Twenty
Amelia
Iwake up next to the man who’s claimed me and won’t leave me alone.
My body aches, but not in a bad way. He’s holding me, pressed against my back and ass, a hand cupping my breast. It’s… surprisingly nice.
More than that, I feel safe.
That’s three times I’ve woken up with him in my bed. He pinned me over a terrace table. Broke into my apartment. Cuffed me to my headboard, twice. Shouldn’t I be running a mile? Why am I feeling safe?
Because you like waking up with him.
The thought comes as a shock, but as I lie there considering it, I can’t refute it.
There is something magnetic about him. He saved my gallery, then cooked for me. Seeing that body is always a treat; it was sculpted by a master. His fixation with civility. He’s intelligent, that much is obvious. Driven. Dangerous.
Dangerous? Jesus, Amelia. How is that on the positive list?
I need to ask him about Serranto. I couldn’t, last night, but I do need to know. I’m not wholly against him doing nasty things to the man who tried to blackmail Lucy and me. But a finger in a box? It’s not the usual early-relationship present.
Shit, when did this become a relationship?
Since he’s practically moved in, makes you come harder than anyone else, and holds you while you sleep.
Since he told you he’d kill any man that touched you.
Yeah, but that wasn’t serious though, was it? It was nothing more than post-orgasmic bluster. Surely.
I haven’t convinced myself.
Maybe lying in bed with him isn’t the best time to think this all through. I need space. And it’s Tuesday; the gallery, the exhibition only a day away. I have loads to do. I need to get up.
Yet for some reason, I’m still not moving. I think it’s his hand on me, cupping my breast, and his hard, flat chest pressed to my back.
It’s not the only part of him that’s hard. I can feel his morning wood, nestled against my slightly sore ass. God, the size of him. No wonder I ache.
At least he’s still asleep. His breathing is regular. Maybe I can slip out before he wakes and take a shower.
I start to inch my way from beneath his hold.
“Good morning, Little Stray. Sweet dreams?”
Not asleep then.
“No dreams,” I reply, “or if I did, I can’t remember them.”
“Good. That means you slept peacefully.”
Or I was just too exhausted. Right?
I turn onto my back, sliding from his grip in the process, and pull the duvet up to my chin. He props himself up on one elbow, watching me, his other hand slipping under the covers to lay flat against my stomach.
I wonder if he can feel how tense I am.
“What’s the matter?” he asks.
Okay, he can.
Part of me is surprised he cares enough to inquire. There’s a million good answers to his question, all of which stem from him, but he’s asking like there’s no chance he could be the issue, and something else must be bothering me.
On this occasion, he’s not wrong.
“There’s… something I want to ask you.”
“Go ahead.”
“Serranto. What did you do to him?”
His head tilts. “Does it matter?”
“Yes, it matters,” I say sharply. “I need to know if he’s going to try and take his revenge.” For having a goddamn finger cut off. “I need to know if he’s going to…” Shit. He could go after Lucy. Why didn’t I think of that sooner? “My sister.”
“She’s perfectly safe. So are you.”
“How can you be so sure?” I retort. “That’s what you said last time.”
“This time, I made certain my point left a mark.” His delivery is so cold that it prickles at the back of my neck. I suppress a shudder of unease, the sense of safety I woke up to sliding away.
Now I’m not sure I want to know what he’s done to Serranto, and can only hope that he’s right, that we won’t have to deal with the aftermath of whatever it was.
Yet lying here, with him, like this, my gut tells me that he has dealt with Serranto this time. That his word is good.
His hand slides up to grasp my throat. I don’t even read it as threatening anymore. It’s just Van Wyk being… Van Wyk. It still sends a shiver through me, my nipples tightening, my body reacting to being pinned down. Again. By him.
“I told you I wouldn’t let anything happen to you,” he says, voice dangerously soft. “I also told you it was a promise.”
“Yeah… you did…” It’s difficult to speak. My throat has closed up, and not because of his hand around it. He’s barely squeezing.
Is he aware of the effect he has? Holding me like I’m his?
He gazes at me, those steel-grey eyes as disconcertingly steady as ever. “Are you getting turned on, Little Stray?”
Goddammit. He is aware.
“…No…” Fuck yes. What’s wrong with me?
“Are you sure? Your eyes are half-hooded, your skin is flushed. Your heart is beating faster. You’re looking at me in that way you do when you want me to fuck you hard.”
I’m certain I have no idea what he means. I glance away, just to be extra safe.
“Do you have time to spread your legs for me before you go to the gallery?”
Jesus. Is this man ever not horny?
“Uh…” I bite at my lip, his words causing images to swirl through my mind. I’m not against the idea. I should be; I’m not.
Fuck it.
“All right,” I say, surprised at myself that I could make such a decision. But we’re in bed together, we’re both naked, and if there’s one thing this man is very good at, it’s making me come. “How long do we have? What time is it?”
He turns away, picking up his phone from the nightstand. “Quarter after nine.”
What?
“Oh fuck! My phone’s in the other room! I am so goddamn late!”
I’m out of the bed in an instant, heading for the shower.
To his credit, he doesn’t try to stop me, but rolls onto his back, the duvet across his hips and his distracting abs on display. “You were sleeping so peacefully, I couldn’t bring myself to wake you.”
I pause at the door. “You were watching me sleep?” Why doesn’t that disturb me as much as it should? “For how long?”
“About three hours.”
I blink, then steady myself on the door jamb.
Okay, that’s more disturbing.
And yet still so very… him.
“You know I have a lot of work to do today,” I say, a little aggrieved. “Why did you let me sleep?”
“Isn’t it your gallery? Does it matter what time you get there?”
“Well…” I suppose not. And in truth, I still have tomorrow to set out the art if we overrun today. “…that’s not the point.”
“Hurry up then, Little Stray. Wouldn’t want to be any later, would you?”
I give him a glare and turn away.
“You’ll be faster if I come and wash your back.”
That, I doubt very much indeed. I flip him off as I walk out, and his chuckle follows me into the bathroom.
“The Wolfgang Tillmans interspersed with the Taryn Simon pieces, or both as their own set?” Sierra asks.
“Definitely their own set,” I tell her as I assess a cityscape sculpture from Liu Wei.
“Back wall for Tillmans?”
“Yes, with plenty of light.”
“Of course.”
With me directing Sierra and her marshaling the Crozier team, we’re done by early evening. I’m grateful to the guys for their heavy lifting prowess. They’re not cheap but they’re very good, and without them, I never would’ve managed the sculptures, two of which are the size of a small car.
The distraction of planning it out and getting it all set up has kept my mind off Van Wyk… mostly. I still find my thoughts wandering in his direction more often than I’d care to admit.
Now I’m sitting in my office, ostensibly emailing our invitees the change to the exhibition program, but it’s not keeping my mind occupied.
Instead, it drifts back to the image of him lying in my bed, that torso on display.
What does he really want from me? Am I just a piece of ass to him—figuratively and literally? Surely he doesn’t break into other apartments to cook a woman dinner, does he?
Does it mean something that he did that? Do I even care?
It’s confusing. He’s confusing.
One moment, he’s all civil and polished, intelligent, reserved, yet with a hint of playfulness. The next, he’s dominant, dirty as fuck, pinning me down and making me come hard.
I press my thighs together beneath my desk. Sitting gives a mild ache, and it’s not the spanking. It comes from the very hard fucking.
But that’s not all there is to Van Wyk. What about when he’s possessive, with a side order of psychopath?
I haven’t told Sierra about the finger in the box. How can I? I haven’t told my sister, either. I’ll need to tell her something, but not that. I can’t even think how I’d start the conversation.
Sierra knocks on my open office door. “Ammy? The guys are leaving.”
“The packaging?”
“All tidied away into the storeroom.”
“Fantastic.” I get up, following her into the main gallery.
It’s been completely transformed with all-new art, each piece from Fournier’s collection.
It looks amazing. It also looks incredibly expensive.
It’s everything I’ve worked toward, more than I’ve ever dreamed, and for a moment, standing in the middle of it, I have to press my lips together and breathe.
The lead Crozier guy is waiting with an easy grin.
“Thank you, Jerry, it’s perfect.”
“Our pleasure. The office will email the invoice tomorrow.”
“Thank you.” With this much art to sell at sixty percent commission, that’s just a cash-flow problem, not a financial burden. I owe Van Wyk a great deal.
“Good luck,” Jerry says, and the other guys give me nods and smiles as they walk out.
“Jerry’s cute,” Sierra observes as we watch them leave.
“Is he?” I don’t see it, but then he’s too young for me. Men of that age are so rarely emotionally mature. He’s probably not intelligent enough either—that sounds horribly pretentious, but it’s true. I know I’d be bored by his mind.
Not the case with someone else I know.
Sierra looks like she wants to say more, but fortunately, she doesn’t. Instead, she turns her attention to the gallery. “It looks good, doesn’t it? And it’s all yours.”
“Yes, it is.” With more than a little help from Van Wyk.
And Serranto, ironically—this wouldn’t have happened if he hadn’t done what he did.
I’d be looking at Michael Amiento and Jeanne Quek’s work, wondering if I was going to sell enough to make rent.
Not the high-value artists on display around me, any one of them enough to keep the wolf from the door for weeks to come.
And if I sell all of them? Or even half?
“That was a happy sigh,” Sierra comments.
“Yes, it was.” I smile at her. “Why don’t you head off home? It’s been a big day, and we have another tomorrow.”
She gives me an apologetic look. “I haven’t finished updating all the listing documentation.”
“Do it tomorrow. It’ll be fine.”
She makes a face. “I’d rather do it tonight. Then I know it’s done.”
“As you prefer.” Sierra won’t be happy otherwise. “Then come in late tomorrow, okay? I’ll open up.”
“Thank you, I will.” She gives me a hug. Not her first, but they’re quite rare, and this one catches me off guard. I have to blink hard before I can let go. “Nerve-racking, isn’t it?”
I smile, standing amid my dreams given form. “It’s… thrilling. It’s everything. It’s amazing.”
She beams back at me. “Good night, Ammy. See you in the morning for the big day!”
I’m expecting Van Wyk to be waiting at my apartment when I get back home, and I’m surprised to find there’s no one sitting in the dark.
That’s fine, I can cook my own dinner.
I’m halfway through making a stir fry before I realize I miss him. I set down my spatula and stare at the wall, hating myself a little.
How the hell did that happen?
Worse, it’s not the sex I’m missing, or even the company.
It’s him. Those steel-grey eyes that miss nothing.
His dominance, his confidence, his too-perfect body and his way of just going through barriers like they’re not even there.
My front door, my kitchen, all of my refusals.
He does what he wants to do, says what he wants to say, and I… like it.
The smell of burning garlic drags me back to the present. Muttering, I finish making my food and sit down with it in front of the TV.
My phone rings when I’m barely halfway through, Sierra’s number on the screen.
I answer it around a mouthful of noodles. “Everything all right with the documentation?”
“Amelia.” She sounds breathless. “It’s… it’s…”
“Slow down,” I say, trying for calm as my own anxiety spikes. “What’s the matter? Everything is fixable, right?”
“It’s on fire!” she sobs down the line. “The gallery! It’s on fire!”