Chapter 16 The Art Gallery
THE ART GALLERY
EMERY
As I stand in Winnoa Gallery, surrounded by renowned eighteenth century paintings, I can’t seem to focus on the art. I catch my mother tilting her head, assessing the portraits and landscapes with a scrutinizing eye, while my father yawns discreetly as he pretends to enjoy this little excursion.
I keep a forced smile on my face, hoping that my feigned contentment will somehow turn into genuine joy. But deep down, I can't stop thinking about the fact my parents don't entirely approve of Quinton, or Damon for that matter.
A part of me understands their reservations.
They’re from a small town. Power and prestige were never very important to my parents.
Not that they’re a big selling point for me either, but they come with the two packages I refuse to return.
Middle-class comfort—that’s what my parents wanted.
And eventually, after I helped pay off their debt, they got it.
After years of stress and worry, the only thing my parents wanted was simplicity and peace.
I get it. I get their hesitations. Now that I’m with Quinton, and unbeknownst to them, Damon, I can see why they might be wary. They're unsure of how to handle Quinton, how to interact with him, and how to feel about him. There’s nothing simple about these two men.
As my mind drifts, a smoky voice interrupts my weary thoughts.
"A personal favorite of mine. At least from this particular decade."
I gasp and spin around, both of my parents following suit. My heart skips a beat as I blink, attempting to steel my surprise.
"Good morning, Miss Jones," Damon hums with a crooked smile. His eyes briefly flicker toward my parents. "Your parents, I presume?"
I struggle to find my tongue. What is Damon doing here? How did he know where we were?
"Yes," I stammer, stealing a glance at my parents. "This is Susan and Richard Jones."
My gaze flits between my guarded parents as I introduce them. "Mom, Dad, this is Damon Cavanaugh...my, uh…" I pause, considering my words carefully. "My former boss and, uh," I decide to dive in, "my friend."
I tilt my head slightly, trying to gauge my parents' reactions. They’d make fine poker players because they’re giving me zip. Nada. Zero.
"I wasn’t expecting to see you here today," I say to Damon, hoping to shift the focus away from any potential tension.
"Likewise." Damon grins, holding out his hand to shake my parents'. "It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. and Mrs. Jones."
My parents give him a tentative shake, my fingertips tingling as they remain tight-lipped and quiet.
Damon doesn’t let my parents’ wariness faze him as he gestures to the paintings.
He takes on a professional tone, almost like he’s a gallery guide.
"VanGust was inspired by a voyage to the Caribbean Sea." He directs our attention to a portrait of a parrot sitting on top its handler’s shoulder. “I believe that this particular parrot’s name was Tito.”
My mother frowns. “I thought VanGust was terrified of the sea.”
Damon smirks, and I can feel the confidence radiating off his skin. “You’re thinking of Gustenberg. Similar styles and eras. Don’t worry, it's a common mistake.”
I inwardly wince. He showed up my mother. This can’t end well.
Mom purses her lips, eyeing Damon carefully. “You know your art.”
“I know my painters,” he says. “VanGust is in my top ten, but this exhibit…” He clicks his tongue, his nose scrunching with disapproval. “This exhibit hardly showcases his best work.”
Mom lifts a brow. “And what is his best work, Mr. Cavanaugh?”
“Damon is fine,” he smiles sweetly. Too sweet. He’s clearly got a plan, and by the sap oozing from his pores, I’d bet a good sum of money that it’s unfolding just as he had planned. “VanGust peaked between 1737 and 1740. Those pieces are highly desired. Seldom shown in…public galleries.”
This earns him an eye roll from my mother. “Unfortunately, not all of us are born with a silver spoon.”
My father snorts, casting Mom an amused side eye but he doesn’t say a word. I press my lips into a thin line, hoping this tit-for-tat jab session ends sooner rather than later.
“Silver spoon?” Damon chuckles, glancing at me. “Your mother is quite hilarious, Emery. It must be where you get your humor.”
“Must be,” I say, mentally jabbing him in the gut.
“Right…” Damon claps his hands, lowering his voice as he leans into our makeshift semi-circle.
“I just so happen to know the owner of the private gallery that houses VanGust’s most prized collection.
If you’re interested in something more…elegant, I’m sure Jean-Pierre wouldn’t mind opening his doors for us. ”
My mother’s mouth gapes open, and she clutches onto my Dad’s sleeve. “Jean-Pierre? As in…Jean-Pierre Moreaux?”
Damon smirks. “The one and only.”
I gotta give it to the man. He’s managed to soak my mother’s panties in less than ten minutes of meeting her. That must be a record. Her icy exterior stood no chance. I can see it. She’s physically melting in front of me. It’s almost gross. So much for not being affected by power.
My father scratches the tip of his nose. “Who is Jean-Pierre Moreaux exactly?”
Mom’s eyes widen, and she smacks my dad on the chest, an embarrassed giggle slipping past her lips.
“Richard!” She looks at Damon. “I’m sorry.
My husband appears to have had a mini stroke.
” She glares back at Dad. “Jean-Pierre is the most coveted art collector in the world, dear. Don’t you remember that documentary we watched? ”
Dad scrunches his brows, attempting to recall a film he most likely fell asleep watching. And then his eyes spring open and he exclaims, “Right! The guy that looked like the Monopoly man! I remember him.”
If people could die from second-hand embarrassment, my mother would be six feet under.
“So, shall we?” Damon nods to the exit. “I have a town car waiting outside. It’s not too long of a drive.”
My mother glances at me, almost as if she’s seeking approval. Hell has frozen over. I’m sure of it. With a sigh, I give in to my mother’s silent demand to say yes.
“Why not?” I say. “We were practically finished here anyway, right?”
“Right,” she beams.
“Go on,” Damon motions them to the exit. “We’ll be right out.”
I cock my head, watching my mother speed-walk out of the gallery. Who knew she was so fast? When they’re out of sight, I face Damon and cross my arms.
“That was…impressive.”
He grins. “I have a way with parents.”
“You seem to have a way with everyone,” I say, fighting the urge to lunge forward and claim his scheming little lips.
He takes one step toward me, closing the gap between us. He arches over, his breath fanning against my ear as he rasps, “You’re the only one I wish to have my way with.”
I shiver. “People are watching.”
“I’d say let them, but I value your privacy.
” He pulls back and places his hand on my waist, guiding me out of the gallery.
Before we reach the town car, he pauses, a devious smirk clipping his lips.
“One thing I love about private galleries, Miss Jones,” he opens the door for me, “is that there’s no one there to walk in on you. ”
My core clenches. “Too bad. I’ve grown to like an audience.”
If Quin were a weak man, he’d be jealous of Damon right now.
It’s only been an hour and Damon’s managed to turn my stoic, stern, and serious mother into a babbling, giggling schoolgirl.
I don’t think I’ve seen my mother smile this wide in years.
Or laugh this loud. Whoever said money doesn’t buy happiness was clearly broke.
All it took was a private gallery tour and my mother has transformed into a walking Prozac advertisement.
Instead of dinner at home, Quin should’ve whisked my parents off to Spain for some tapas.
I’m sure he would’ve gotten the green light of approval instantaneously.
Ridiculous.
I know I should be glad my parents are getting along with Damon, but this whole encounter irks me.
How easily they can go from judging a man to being the best of friends is unsettling.
And poor Quinton. He didn’t flaunt his connections.
His money. He showed up as himself, and my parents gave him the cold shoulder. Assholes.
“Another glass of champagne, Susan?” Damon asks my mother.
Susan. They’re on a first-name basis now. Incredible. Truly baffling.
“Why not!” Mom exclaims, as if she’s carefree and easygoing, which she’s not.
“I’ll have another as well,” Dad chimes in, sipping on the forty-six hundred Euro bubbly as he and Mom huddle around a multimillion-dollar painting. I feel like I’m in the twilight zone right now.
Damon picks up the bottom of Boerl & Kroff Magnum 1996 and shakes it side to side. “It appears we’re out.” He shifts his cunning gaze toward me. “I’m sure we can find another bottle in the back. Will you help me look, Miss Jones?”
“Do I have a choice?” I glare at him. I know it’s not his fault that my parents are hypocrites, but he’s in the splash zone of my frustration. If he gets wet, it’s his fault.
“We’ll be back in a moment,” Damon calls out, grabbing my hand. He leads me into the dimly lit back room where stacks of secured paintings lean against the walls.
“This doesn't look like a wine cellar,” I note, biting my lip nervously as Damon faces me.
“No, it appears it is not.” His eyes darken, almost obsidian, as he grabs my waist, slamming our hips together. He walks us backward until I’m trapped between his strong frame and a painting worth more than a Manhattan studio apartment. “You seem frustrated, Miss Jones. Care to tell me why?”
My mind races with conflicting thoughts. On one hand, I'm annoyed at my parents' behavior. How easily they went from judging him to being the bestest of friends. On the other hand, Damon's proximity and the pressure of his zipper pressing against my clit is damn near dizzying.
Damon's voice is low, his breath warm against my ear as leans over and whispers, “Will being fucked up against a VanGust make you feel better?” He lets his hand roam up and down my blouse, over my breast. My nipples harden through my bra. His laugh reverberates in his chest as I shiver under his touch, moaning. “Quiet now, mami. Wouldn’t want your parents to hear you.”
“You’ll ruin the painting,” I breathe out as Damon dips down and places open-mouthed kisses on the slope of my neck. “It’s…” My back arches as his teeth graze my skin, his hips digging deep into me. I fist his jacket for support, head spinning. “Priceless.”
Damon feathers his fingers down my chest to my waist, along the curve of my thighs, and then he stops at the short hem of my dress.
“It’s a fake. Don’t worry.” With three easy movements, he bunches up the fabric and snakes his hand under the dress.
His nails scrape along my skin as he dances his way toward my lace panties.
He dips one finger under the hem and strokes my sex, a guttural groan sounding from his throat. “You’re wet, mami.”
“Mhmm.”
I can’t form words. Or sentences. Or thoughts. Not anymore.
Not when he’s rubbing me like that. Not when his wicked fingers are flicking and teasing. Not when his belt buckle clangs against the marble floors.
My breath hitches when his cock springs free.
He rips my panties off, the tip of his dick gliding up and down my slit.
Growling, he hoists me up, my legs wrapping around his torso.
Pulling my hair, he lines himself up and slams into me so hard, the frame cracks behind us.
He thrusts and thrusts and thrusts until it’s all I feel.
All I see. All I taste. All I breathe. All I fucking live. Until I’m no longer frustrated. Until nothing but this moment matters.
Damon dips his damp forehead against mine, his breathing ragged and spent. “Are you still angry that your parents like me more than Quin?”
If I weren’t so sated, I’d roll my eyes. “No, Damon, I’m not angry.”
“Well, you’re about to be,” he says, pulling back. Our glossy eyes lock, and he smirks. “It’s not a fake. I just really hate this painting.”
“Damon!”
He laughs. Truly laughs. It’s a wonderful sound.
A sound I haven’t heard often enough these past couple of months.
But then I see it. Lingering behind the afterglow of an orgasm, behind the facade of a confident man, behind the cheeky smile and glimmer of joy in his eyes.
I see pain. It’s hiding there. Lost in the labyrinth of his mind.
I want to help guide that pain toward the light.
I want to set it free. But only he can do that.
I think he’s trying.
I hope he is.