Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
Damian
It was Saturday evening, and the auction hadn’t started yet, but the room was already full of people pretending they weren’t watching each other.
I shifted my weight and checked my Rolex for the third time in five minutes.
She was late. Not actually late—but late enough to make me notice.
The gallery space was dressed to impress—glass walls, white orchids, uplighting designed to make everyone look twenty percent more successful.
The Miami elite glided from champagne flutes to donor boards like this was church, and they were here to pray for influence.
No one came here to relax. They came to be seen making power plays that looked effortless.
I was here to be seen.
Buy something high-profile. Shake a few hands. Reinforce the idea that Damian Sinclair still had the eye—and the bank account—to play in their world.
And I could’ve done it alone. Hell, I probably should’ve.
But I’d already sent a car for Juliette.
And now, I couldn’t focus on anything except the door.
Then I saw her.
Black dress. Hair down. Skin kissed by that golden Miami dusk. She wasn’t just beautiful—she was calculated chaos in heels. A walking distraction wrapped in silk and confidence.
Every conversation I’d half-listened to suddenly dissolved.
She didn’t just walk in—she entered like the curtain had just gone up and she was the only act worth watching. Heads turned, subtly. Even people who didn’t know her knew enough to stare.
Jules smiled when she spotted me, and my pulse kicked once, hard, before I could stop it.
“You’re late,” I said, straightening my cuffs.
She kissed my cheek like it was nothing. “You’re early. One of us has a personality.”
I bit back a grin. She always did this—disarmed me with a joke, then walked straight through the defenses I swore were still up.
“You look dangerous,” I said.
“That’s the point.” She looped her arm through mine. “Now, let’s spend your money.”
We made a slow lap through the room, pausing just long enough at the previewed pieces to look cultured. She hummed thoughtfully at a few of the sculptures but said nothing until we reached a jagged, large-format canvas near the center.
“Too red,” she murmured. “Looks like it’s trying too hard.”
“Like the artist next to it?”
“Exactly.”
Before I could respond, I spotted a familiar frame of a man across the room—Judge Valencia, in his usual linen blend, wife beside him in an understated Carolina Herrera.
We made our way over.
“Sinclair,” Valencia said, offering a dry handshake. “Didn’t expect to see you mingling before the paddle waving.”
“Trying to be respectable for once.”
His wife laughed. “That’ll be the day.”
He turned to Juliette. “You’re Gabrielle’s sister, aren’t you?”
“The better-dressed one, yes.”
He chuckled, clearly amused. “Your dedicated volunteer work at the Devereux Gallery has been impressive. Anthony and the Devereux family are lucky to have both of you.”
Then he turned back to me. “I hear Louisa’s stepping down.”
The words hit harder than I wanted them to. “She is.”
“I assume she’s informed the university?” Judge Valencia asked.
Juliette shook her head, swirling the champagne in her glass.
“She’s been on vacation, I think. I haven’t seen her in a couple of weeks.
” She smiled, polished and unbothered. “It won’t be the same without her.
But now that I’ve got the PhD behind me, I’ve been thinking—maybe it’s time I followed her lead.
There’s only so long you can live off tenure-track charm and department coffee. ”
Valencia chuckled. “If I can help, let me know.”
Then, the judge turned to me and lifted a brow. “So you haven’t received her resignation yet?”
“Yes, yes I have,” I said quickly, trying not to let the tension crack my voice.
“She’ll be hard to replace,” he added.
Juliette glanced up at me, amused. “You accepting recommendations?”
I looked at her—really looked—and for a second, my brain did something it shouldn’t have.
Maybe Juliette.
Not just for this event. Not just for the dress or the sex or the way she laughed in the face of men like Valencia.
But for the real thing.
I tamped it down fast, nodding to the judge and his wife as they walked away.
“Why don’t we go find a place to sit?” I said, letting my eyes dip—just briefly—toward the neckline of her dress.
We made our way toward the seating area. Small tables, soft lights, discreet servers weaving through with champagne.
Juliette guided me to a two-top with a perfect view of the stage. Her hand on my arm, her body close enough to keep me half-distracted.
I sat down and exhaled, trying to collect my thoughts.
I needed to focus. I needed to buy something meaningful enough to justify the appearance, something critics would applaud but donors wouldn’t question, something expensive but not desperate.
“I know what you’re thinking,” she said, settling beside me.
“Doubtful.”
“You want something with gravitas and price tag flair. But not loud. Not political. Not weird.”
I tilted my head, impressed. “You’re not wrong.”
“I’m never wrong.”
She sipped her champagne and leaned back in her chair like she owned the room. Then, just like that, I forgot what the hell I was even here to buy.
The lights dimmed slightly as a man in a tuxedo stepped onto the small stage and tapped the microphone with two polite fingers.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we’ll begin shortly. Please take your seats. Paddles are in your programs. Champagne is being replenished as we speak.”
Juliette glanced at me sideways, sipping hers like she wasn’t already halfway through the evening’s entertainment.
“They’re opening with filler,” she said. “Don’t raise your hand unless you want to spend ten grand on regret.”
“Duly noted,” I muttered.
I tried to focus on the stage as the first piece came up—a glossy landscape meant for over a gas fireplace in a condo someone inherited from a rich aunt. It was the kind of painting that screamed safe investment but whispered zero soul .
Juliette wrinkled her nose. “That belongs in a hotel hallway.”
I leaned toward her. “You going to guide my taste all night?”
“If you’re lucky.”
Another piece. A moody nude in soft charcoal that made the room collectively shift. A few tentative bids went up.
Juliette barely looked. “Not the one. Wait for Diaz.”
Her fingers grazed my thigh under the table—just a brush. Not enough to mean anything. Or maybe just enough to mean everything.
I glanced at her.
She looked at the stage, utterly composed.
I adjusted in my seat.
Her hand returned. Higher this time. Her pinky circled lightly, then retreated like a dare she hadn’t quite finished.
I swallowed. “You’re playing with fire,” I murmured.
She didn't look at me. “Then burn.”
The next lot came up. José Diaz, the local favorite with the kind of buzz collectors took seriously. Miami-born. Graffiti roots. Now commanding five figures at curated auctions. The crowd leaned in.
Juliette leaned back.
“This one,” she said, her voice cool and sharp. “It’s the only piece that matters tonight.”
I reached under the table as the bidding started. My fingers slid beneath the hem of her dress—higher, warmer, smoother. My breath caught.
She wasn’t wearing panties.
I shot her a look, but she didn’t move. Didn’t blink.
I let my hand drift higher up her inner thigh, slowly. Deliberate. A light touch, nothing crass. Not yet. I curled my fingers and traced the crease where her leg met her hip.
Juliette shifted slightly in her seat, but her face? Pure calm.
“Six thousand,” someone called.
“Eight,” another bidder answered.
Juliette reached for my paddle like she had all the time in the world and raised it once. “Ten.”
I slid one finger between her folds, just barely. Enough to make her legs tense, not enough to break her expression.
“Twelve thousand,” came from the back of the room.
Juliette’s breath hitched, but she lifted the paddle again. “Fifteen.”
I stroked her slowly. A single, cruel glide of pressure.
She inhaled softly and adjusted her seat like nothing was happening. Like she didn’t have a man’s hand between her thighs at a charity auction surrounded by some of Miami’s most watchful eyes.
“Eighteen,” came another voice.
“Twenty,” she said—precise, unwavering.
I circled again—firmer now, deliberate. She shifted her hips just slightly, chasing the pressure like she couldn't help it. Her nails tapped the table. Her teeth pressed into her bottom lip.
She looked straight ahead, her eyes cool, and her voice calm. But beneath the table, her body betrayed her. Her thighs tightened. A soft tremor passed through her, subtle enough that no one else would notice.
I leaned in closer, let my thumb graze higher, slower—until she whispered under her breath, “Keep going, and I swear I’ll take the paddle and spank you with it.”
“Sold,” the auctioneer said. “To paddle two-two-nine.”
Juliette set the paddle down with a clink and gripped the edge of the table.
Her shoulders stayed still. But her thighs? Tight. Quivering.
I leaned in and whispered in her ear.
“That’s number one.”
Her voice was steady, but her lips trembled at the edges. “Don’t start counting unless you plan to finish.”
“Oh, I’m finishing,” I murmured. “And so are you.”
She turned to me, eyes sharp and glassy with satisfaction.
“Get your wallet ready, Sinclair,” she said. “Because after you pay for my painting, you’re going to pay for what’s coming next.”
This night? Just got expensive.
I grinned. “They’ve got my card on file. Let’s head for my room.”
The door clicked shut behind us, the sound muffled by plush carpet and too much tension.
The suite was expensive. Corner view. Sculptural light fixtures. Minimalist furniture. The kind of place designed to impress the unimpressible. Normally, I liked that. Tonight, I didn’t care. I was too focused on the woman currently slipping off her heels like she owned the room.