10. Reece
Reece
T he scent hits first—perfume, sweat, wine. Too many people packed into a white-walled space, pretending to care about brushstrokes and themes.
I don’t do gallery openings. I don’t do small talk or art analysis or standing around with a drink, waiting to be cornered by someone pitching a nonprofit.
But Elliot, one of my only friends, asked. “Just an hour,” he said. “Kacey finally got a solo wall. We need people like you in the room.”
People like me translates to people with money.
I step farther in. The lights are low, the noise too bright. I run a hand over my jaw and tug at my open collar. No tie, but I still feel strangled.
I stay near the door, scanning the room. Modern art, glass sculptures, too many oversized canvas pieces that look like someone spilled a box of crayons and called it commentary. I pretend to study one as I count the minutes until I can leave.
Then I see her… You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.
She’s across the gallery near one of the smaller exhibits. Her head’s tilted as she studies a painting. She doesn’t see me. And I— I forget how to fucking breathe.
Her hair’s twisted up, loose at the neck. There’s a smudge of something shimmery on her shoulders. But it’s the dress that does it.
Black. Silk. Short. Backless. No bra.
It clings. Moves when she moves. Every inch of her is on display, and none of it is for me. But I feel it like a hit to the chest anyway. I’ve seen her in blouses and blazers. I’ve seen her in leggings and hoodies. But this? This isn’t a version of her I’m ready for.
She shifts, laughing at something Maya says beside her. Her mouth curves and her fingers tap the base of her wineglass. My stomach tightens. My jaw locks.
She’s relaxed. Lit up. Like she belongs here.
I don’t. And I shouldn’t be here watching her like this.
I shouldn’t be thinking about how her skin would taste, how easy it would be to walk over and press her against that wall behind her.
Slide my hand up the back of that dress and see how far she’d let me go before she told me to stop.
If she told me to stop. I take a step back . I need to leave.
It’s the only move that makes sense. I’ll text Elliot, tell him something came up. I’ve done my part by showing up. Staying isn’t a good idea. Not now. Not like this. But before I can turn, before I can disappear, he spots me.
“Reece!” Elliot’s grin stretches across the room as he lifts his glass. “Didn’t think you’d make it.”
Fuck.
I nod, jaw tight. I can’t leave now. Not without being obvious. Not without a conversation I don’t want to have.
He cuts across the gallery toward me, clapping a hand on my shoulder. “Appreciate you showing up. Kacey’s nervous as hell, but this crowd’s strong. You being here helps.”
I barely hear him. I’m still looking past him. Still looking at her. Skye hasn’t moved. She hasn’t seen me yet. But I can’t stop watching her. The way she leans in when she listens. The way she bites her lip when she’s thinking. The way every man nearby keeps glancing in her direction.
I’m standing frozen when she finally turns. Her gaze lifts, scans the room, and lands on me.
She freezes. Her lips part. Her eyes narrow slightly, like she’s trying to be sure it’s really me. Then her gaze drops—to the drink in my hand, my shirt sleeves rolled to my forearms—before dragging back up. Her throat works as she swallows. And then it’s just the two of us.
I lift my glass in a slow nod. Nothing showy. Just acknowledgment. But her eyes track me like I’ve grabbed her by the throat. She doesn’t look away so like a moth to the flame, I take the bait and start walking toward her.
“Good evening, ladies,” I say when I reach them.
“Mr. Blackwood," Maya greets, her voice bright and intentionally loud, like she knows exactly what she’s interrupting.
Skye’s gaze flicks to her for half a second, then back to me. “Didn’t think this was your scene.”
“It’s not,” I say, keeping my eyes on hers. “I’m friends with someone who wanted my support here tonight.”
“Of course you are,” she mutters, taking a slow sip of her wine.
Elliot appears behind me again, striking up a conversation with Maya and the artist next to her, but I barely process the words.
Because Skye is moving. Turning slightly to glance at the painting beside her.
And in the motion, the hem of her dress shifts again, revealing just a whisper more thigh.
My body reacts before my mind can shut it down.
“You look…” I clear my throat. “Different.”
“Different as in good or different as in bad?”
“Good,” I say against my better judgment.
“Disappointed?” she says sweetly, but there’s a razor edge underneath.
“Distracted,” I confess.
She huffs a laugh, her cheeks turning the slightest shade of pink. “You’ll have to forgive me, I didn’t know you’d be here,” she says after a moment, softer this time.
“Would it have mattered?”
She shrugs, lips curving. “Maybe I’d have worn something less… distracting.”
“That would’ve been a shame.”
She bites her lip and I can’t look away. If we were alone, I’d have her pinned against a wall, kissing that smart mouth until she forgot how to form words. But we’re not. We’re here… thank God. And I’m hanging on by a thread.
“You planning to stay long?” she asks, voice low.
“Depends.”
“On what?”
I step closer. Close enough that I catch the scent of her shampoo. “On whether or not you keep looking at me like that.”
Her breath catches. Just for a second. But it’s enough.
“I’m not looking at you,” she whispers.
“Yes, you are.”
We stand there, the noise of the gallery fading behind the static in my head. Her gaze drops to my throat, then lower. I don’t move. I can ’ t move. Every part of me is screaming to touch her. But I don’t. Not yet.
She breaks eye contact first. She’s on edge. I can see it in the way her lashes flutter, the way her fingers tighten around the stem of her glass. She takes a step back, not much, just enough to exhale like she needs air I’ve somehow stolen.
“I’m going to check out the next room,” she says, her voice aimed at Maya but her gaze skimming past me. “That abstract series, I think.”
“Go,” Maya says. “I’ll catch up.”
Skye gives a tight smile and turns. And of course I follow her.
The next room is darker. There’s a single installation: a series of canvases in varying stages of completion, all in hues of deep crimson, violet, charcoal. The placard beside the first one reads: Desire / Restraint.
Of fucking course it does.
She stands before the largest canvas in the center of the room, arms crossed under her chest, which does things to the line of her silhouette that make me want to unhinge my jaw and groan.
I pause a few steps behind her, giving myself a moment.
Then another. Just to look. Just to let the reality of her burn through the parts of me I’ve kept on ice.
She turns, sensing me, her brow raised. “Following me now?”
“Making sure you don’t get lost.”
“In a one-room exhibit?”
I shrug. “Stranger things have happened.”
She rolls her eyes but she’s smiling, and for the first time tonight, it hits me, how much I like that smile when it’s just for me.
I step closer but she doesn't retreat. She glances back at the painting, then gestures toward it.
“This one looks like someone bled onto the canvas and called it erotic.”
Without a second thought, I reach out, my fingers millimeters from touching the bare skin of her back when I stop myself.
My hand drops and I glance up to make sure her attention is still focused on the painting.
The warmth radiating from her body makes me wonder how fucking good it would feel to slide my cock deep into her heat.
I look at the painting, pulling my thoughts back to the present, then look at her. “Isn’t that what art is? Bleeding all of your emotions and trauma onto a canvas?”
She laughs. God, that laugh. “That sounds like something someone says to get laid.”
I take another step. “Would it work?”
Her eyes flash. “You tell me.”
We’re too close. Too aware. Every inch between us is stretched thin with tension and need. She shifts her weight, and the strap of her dress slips just slightly. My fingers twitch. I want to fix it. I want to drag it farther down.
But I don’t.
“It must suck to run into your employee during your off hours,” she says after a pause. “If you were trying to avoid me.”
“I wasn’t trying to avoid you.”
“No?”
“No.”
“Even after this week? Your… confession on the executive terrace?”
I don’t answer right away. Instead, I let my gaze trace the slope of her neck, the collarbone peeking out from that whisper of silk. I imagine myself tearing it from her body with little resistance… imagine my teeth grazing along her neck.
“I’d say more of a warning than a confession.”
“A warning?” She pauses, her eyes meeting mine.
“Because I can’t figure out how to do the right thing.” Her breath stalls. “And seeing you in that dress isn’t helping,” I add quietly.
She wets her lips. “Then maybe you shouldn’t be following me into dimly lit rooms, Mr. Blackwood.”
“I’m not strong enough to do otherwise.”
Her head tilts, lips parting just slightly. “That’s the second time you’ve said something like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re fighting yourself.”
I don’t answer. I just hold her gaze. Let her see it. The truth I can’t say out loud. Another beat passes. Her gaze softens, but it’s sharp underneath—like she’s circling something she already knows is hers.
“Do you want me to leave?” she asks.
“No.”
She steps closer. Her pace measured. She’s so close now I could tilt my head and taste the curve of her shoulder.
“But you don’t want to want me either,” she adds, her voice almost playful. Almost cruel.
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.” Her smile curves, smug and daring.
I should turn around. Let this moment pass. Pretend it didn’t happen.
She takes another step, toes nearly touching mine. Her voice is soft, but the challenge in it cuts like a blade. “You keep making these loaded comments. These subtle threats. Acting like you’re right on the edge.”
I don’t move. But I feel it—all of it.
“I think we both know,” she whispers, “you’re never actually going to do anything about it.”
I should walk away. I should leave her standing here with her wineglass and that smug little grin.
But I don’t. I reach for her. My hand finds her waist. Bare skin.
Smooth. Warm. She sucks in a breath but doesn’t stop me.
I slide my hand around her gently until I’ve got my palm flat against her lower back and my fingers curled just under the dip of her hip.
I pull her against me, her body flush against mine, and she gasps when she feels it—how hard I am. How badly I want her.
Her lashes flutter. “Reece…”
“You think I won’t act on it?” I reply. “Sweetheart, you have no idea what I’d do if I stopped fighting it.”
The smile fades from her mouth. Her lips part, her breath warm and fast.
“I could have you begging in under five minutes.” I lean in, my voice rough against her ear. “And you’d love every second.”
She sways closer, hands resting on my chest like she might push me away. I dip my head just enough to breathe her in. My mouth brushes her jaw—barely. Not a kiss. Not quite. But it’s enough to make her knees soften and her fingers curl into my shirt.
“Say the word, Skye,” I murmur. “And I’ll stop pretending I don’t want to bend you over the nearest surface and fuck you until you forget every man who’s come before me.”
She inhales sharply, lips parting like she’s actually going to say it. But then—voices. Loud laughter behind us. Footsteps echoing down the hall. She jerks slightly, and I step back fast. We both breathe hard, like we’ve surfaced from something dangerous.
She swallows, eyes wide, cheeks flushed. “We should go back.”
I nod, even though I want nothing more than to drag her into the nearest dark room and make good on every threat I’ve ever swallowed.
“Yeah.” I nod. My hand falls from her skin, fingers curling into a fist. She turns and disappears into the corridor, but I don’t follow right away.
I stay frozen, staring at the spot she stood, replaying the way she leaned into me. The way she didn’t say no. The way she looked like she wanted me to say fuck it and lose control.
And maybe I would’ve. If we hadn’t been interrupted.
I glance back toward the main room. The lights.
The noise. The art I never cared about. Elliot’s probably still making rounds.
There’s half a drink waiting for me on the bar but I don’t give a fuck.
If I don’t leave now, I’ll be dragging her out of here in the next thirty seconds and I’m pretty sure that’s a scene neither of us wants to deal with in the morning.
I head for the side exit, pushing the door open into the night. The air hits me cold and clean, like punishment. I walk to the car without looking back.
I need distance. Because if I stay— I’ll break every rule I’ve set. And I won’t stop at just touching her next time.