Chapter 2: The Private Viewing
The gallery was not what she’d expected. The velvet rope was a formality; a nod from a security guard with a blank face and Julian walked them right past it, his hand a firm brand on the small of her back. The rooftop’s ambient chatter died, replaced by a hushed, climate-controlled silence. The art here was aggressive—swaths of violent color and twisted metal sculptures that looked like they’d hurt you if you touched them.
“Private viewing,” Julian said, his voice echoing slightly on the polished concrete floor. They were alone.
“You know the artist?” Emily asked, her voice too loud in the quiet. She drifted toward a canvas, a mess of black and red that felt angry.
“I know the curator.” He came up behind her, not touching, but she felt the heat of him. “I find most art is just expensive decoration. A conversation starter.”
“Is that what we’re doing? Starting a conversation?” She turned to face him, aiming for cool, but her back was against the cold wall now.
“We’re finishing one.” He moved in, a predator closing the distance with effortless grace. His hands came up, caging her head, palms flat against the wall on either side. He didn’t kiss her. He just looked, his blue eyes scanning her face, her throat, the rapid pulse at its base. “The one from the bar. About you making it up to me.”
His thigh pressed between her legs, a sudden, shocking pressure through the thin silk of her dress. She gasped, a sharp intake of breath that sounded obscene in the sterile room.
“Julian—”
“Tell me about Dave,” he murmured, his mouth close to her ear. His breath was warm, his cologne intoxicating. His hips shifted, increasing the pressure. A bolt of pure, undiluted sensation shot through her. “His hands. Are they as soft as I imagine?”
The question was a violation. It dragged her boyfriend into this glittering, private space. It made him a ghost between them. She meant to shove him away. She meant to say fuck you.
Instead, a shaky, treacherous laugh escaped her. “He… he builds model trains. So, yeah. No calluses.”
Julian’s smile was a blade. “Predictable.” He said it like it was the worst thing a person could be. His head dipped, his nose skimming the line of her neck. “And does he know how to use them?”
Before she could answer, his teeth grazed the curve of her exposed shoulder. Not a kiss. A bite. Sharp, possessive, just on the right side of pain. She cried out, her hands flying up to clutch at his arms. The wool of his ruined suit was rough under her fingers.
“Does he make you sound like that?” Julian whispered against her skin, his tongue soothing the spot he’d bitten.
Her mind was white noise. This was wrong. This was so profoundly, deliciously wrong. Dave’s hands were soft. His touches were gentle, familiar, a warm blanket. This was a live wire. This was the thrill she’d been chasing all night without admitting it.
“Stop talking about him,” she managed, her voice thick.
“Why?” He pulled back just enough to look at her. His eyes were dark, pupils swallowing the blue. “He’s here, isn’t he? In that little head of yours. Telling you to be a good girl.” He ground his thigh against her core, and her eyes rolled back for a second. “You’re not a good girl, Emily. You’re the one who spilled a drink on a stranger. You’re the one who followed him down here.”
He was right. The truth of it unspooled something tight inside her. Her grip on his arms tightened.
“This is just conversation, right?” she breathed, throwing his own line back at him, a final, feeble shield.
Julian’s laugh was a low, dark sound. He finally brought his mouth to hers, but he didn’t kiss her gently. He conquered. It was all demand and heat and skill, his tongue claiming hers, his body pinning her to the wall. One hand left the wall and gripped her hip, fingers digging in, pulling her harder against the unyielding muscle of his thigh.
She kissed him back. She let herself fall into the sheer physicality of it, the expert way his mouth moved, the scratch of his stubble, the dangerous promise in his hands. It was nothing like kissing Dave. It was a car crash. It was jumping from a great height.
When he finally broke the kiss, they were both breathing heavily. A string of saliva connected their lips for a second before breaking. He looked utterly in control, while she felt unraveled.
“Conversation’s over,” he stated, his voice rough. He took her hand, his fingers lacing through hers with a possessiveness that made her shiver. “My apartment is across the street. The view is better than the art.”
He said it as if her agreement was a foregone conclusion. And as he led her, wordless, past the violent paintings toward a discreet service elevator, Emily realized with a jolt that shook her to her core, that for once, she didn’t have a single clever thing to say. The only sound was the frantic, guilty hammer of her own heart, a drumbeat marching her toward a point of no return.