by C. C. Snow
When he asked me to go to the Art Institute museum last week, I readily agreed. Since I moved to Chicago, I had been too busy with work to enjoy any of the sites and I felt like a tourist in my own city. We spent a Sunday wandering from room to room, enjoying the variety of artwork. Of course, we argued over our favorite artists, but I suspected he was deliberately obdurate to get a rise out of me.
I felt no qualms about accepting his invitation to this gallery show.
I even bought a new dress for tonight. At the last opening, I felt woefully underdressed in my black slacks and patterned blouse. Every other woman had been decked out in a designer gown. A Valentino was beyond my budget, but I thought the teal wrap dress complemented my dark coloring. Its clean lines flattered my curves. My eyes were made up with shimmery eye shadow and my lips were slicked with a soft peach lipstick. With my loose curls cascading down my back, I thought I looked pretty good.
But Troy didn’t seem to notice any of my efforts when he picked me up. He swept his gaze over me and said mildly, “You look nice.”
Refusing to acknowledge why his lack of response irritated me, I returned the compliment. He did look scrumptious in a dark suit and a slate-grey shirt, casually unbuttoned at the collar.
“Hmm…imagine that. You liking art that pokes fun at the establishment,” he said drily.
Chuckling, I bumped his shoulder. In my three-inch heels, I was still a few inches shorter than he was.
“Come on. You didn’t think the dirty limerick inscribed on the columns of the replica of the governor’s mansion was funny?” That politician had been caught with his pants down—literally—by a disgruntled staffer who leaked the photos to the press.
“Not as funny as the portrait of a certain business rival made up of photos of testicles. I think I’ll buy that one for the conference room.”
Wine went up my nose and I coughed.
Troy thumped my back, the heat of his hand seeping through the thin fabric.
Before I ended up spilling my drink, I set it on one of the round tables dotting the venue. I glared playfully at him as I dabbed my mouth with a napkin.
“What? You don’t think it’ll be funny as hell when he comes in for a meeting?” His blue eyes glittered devilishly.
“You are an evil man, Troy Weston.”
He grinned. “I can’t be all that bad if you’re willing to hang out with me.”
Before I could come up with an appropriate retort, a couple walked up to us. The tall redhead gave him a once-over and something unpleasant stirred in my gut. The slightly balding man, at least fifteen years older than the woman, was oblivious to his companion’s covetous look.
“John. Veronika. Nice to see you again.” Troy greeted them with a tight smile. “This is Elle Lazzaro. Elle, John Howe is a business associate of mine. Veronika is his wife.” His gaze seemed to linger on her for an extra second.
As we exchanged pleasantries, I discreetly studied Veronika. I could tell right away that she knew how to dress to enhance her best assets. The long, silk gown highlighted her slim body, lending her a regal air. The green was a dramatic foil for her auburn hair and milky white skin. She was classically beautiful, with delicate, elegant features, but something about her left me cold. I finally decided it was the hard glint in her eyes that repelled me.
The subject moved on to a charity event they attended last month and I stood quietly, having nothing to add to the conversation.
Veronika laughed at something Troy said and placed her hand on his arm. To anyone not paying attention, it would look like a casual touch, but I saw her fingers squeeze his biceps, conveying a secret message.
His shoulders tensed at the contact.
I darted a glance at Troy’s face. His eyes were hooded and his cheeks seemed even more hollowed out as he gazed at the redhead.
The world tilted. These two knew each other and I’d bet they knew each other intimately. Their history was evident in their too-familiar gestures and glances. And from the way she was eating him up with her blue eyes, they might still be involved.
Suddenly I felt nauseated. My throat constricted tightly as I stared at those manicured fingers caressing the dark fabric of his blazer. I wanted to rip her hand away and bitch-slap her.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
This was bad. A disaster. I was jealous.
Panic moving through me, I took a step back.
At my sudden move, Troy frowned and regarded me with concern. “Are you okay, Elle?”
“Yes,” I said brightly and took another step back, needing space. “I just need to powder my nose. If you’ll excuse me.” I nodded at the Howes and walked toward the back of the gallery, barely restraining myself from breaking into a run.
Fortunately, the small bathroom was free. I locked the door and stood in front of the mirror, staring at my flushed face. I shook a finger at myself. “This is not good, Elle. Get your shit together. He’s off limits, remember?”
But at the moment I had a hard time remembering why.
Veronika’s face flashed across my mind and I exhaled a deep breath. “No, Elle. He’s a player. Besides, you don’t want to ruin a new friendship.” Recalling his blasé reaction to my appearance, I grimaced. Whatever attraction he felt for me in the past was no longer in evidence.
“And that’s a good thing,” I reassured myself, staring steadily at my reflection. “Keep your cool, Elle. Don’t be stupid. He’s your boss. Lui non è per te.” I continued to lecture myself in Italian, hoping the words would sink faster into my skull if I said it in two languages.
When I felt sufficiently chastised, I stepped out of the room. My eyes went to Troy’s tall form and my stomach dropped.
He was talking with Veronika and John was nowhere in sight. She leaned close to him, her head tilted at a coquettish angle, red hair brushing against his arm.
Ugly emotions churned and I hastily retreated. I couldn’t let Troy see me until I recovered my equilibrium. Spinning around, I wandered away from the main show to the back of the gallery.
I turned a corner and peeked into a small alcove. As soon as I saw the work on display, I gasped in delight. I stepped into the small space to examine the row of 8x10 black-and-white photos of children from around the world. The display was incredibly moving, documenting the joy of childhood, even in extreme poverty.
“Do you like them?”
At the accented voice, I turned my head to see a slender man regarding me with dark eyes. He was in his late thirties, with thick, brown hair and aristocratic features. Unlike the other male guests, he was dressed more casually.
He nodded at the pictures. “Do you like the work?”
I returned my attention to a photo of a group of young boys playing with a soccer ball made of rags wrapped with twine. Their faces were radiant with unbridled joy. “Yes. These are wonderful. The artist captured the moment perfectly.”
“Thank you.”
I swiveled my head to stare at him in astonishment. “You did these?”
“Yes.”
“You’re Jan Achterberg?” It would explain the slight Dutch accent.
“Yes, do you want to see an ID?”
I laughed, charmed in spite of myself. “No, of course not.”
“And you are?”
I extended my hand. “Elle Lazzaro.”
Smiling, he shook my hand. Now that he was closer, I could see that his eyes were a deep umber.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Elle.”
“Likewise. Do you mind if I ask you some questions about your work, Mr. Achterberg?”
“Of course not. And please call me Jan.”
“Okay, Jan.” I smiled and gestured to his work. “Where did you take these?”
He pointed to the first four pictures. “These were in South America. The rest were in sub-Saharan Africa.”
“What kind of camera did you use?” I leaned closer to one of the photos to study the details. “There’s something different about these prints.”
<
br /> “Good eyes,” he said, surprise in his voice. “I’ve started experimenting with light field cameras that allow me to adjust the focus. Are you a photographer?”
I shook my head. “No, I wouldn’t call myself that. I do it as a hobby.” I nodded at his work. “This is amazing work.”
He waved his hand. “Every artist starts out as a hobbyist. What kind of photography do you do?”
I had never spoken to anyone about my work and I felt silly talking about my amateurish efforts with this professional. “It’s trivial stuff. Whatever takes my fancy, really.”
“Flowers? Fashion?”
He smiled at the face I made and I rushed to explain. “I have nothing against nature or fashion photography. There are people who are very gifted at it, but I like more documentary-style photography.” I nodded toward his work. “Like these pictures.” Remembering Charlie, I said softly, “There’s something beautiful about capturing the emotions we all have in common, poor or rich, young or old.”
“Well, Elle Lazzaro, I’d love to look at your work.”
Taken aback by the offer, I asked dumbly, “What?”
He took out a card from his inner pocket and held it out to me. “Here’s my number. Call me if you want some feedback on your art. I’m always happy to help new artists.”
My hand automatically moved to take it from him. “But…but you don’t know me or what my work looks like. It could be utter crap.”
Jan chuckled. “Art starts in the heart. I can tell from the way you talk about photography that you understand that. I’m leaving for a trip to Myanmar next week, but I’ll be back in Chicago next month. Give me a call.”
“Elle?”
I looked over Jan’s shoulder to see Troy staring at me, his mouth held in a severe line.
Shit. He must be annoyed with me for being gone for so long.
“Uh…sorry, Troy. I got sidetracked by these photos,” I said lamely and waved a hand at Jan. “Then I met Jan…I mean Mr. Achterberg, the artist, and lost track of time. Mr. Achterberg, this is my friend, Troy Weston.”
Jan shook hands with Troy. “Nice to meet you.” He turned back to me. “It was lovely meeting you, Elle. I hope to hear from you soon.” With a smile, he walked back to the show.
“What was that about?” Troy asked, his voice tight.
“Nothing,” I said, reluctant to talk about my photography. I had never shown anyone my work and I probably wouldn’t call this guy, but I put his card into the small, hidden pocket in my dress.
When I glanced up, Troy’s face was suffused with what looked like anger before he wiped his expression clean. I wondered if his conversation with Veronika did not end well.
“Ready to get back to the show?”
“Of course.” Forcing a smile, I walked past him.
I tried to enjoy the rest of the exhibition, but all the fun seemed to be siphoned out of the evening. Troy was broody and quiet and every time Veronika glanced in our direction, I felt my mood darken.
I was relieved when Troy asked if I was ready to leave after another half hour. He called his driver and we slid into the back of the car. I moved as close to the window—and as far away from him—as possible.
Troy raised the partition and sat back with a sigh. “Did you have a good time?” he asked absently.
“It was okay,” I said desultorily. The last part of the evening sucked donkey balls.
“Any pieces catch your eye?”
“The steel ones were interesting.”
“I would have thought it would be Mr. Achterberg’s work.”
“His photography is very compelling,” I said, wary of the tense note in his voice. “And he was very nice.”
“From where I stood, it looked like you thought he was more than nice,” he sneered.
The nasty tone in his voice made me twist toward him in shock. My inner bitch hissed and reared her head. “Yes, meeting him was the highlight of the whole evening. What was yours? Flirting with your business associate’s wife?”
There was dead silence and I cringed in regret for my catty, too revealing comment.
“Sorry, that’s none of my—”
He lunged at me and slammed his mouth over mine. His fingers speared into my hair and clasped my scalp tightly, holding me immobile.
I gasped and his tongue invaded the interior of my mouth. Hard. Wet. Ruthless. A small moan made its way up my throat as he devoured my lips.
My body sank into the soft leather under his weight and I instinctively clutched at his lapels.
He broke away, breathing heavily against my lips, and whispered urgently, “Kiss me back, Elle.”
Before I could reply, his mouth was already covering mine again, his lips coaxing, seducing. All common sense and rational thinking dissolved under the heat of his mouth.
My eyelids drifted closed. In the dark confines of the car, all my other senses became heightened. My tongue glided against his and I shuddered at the deliciously rough texture. My nipples beaded and I pressed closer to him.
His grip on my skull softened, his fingers massaging my scalp. He angled his head and sucked lightly.
God, that was like a direct tug on my core. My pussy lips slickened with moisture and I tilted my hips. He answered by reaching his hand under my left thigh and bringing my leg high on his hip. With an adjustment of his pelvis, he pushed into the space between my thighs, his erection hitting at the heart of me.
My head spun as waves of desire crashed through my body. I felt my insides turn liquid as he continued the assault on my senses.
Tongue tasting every inch of my mouth. Teeth teasing my lips. Fingers pressing into the supple flesh of my thigh, inching ever higher. Hips grinding into my softness.
He let go of my mouth and kissed my left ear before taking my lobe between his teeth. His tongue flicked at my flesh making me moan needily.
“Troy,” I whispered. I meant for his name to come out as a protest, but my mind was sliding past the point of no return. My body craved the pleasure he was promising with his lips. His hands. His cock.
“I’m here, baby,” he said into the nape of my neck before sucking on my skin. “You taste so good.” He licked down my torso until he reached the V of my dress.
My fingers combed into his thick hair as he pressed kisses along the inner curves of my breasts. He turned his cheek and exhaled a hot breath on my nipple, making it painfully erect.
I felt something loosen around my waist and realized he had untied my sash. His large hand pushed the material of my dress aside. With a low groan, he traced the scalloped edges of my bra with his tongue and I shivered as the cool air hit the trail of moisture.
He dipped his head and covered the hardened peak of my breast with his mouth. The blast of heat made me cry out and he started to suck at me through the lace. Every pull of his lips ratcheted up my arousal.
His right hand drifted down the length of my body, his callouses abrading pleasurably against my skin, until he came to the waistband of my thong. Fingers traced the edges until they reached the drenched panel between my legs.
My core pulsed hungrily for his touch and I widened my legs.
Releasing my nipple with a wet pop, he murmured. “So sexy.”
Two fingers slid underneath the skimpy strip of fabric and I mewled as he made contact with my wet folds. He trailed his fingers up and down. Up and down, drawing more wetness out of my channel.
“Troy,” I moaned, tightening my grip on his hair.
He lifted his head and kissed me hard. His fingertips circled the entrance to my pussy.
I cried out into his mouth as he pushed his fingers into me. It had been a long time for me and he had large hands. My inner muscles pulsed with joy and distress at the hard penetration.
Breaking the kiss, I tossed my head back and panted. “Oh God.”
“You’re so tight, baby. So wet.” He flexed his fingers and I shrieked at the throb of pleasure.
“Holy fuck! You are the hottest t
hing I’ve ever felt,” he muttered and then started to move his fingers in and out of me. He bent his head and sucked on the skin showing above my bra. Then he captured my other nipple in his mouth and bit lightly into my flesh.
I whimpered, feeling my core quicken.
“Come, baby. Come on my fingers,” Troy urged, increasing the speed of his movements.
“Oh shit,” I uttered before my body went into supernova. My hips writhed uncontrollably as my pussy contracted tightly on his fingers. I lifted my hips into his hand and he pressed deeper. He felt so good. So good.
He flicked his thumb against my clit and another orgasm slammed into me. My vision blurred and I could only focus on the sensations between my thighs. My arms lost their strength and I let them drop uselessly to my side as pleasure pulsated through my body. I felt like I had been hurled through a hurricane. No, a lightning storm. My muscles twitched convulsively as errant currents of pleasure zapped me.
After my breathing quieted, Troy gently pulled his fingers out of me and I made a low hum of protest. “I have to taste you,” he muttered urgently before yanking my thong down my legs.
I didn’t register his meaning until he pulled me lower onto the seat, canted my hips, and made a space between my thighs. My legs draped over his broad shoulders.
Then all I could feel was his mouth covering my sex. His tongue running along my wet folds, lapping at my pussy, flicking at my swollen clit. His firm lips tugged at sensitive flesh, wringing moan after moan out of me. He was so unabashed about eating me out and I wanted more.
He eased away and kissed my inner thighs, leaving the slick remnants of my arousal on my skin. “Fucking delicious. Better than the finest scotch.” He pressed his nose into the small strip of hair on my mound and inhaled. It should have been embarrassing, but it wasn’t. It was hot. Erotic.
The tip of his tongue grazed against my clit and I shivered. He did it again and I shamelessly rolled my hips against his face.
I thought another orgasm would be beyond my reach, but that tingling deep inside warned me I was wrong.
I clasped his head, afraid he would stop. “More. Please,” I begged.