual, calm tone in place.
Now for the zinger, “Individually, they honor women and movement. It has nothing to do with his use of pink.” I spit the word at him.
There.
He is silent.
I feel brave enough to sneak a sideways glance in his direction.
He’s staring at me. A look of surprise or confusion or possibly curiosity dances across his face.
“Yes, that is valid,” he accepts.
I don’t know how long we stand there, side by side.
The silence grows making me feel more awkward than angry again.
He’s the one to speak first, “There are just so many of them. The ballerinas are ubiquitous in his work.” He sounds annoyed…or bored with them.
He speaks with the same youthful style of his lectures. Half biased opinion, half intellectual discourse.
I was never sure if his biased take on the pieces we discussed in class was appropriate for a professor of art history.
I don’t know why I expect him to present the material and all relevant information in an impartial way.
Isn’t that what college professors are supposed to do?
Then again he was no regular professor…
I glance around the other three walls.
I can read many of the titles, there are four other paintings by Degas at least partially titled “After the Bath.”
“It appears that these particular nudes are equally ubiquitous.” I gesture around the room. “How many After the Baths did he paint?”
“I don’t know,” he admits, surprised with himself, I think.
“Isn’t that something you should know?” I challenge.
“Perhaps.” I hear rather than see the smile in his voice.
“There are dozens, I don’t spend time thinking about Degas and his stats.” Now he sounds amused.
More silence.
I don’t know what to say, so I just start moving down the wall.
I can feel rather than see him moving with me.
My long hair partially obstructs my peripheral vision and shields me from view.
If I can’t see him, he can’t see me.
I come to the final painting in the room and stop dead.
The other paintings were nudes that weren’t really shocking in a world full of film nudity and sex, but this last painting sucker punches me.
Why, oh why, did I have to lay eyes on this painting with him just inches away?
I’d only just begun feeling OK in his class and now this.
The painting is “L’Origine du Monde” by Gustave Courbet.
I had heard of it, but never seen it.
It features the lower three quarters of a naked woman.
She’s on her back, one breast exposed, her legs spread wide.
Half of the frame is taken up by her vagina. Her full bush partially covers her opening, but it is a visceral, raw image.
“Ah, yes. Courbet. He pushed the boundaries.” He’s close.
His breath moves my hair slightly.
There’s a restrained intensity in his tone.
“He dared to lay before our eyes the source of all pleasure on Earth,” his voice is barely above a whisper.
The muscles in my stomach clench together.
He continues, “This piece was censored off and on since its inception in 1866.”
I can hear my breathing getting louder.
Can he?
“Really?” is all I manage.
“Yes. It continues to be censored. In fact, it was restricted from social media as recently as 2011.”
Is he getting closer?
“Why?” I breathe, my voice shaky.
“People are afraid of pleasure,” his lips move against my ear.
A chill runs down my spine.
This isn’t happening. Should I step away?
My feet feel rooted in place. I can’t move.
And I don’t think I want to.
“Why?” I repeat stupidly, through a lust-filled haze.
“Because they are afraid to let go. To be only in their bodies without judgment. To believe that experiencing pleasure is half of what we were put on this Earth to do.”
He’s behind me now. His body brushes against mine for one instant and in that instant I want him to bend me over and take me right here.
“Are you afraid of pleasure Giselle?” he whispers into my hair.
He knows my name?
His physical proximity is making it impossible to think.
“I wonder…” his lips are at my other ear. “When the time comes will you let go?”
What does that mean?
He brushes against me again, but lingers an agonizing second longer this time.
I close my eyes.
“See you tonight,” he says simply, hungrily.
And then he is gone.
CHAPTER 16 Billionai
re Secret: In the Dark
Damon is leaning against his black town car.
He’s wearing black everything: slacks, shirt, and blazer, even though tonight is more semi-formal than black tie.
His straight brown hair is smoothed away from his face.
He looks delicious.
I consciously smooth out my short black dress and the subtly raised lace collar.
I was never quite sure what semi-formal was supposed to mean.
Once I’m a couple of feet away, he steps forward to pull me up into his arms.
He smells of citrus and chocolate.
“You look gorgeous.” He leans down to kiss me briefly before opening the door.
“Thanks, you look delicious.” I had meant to say something like debonair, but my mouth was faster than my brain.
I’m already in a lust-filled haze.
“Delicious? Hmmm. I guess I do,” he chuckles and holds out the blindfold.
Five minutes later I’m inside the large foyer of The Society house.
“I have to go check on something. Will you be OK, waiting here?” he asks.
I look around. Everything seems the same as last time. The chandelier, the marble, the staircase, the closed doors in front of me.
But unlike last time, I’m alone.
There’s nothing to do but shrug.
“One more thing.” He pulls out the satin blindfold again.
“Seriously?” I gape at him.
“Well for now I’m in control of what you see and if I’m not with you, I can’t control what you experience. So humor me, OK?” he hesitates.
“Don’t want to scare you off,” he finishes with an impish grin.
I nod.
It isn’t difficult to agree since I really have no idea what to expect.
I had a feeling each visit to The Society would be mind-blowingly different.
Damon leads me to a small plush bench on the right side of the foyer.
I sit down and secure the blindfold.
“I’ll be back in a few minutes to lead you to our destination for the night.”
I nod again and hear his footsteps disappear behind a door.
It isn’t as loud as last time.
I can hear music in the distance and voices.
There is no way to tell where they are coming from.
I’m suddenly wondering what the floor plan of the building looks like.
What’s upstairs? Is there a basement? What did they keep in the main hall that Damon didn’t think I was ready for?
After a couple of minutes, I hear footsteps approach.
He takes my hand tenderly and guides me forward.
We walk…twenty feet? Thirty feet?
I hear him open a door and then he has both his hands on either side of my hips, maneuvering me forward.
I can tell the room is small and pitch dark even through the blindfold.
I hear the door close behind us. The uncertainty of the situation gives me goose bumps.
He spins me to face him and then suddenly he is on me.
His pliable lips move firmly against me, spreading me wider so he can explore.
The kiss is deeper than any we had previously shared. I don’t know if it’s the dark or the blindfold, but I open to him. Our tongues are deeply entwined.
I’m on fire again.
I wrap my arms around his neck, feeling completely unhinged. Not being able to see anything is making every touch feel like sex.
He moves forward a couple of steps pinning me against something and reaches down to hitch my left leg around his hip.
He presses into me.
He is tender and urgent at the same time. He moves his lips to my neck.
His attentions are making my legs feel like jelly, I can barely stand.
“Mmmm,” I moan.
His lips are back on mine, stifling the last of the moan, when I hear a sound deep in his chest.
It’s different.
It doesn’t sound familiar. Doesn’t sound like Damon.
Oh God.
I’d just assumed.
I push the man away from me and pull off the blindfold.
I can’t see anything.
He flips a switch on the wall.
My eyes sting from the light as I register that I am in a small closet, possibly under the stairs in the foyer.
And alone with Erik West.
CHAPTER 17 Billionaire Secret: Fifty Shades of Wright
He flashes a deep lustful grin.
Holy crap!
He’d led me in here and almost given me an orgasm—after only a few kisses.
The blood rises to my face, hot and heavy. But I can’t tell which is the dominating emotion.
Anger?
Embarrassment?
Lust?
In that moment I don’t think, I reach for him.
We collide into each other.
I want him.
All those weeks of fantasizing, of remembering the last time I was here—replaying the conversation in the art gallery for the last few hours…
His response is animalistic.
He pins me again, hiking up my dress until it’s around my stomach.
His mouth devours me.
Possesses me.
He’s just reached under my thong when the thought of Damon seeps back into my consciousness.
I came here with Damon.
I stop his hand and pull away.
I rest my hands on his shoulders to steady myself and my breathing, then smooth out my dress.
I move around him to the door. Turning to look behind me, I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out.
His light green eyes blaze with excitement. He’s swaying slightly. I can feel his impulse to reach for me again.
The attraction vibrates between us. A current that connects us.
I will my feet to move. To leave the small space before I give into the magnetic wave coming off of him.
One step at a time. Until finally I’m back on the plush bench. Blindfold on.
A minute later I hear a door open and close. The closet under the stairs.
I stop breathing. My skin turns hot. I don’t know what I’ll do if he comes near me again.
Thankfully, the footsteps move away from me. Disappearing completely.
It’s another few minutes before I hear footsteps approach again.
I can’t tell who it is, but somehow I know it isn’t Erik.
When he reaches me I have to make sure. “Damon?”
“Yeah, sorry, it…took longer than expected. I was half expecting you to have left.” His voice is tender, apologetic.
“What took longer?”
He takes my hands, bringing me to a standing position. “This is unconventional, my bringing you to two gatherings without you being an official member so I was just making sure that it was all OK. It is, I’ve got the go ahead to bring you whenever I want,” he sounds pleased.
He removes the blindfold.
I blink to refocus my vision.
“We’re going this way tonight.” He takes my hand and leads me down the right hallway this time.
About half way down we take another hallway to the left, there is a single open door up ahead.
Damon stops abruptly to position me in front of him.
“Close your eyes and listen,” he commands.
I can hear soft sounds…sex sounds.
A woman moaning. Bodies moving together.
Not the same noises I remember from last time with…Erik.
I stop listening as I remember his body unapologetically fucking that woman…her crying out in ecstasy.
My thoughts shift to his lips. The way he’d kissed me.
The way he’d devoured me. Almost making me come in the closet…by just kissing me.
Our animal instincts had compelled us as he’d nearly ripped off my dress…just minutes be
fore…
Damon slides one hand over my stomach and down. Touching me through the fabric of the lace dress.
He starts massaging, my body responds. The blood falls lower and lower. Until I’m pulsing.
I try to focus on Damon, but I’m still thinking of Erik.
Is this right? Being touched by a man while being aroused by the memory of another?
I stiffen. Am I being deceitful? Fickle? Tacky? Slutty?
The words come one after another.
The judgment overwhelms me.
The words chase me out of my pleasure-seeking body and into my over-thinking brain.
Damon doesn’t seem to notice the change.
He takes my hand and we continue down the hall.
We stand at the entrance of the large room.
Two couples are enjoying each other. One set against the far wall to our right, a brown-haired man and woman, their backs facing us.
Her arms are spread wide against the wall. He has firm control of her hips as he takes her gradually from behind.
The slow rhythm makes her moan low in her throat as the movement progresses.
The other couple, a dark sandy haired man with blue eyes and a petite brunette with a face I can’t see, are straddling each other on a large four poster bed.
Their movements are also controlled, deliberate. She moves her hips up, down, and then circles into him. Her gyrations make them both pant.
The man’s hair color reminds me of Erik again.
Although this man is attractive, Erik is a chiseled God next to him. My body responds as I watch.
Damon takes my hips and drives me back against him.
I can feel the length of his cock through my dress.
He kisses my neck as I watch.
I turn my attention from the couple on the bed with Erik’s hair to the couple against the wall.
I want the couple on the wall to be me and Damon, and I want the couple on the bed to be me and Erik.
As Damon runs his tongue down my neck and grabs my breast, thoughts of Erik in the closet flood my brain.
More and more they disconnect me from my body and into my judgmental brain.
I can’t think because I’m so aroused and I can’t progress in my arousal because I can’t stop thinking.
I need something to stop.
I need to get a handle on what I think, what I want and figure out what the hell I’m feeling.
Ignited & Unhinged (Billionaire Secret, Book One)(Billionaire Romance, New Adult Romance, College Romance) Page 10