Work of Art ~ the Collection (57 page)

I feel his surrender unravel. He takes my hand and pulls me out of the room. We hurry down a long hallway, and he pushes me into the first unlocked door we come across. It says Research Library on the door.

“This will do,” he says in a low voice, as he closes the door and props a chair under the door handle. Before I can undo my shirt, he presses me against the wall next to the door.

He scrapes his teeth along my neck. “Damn, you make me crazy. I want you so fucking much.” He kisses me hard—his tongue hot and searching as he grinds against me.

He reaches under my skirt and yanks my panties down my legs.

The thrill of what we’re about to do is unlike anything I’ve experienced. I don’t care if we’re caught. I just want him in a desperate way.

I grab his belt buckle, and he yanks open my shirt and pulls my bra down. The warmth of his hands holding my breasts is erotic against my cool skin. Hunger burns in his eyes as he takes my nipple in his mouth, and I manage to slide off his jeans and get the condom on.

He slips his hands between my legs and groans when he slides his fingers into my wetness. “Damn, Ava, you really want this.”

I let out a guttural moan.

With a wild look in his eyes, he lifts me up to his waist, and I wrap my legs around him.

I’m desperate for him as I moan in his ear. “Please . . . now.”

“Hold onto me, angel,” he groans, as he takes one hand and guides himself to my wetness. We’re both breathless as he lowers me onto his cock.

“Yes,” I whisper as I tighten all around him.

He closes his eyes and his head falls back as he moans. “Oh my God. So good . . . you feel so good.”

I run my tongue along his neck and bite his hot skin as he presses me against the wall, pulls his hips back, and thrusts all the way into me.

“Oh yeah,” I moan. “Again.”

He pulls back and rocks into me hard.

“Is this too much?” he asks, groaning in my ear as he continues his magnificent rhythm.

“No . . . it’s perfect.” I kiss him hungrily, my tongue sliding against his. I get lost in his heat as he drives into me. He’s so sexy, and everything about him, from the way his muscles flex to the dark look in his eyes, only makes me want him more.

I feel a strange combination of naughty and powerful, unbridled and sexy. I’m somewhere between art babe and goddess as I hold on tight and moan while he fills me again and again.

His head rolls back as his hips buck harder.

I’m breathless from the relentless thrusting. I let go of his shoulder with one hand and slide it between us to touch myself. Moments later, I’m right on the brink.

Each thrust is barely contained now, and he gasps as we grind into the wall.

I dig my nails into his shoulders. “Max,” I call out as my vision goes white hot, my body seizing.

He rocks into me one last time before his explosive release. We cling onto each other to keep from falling, and I bite my lip to keep from crying out as I ride out my climax.

As we catch our breath, he holds me tight. Once we’ve calmed, he slowly lowers me to the floor.

The audacity of the situation settles in, and I can’t believe we just made love in a museum. Our passion is out of control, and I love it.

Max is still electrified with energy, but he tenderly brushes his fingers over my cheek. “Was that too hard? I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

“No. Did we damage the wall?” I tease, as I rub my fingers over the thick adobe. His gaze is still full of concern about me, so I kiss him and give him a wink.

“You can have your way with me in a museum anytime.”

In the ladies room, I study the glow of my cheeks and my bee-stung lips. My eyes are bright and happy. Evidently, all this passion agrees with me. If only I had before and after photographs to use as empirical evidence of the benefits of love and great sex.

I wash my hands and head over to the bar to find my man. As soon as I enter the room, our gazes meet and he smiles. Our rendezvous inspired by O’Keeffe’s seductive imagery is now our secret, and I have no intention of sharing it with anyone.

I slide next to him, and he wraps his arm around my shoulder.

“You okay?” he asks, even though he knows the answer.

“Never better. I do have one question, though.”

“Yeah, what’s that?” He kisses the top of my head.

“What would Georgia think of what just happened?”

“My guess . . . she’d be most pleased. I think she was a gal who knew how to enjoy the important things in life.”

“Mmm,” I hum, as Jess and Brian join us.

Jess watches me. “You look really happy, baby. Is this your doing, Mr. Caswell?”

“Yes, I would love to take credit for making her happy.”

“Well, you do.” I take his hand.

Jess’s eyes dance and a smile spreads across her face.

“A bunch of us are going to Maria’s for dinner. Are you guys joining us?” Brian asks.

“No, but thanks. We’ve got other plans. As a matter of fact,” he says and turns to me, “Are you ready to go?”

“Sure.” I wonder what he has in mind.

Without another word, he takes my hand and leads me from the museum. As we reach the rental car, he turns to me and hugs me close. “I just need more time alone with you.”

I kiss him tenderly. “Sounds like a plan; let’s go.”

Back at the hotel, I wait in the lobby for a minute while Max gets a bottle of Pinot Noir and two glasses from the bartender. He also orders food to be delivered to the room. We throw a bunch of pillows on the deck and sit under the stars, sip wine and snack an assortment of appetizers. We talk about everything from the show to our childhoods, and eventually we gravitate into each other’s arms, holding each other and kissing . . . slow and sweet.

I push him against the cushions and straddle him. He watches me as I run my hands up and down his chest, and he folds his hands behind his head and surrenders. He’s mine to enjoy.

Relaxed from the wine, I explore his body, stroking his strong thighs with my hands, sliding my fingertips across his shoulders and down his arms, as he watches.

The night air paints the dreamlike landscape, and my senses are heightened. I hear leaves flutter with the soft wind; I taste his kiss lingering on my lips, and I feel our magnetic attraction, primitive and unyielding.

He pushes my hair off my shoulders and rests his hands at my waist. I love the dreamy look in his eyes.

He basks in the moonlight, and I take a moment to enjoy his admiration as his eyes skim over me the way an artist studies a favorite painting. But as much as I enjoy being appreciated, what touches me deeper is the way his lips part as he watches me. Even though we’re both spent, his attraction rises from him in waves as the tips of his fingers glide back and forth along my hips.

“You have me captive . . . what are you going to do, angel?”

“I’m going to take what I want, so don’t try to put up a fight. This is about me now.”

His eyes light up with a wicked spark. “And . . . what do you want?”

“I want to admire you.”

“Really? Am I that fascinating?”

“You’re endlessly fascinating. That’s why I want to admire you.”

He gives me the smallest of smiles as his eyes narrow. “Hmm, okay, if that’s what you want. You’re in control here.” He relaxes into the cushions. “Have at it. I’m all yours.”

“Smart man,” I whisper. “There’s so much more to you than just being a sex god.”

He rolls his eyes, but allows me to mess up his hair with my wandering fingers and skim my lips across his forehead.

A soft breeze rustles past us, brushing my long hair over my shoulders. I close my eyes, wondering when I’ve ever felt this content.

He lets out a long, satisfied sigh.

I lovingly stroke his face while we gaze at each other.

“You’re mine.” My fingers tighten over his chin and I lift his face to mine.

“Didn’t we establish that last night?” He grins widely.

“Hush. I mean it. You’re mine.”

“Yeah?” He arches his brow.

“Only mine.”

His eyes darken as he watches me, and his hands grip my waist tighter. “Completely yours.”

I roll my head back with satisfaction as I remember all of the ways he’s loved me since last night. I imagine we’re invisibly joined together now, and the only truth is when I’m in his arms.

Making love.
Two words never meant more.

I lean down and give him a soulful kiss. “Tell me another secret,” I whisper, as I rest my cheek against his.

“Another?” His thumbs rub tiny circles on my skin.

I shift until I’m sitting with my back to his front. I wrap us up in a throw blanket. “Make it a good one.”

He laughs softly. “So demanding.”

A minute passes. “Well?” I snuggle against him.

“Do you remember that note you left me after my art show in New York?”

“In your hotel?”

He rests his chin on the top of my head. “Yes. You asked me about all the drawings I’d left around the room.”

My heart skips as I pull the blanket tighter around us. The image of his hotel room dramatically strewn with rough sketches is still vivid in my mind. “The drawings of the woman? You’d drawn her so many times. I was so jealous of her.”

“You shouldn’t have been. It was you.” His lips press into my hair.

“No!” I turn and look at him.

He nods solemnly. “Yes.”

“But why?”

He shrugs as if the answer is obvious. “Because you intrigued me. I wanted you, Ava. Surely you must know. I’ve always wanted you. Always . . .”

I let out a long sigh. “And I you.”

My heart is full as I curl into him, and he holds me tight. Exhausted and deliciously content, we lie together silently, and I imagine the vastness of our journey until we finally drift off.

Wrapped in the cloak of sleep, we soar to the places Georgia dreamed of. The moon shimmers over us, silver and soft, edging us with light as love lifts us up toward the open sky.

Chapter Fifteen / My Fucking Faux Pas

The course of true love never did run smooth.

~ William Shakespeare

M
ax and I sleep in each other’s arms under the moonlight until a chill sets in and we make our way back inside to our bed.

The next morning, we hide under the covers as long as possible and order room service to put off dealing with the outside world. We’re both wiped out from the last couple of days, so it feels good just lying in bed, eating French toast and bacon, watching old cartoons, and not rushing off somewhere.

Eventually, we have to face the world though, as I’m meeting with Nick Castallani for lunch and Max has an interview this afternoon. Max isn’t happy about my meeting, because he asks a bunch of suspicious questions, but at least he offers to drop me off on his way to the show.

I kiss Max good-bye in front of the restaurant, and as I slip inside to meet Nick, my insecurities start. Will I be successful with my writing a second time? Was Max’s book just a fluke, a flash in the pan? I take a deep breath and push forward.

The hostess informs me that Mr. Castallani’s already here, and she leads me to his table. There’s an open a folder, a pad covered with notes, and a large Montblanc pen on the table. A half empty cup of coffee, several empty sugar packets, and a glass of water complete the mess he’s created. In my mind, I decide to title the scene
Still Life of a Busy Man.
He looks down at his phone as he types.

As I approach the table, he lifts his head and smiles.

“Ava, good.” He points to the chair opposite him. “Have a seat.”

“Something to drink?” The waitress places a cocktail napkin in front of me.

“Iced tea, please.” I sit down and place my notepad and phone on the table.

He finishes his text, sets his phone down, and studies me. “So, as I said, I have you in mind for an important project, but first I’d like to give you something smaller to see if you live up to your hype.”

“Hype?” My shoulders curl in and I press my fingers into my knees.

“You’re new to publishing, but you already have fans, Ava. As I’m sure you can imagine, that’s not a victory easily won with this damn crowd.”

“Well, I appreciate that you’re willing to take a chance on me. I do believe my enthusiasm and dedication make up for my lack of experience.”

“Hmm . . . Alistair said you’re smart and tenacious . . . but he knows that’s what I want to hear.”

“Did he tell you my deadline was pushed up by two months in the middle of the project, and I still made the deadline?”

He purses his lips and nods. “That’s impressive. He also said he didn’t have to do any major edits to your work.”

“Well, he was great to work with.” I sit up straight, maintaining my composure, so there’s no hint that anything else happened between Jonathan and myself.

“Look, what’s most important is that you have a fresh voice. You bring a lot of emotion into your writing, which is unconventional, but works surprisingly well.”

“Art is emotionally driven, so why shouldn’t the writing that accompanies it be as well?”

He studies my face for several moments and then smiles as he closes the folder. “Why don’t you check out the menu? Let’s order.”

As we eat, he explains how he likes to work. There’ll be no coddling with Rampart. My first assignment will be a ten-page piece on multimedia artist Andrea Altman’s traveling exhibit that’s opening at the Smithsonian in Washington DC next January. She’s been referred to as the next generation’s Cindy Sherman, and I’m excited for the opportunity to work on a project about a female artist for a change.

Halfway through lunch, Jess and Max approach our table and I have to fight from saying something I shouldn’t. Max watches Nick carefully and doesn’t even look at me. Jess looks genuinely surprised to see us.

“Hey, Ava, Nick, good to see you again,” Jess says.

Nick shakes her hand.

She motions to Max. “Nick, this is Maxfield Caswell.” Jess looks at Max suspiciously.

“Max,” Nick’s voice booms in the quiet restaurant. “Ava and I were just talking about your book. Great work. You must be pleased.”

Max shakes his hand. “Yes, you have no idea how pleased.” He finally turns and smiles and I glare back. This is no fucking coincidence. He came here to watch me. My head starts to pound as my frustration builds.