Chapter 3 #2
There’s no way of knowing what he really was carrying around, but in my head, it’s the perfect length, thick enough for a slight stretch, straight, and so hard for me that it’s nearly touching his abdomen.
I picture him sliding his fist down it, his eyes closed as he jerks off to the memory of that brief connection, and before long the image morphs into something else: me flat on my back on a leather couch in a Boston high-rise, that gloved hand around my throat as the man leans over me fully clothed still, only his suit jacket off and his cock free of his trousers.
My teeth dig into my lip harder against a whimper of pleasure as my fingers rub faster, my clit pulsing under my touch.
I’m more aroused than I realized, and though I haven’t come with only my fingers and no toy in longer than I can remember, I’m going to now.
I can feel it, tightening in my core, the pleasure building at the thought of him sliding his cock between my folds where my fingers are now, faster and faster, building up speed, teasing me with what I want so badly while that gloved hand tightens around my throat…
“Oh god!” I cry out, clapping my free hand over my mouth as I come hard, leaning against the shower wall as my knees nearly buckle from the wave of sensation.
It feels so good, crashing over me as I curl my fingers and slide them into me as I clench and flutter in ripples, holding the heel of my hand against my pulsing clit.
It takes me a minute to catch my breath, my body flushed and hot. I blink away the fog of arousal, swallowing hard as I realize I just masturbated to the memory of a stranger I saw for ten seconds on a sidewalk.
It’s no different than thinking about a celebrity, I tell myself as I catch my breath and lean back under the water, mentally trying to calculate how much time I have left to get ready. And it’s not like it hurt anything that I thought about him while I…
Stop thinking about it at all. I try to push him out of my head as I finish my shower, focusing on our outing and the exhibition and where we might grab lunch as I blow dry my hair and get dressed.
I throw on a pair of 90s-style black jeans, a lace-print bodysuit, and Docs, then add rose gold hoops, a few of my favorite stacking rings scattered across my fingers, and grab my leather jacket.
Annie is just ahead of me in the hall when I come out, and she pauses, turning around to see me. She’s gorgeous as always in a sky-blue sweater dress and knee-high flat boots, her coppery red hair up in a twist and pearl drop earrings dangling from her ears.
“Ready?” she asks brightly. “I thought we could go to the bakery on our way. I think the baby wants another chocolate croissant.”
“Mhmm.” I laugh, catching up with her. “I think you do.”
“Nothing wrong with that.” She laughs along with me as we head downstairs and out into the February cold, where a sleek black car is waiting for us. A driver comes around and opens the door, and Annie slides effortlessly inside without a second thought.
It’s not really that different from a taxi, I think as I follow her in, but it still feels odd to me—having a personal driver.
Having someone who knows where you’re going and what you’re doing all of the time, escorting you there and back.
I don’t miss the black SUV following us, either, and I know it’s some of the Cattaneo family security coming along.
I’ve seen them discreetly watching the brownstone, even coming in and out from time to time.
“Isn’t it weird, having personal security?” I ask Annie as the driver pulls away from the house, and she shrugs.
“Not to me. I’ve had it my whole life. My father was wealthy and connected enough to need it, and so is Elio. Leon has been my personal security for as long as I was old enough to need someone to keep an eye on me when I wasn’t at home. It’s normal to me.”
“It feels so claustrophobic.”
“I’m sorry.” She gives me a sympathetic look. “You said that the last time you came to visit, too.”
“No, it’s fine,” I add quickly. I don’t want Annie to feel guilty for what clearly makes her feel safe. “It’s just crazy to me to think that there’s a need for it. That enough people would potentially be dangerous to warrant having men watching your back all the time.”
Something faraway comes into Annie’s eyes for a moment, a shadow that she quickly shakes off. “There are crazy people out there,” she says finally, and then presses her lips together, clearly wanting to drop the subject.
I don’t want to stress her out or make her feel uncomfortable, and I definitely don’t want to cast a pall over the day. By the time we make it to the bakery, the echo of the conversation has vanished, and we both bundle up in our jackets and hurry into the warm, pastry-scented interior.
“Let’s sit and eat,” Annie suggests, clearly craving as much time away from the house as she can get, and we find a small table tucked into a nook by the windows to eat our breakfast: a vanilla latte and almond coffee cake for me, chocolate croissant and a decaf white raspberry latte for her.
We sit and chat and enjoy our breakfast, watching the steady stream of people in and out of the bakery, enjoying the quiet peace of the moment. When we’re finished, Annie texts the driver to tell him to meet us outside, and we drive to the Museum of Fine Arts.
I can feel my pulse quickening with anticipation from the moment we step inside. The museum has that soft hush of a sacred space—footsteps whispering on marble, a reverent murmur of voices, the sense that you're in the presence of something that transcends the ordinary world.
We keep to a slow pace, Annie next to me. There’s only the slightest hint of roundness to her belly, but her hand strays to it now and again, and I touch her arm reassuringly. “I know the doctor said it was fine, but if you start to feel off—”
“I’m good,” Annie promises me, as we step into the first room. “I missed being out around people. I’m not a bed rest kind of girl, that’s for sure. I love being home with Elio, and I love our house, but I thought I was going to start climbing the walls.
"I know." I link my arm through hers. "Thank you for insisting. I've been wanting to see this since it was announced."
The exhibition space is dimly lit—necessary for the preservation of centuries-old paintings, but also perfect for Caravaggio's work.
His paintings demand darkness, created in the chiaroscuro technique that made him famous: that dramatic interplay of light and shadow, of illumination emerging from void.
I stop at the first painting, a familiar rush of emotion rippling through me. The Beheading of Saint John the Baptist.
I've seen it before, years ago in Rome, but seeing it again feels like a jolt of lightning through my veins. The brightness of blood against the tile, the shadows encroaching, the green velvet of the woman’s skirt…
all of it is stunning. It’s always been one of my favorites, the brutality of it, the evidence of what a man will do for a woman he’s obsessed with, even a king.
"God," Annie breathes beside me. "It's even more incredible in person."
I nod, studying the painting. I could stand here for hours just taking in the one painting, and there’s several more to look at.
As if the museum decided to keep similar topics together, Judith Beheading Holofernes is next.
Judith’s face is calm as she saws through Holofernes' neck, her maidservant waiting with the basket.
The blood is so red it seems wet. The darkness around them is so complete it feels like you could fall into it.
“You know I was never as into art history class as you were,” Annie says with a small smile. “But he was definitely one of my favorites that we studied.”
By the time we reach The Seven Works of Mercy, Annie pauses, scanning the outside halls. “I’m going to go find a bathroom,” she says. “I’ll meet you back here, I want to see the rest of the exhibition, too.”
“Are you all right?” Worry instantly pricks at me, but Annie waves me off.
“I’m fine. I’ll be right back.”
I watch her go, making sure she's steady on her feet, then turn back to the painting in front of me.
This is another of my favorites. The light and dark technique is especially obvious in this one, and I step closer, studying it—the way he builds the darkness, layer upon layer, so that when the light comes it's almost shocking in its intensity.
"The chiaroscuro is remarkable, isn't it?"
The voice comes from behind me, low and smooth, with an accent I can't quite place— Russian, maybe, or Eastern European, but softened by years of speaking English.
Somehow, I know before I turn around. My body knows before my mind catches up—that same electric awareness, that sense of the air changing and becoming charged with something I don't have a name for.
I turn slowly, and I see him.
The same man who was leaving Annie and Elio’s brownstone.
He's standing a few feet away, hands in the pockets of an impeccably tailored charcoal suit, his eyes fixed on me with an intensity that makes my breath catch.
He's even more striking up close. The sharp planes of his face, the strong jaw, his full mouth…
I feel my throat tighten, remembering what I imagined earlier.
That mouth, so close to mine. His body over mine. His…
My cheeks flush, heat sweeping through me.
“It’s as if he uses light as a weapon,” the man continues, moving closer as his gaze shifts to the painting. “A brush used as a sword.”
I should say something. It’s rude to just stand staring, unresponsive. But my tongue feels thick, my mind blank except for the awareness of him standing next to me, close enough that I can smell his cologne. I smell cedar and bergamot, expensive and subtle, and my heart thuds against my ribs.