“As for the other part of your question,” she continued challengingly, “what do you mean by ‘a place like this’?”
Remy grinned, glancing around at the explicit paraphernalia on display throughout the exhibit hall. “I think that’s self-explanatory.”
“Oh, I see. You’re one of those people who thinks this is nothing more than some raunchy sex museum, like you’d find in some red-light district. But you’re wrong. This isn’t a sex museum. It’s a museum of sex. There’s a difference.”
“Really?” His dark eyes glittered with genuine amusement. “Why don’t you enlighten me?”
“Well, for starters, this is one of only a handful of museums in the world that takes an academic approach to sex. Our exhibits aren’t designed to titillate, but to educate.”
“Educate,” Remy repeated thoughtfully as he wandered farther into the hall. She fell in step beside him as they walked the length of the wall, studying a series of handpainted scenes that depicted men with monstrously exaggerated penises in various sexual positions with women.
“The society was really obsessed with genitalia,” Zandra explained.
“Aren’t we all?” Remy mused, giving her a sidelong look that naturally made her think of his obsession-worthy genitals.
Ignoring the hungry throbbing of her *, she continued her educational spiel. “These prints are called shunga, which means ‘spring pictures’ in Japanese. Each shunga was mass produced to be used as masturbatory aids.”
“You don’t say.” Remy had stopped to face her. “So they were basically like porn in those days.”
“Yes. They were considered visually stimulating.”
He looked at one of the prints on the wall, assessing. “Doesn’t do much for me.” His gaze returned to hers. “What about you?”
Zandra gave a husky laugh. “With all due respect to the artists, it takes a bit more than a kinky drawing to turn me on.”
Something hot and wicked flared in Remy’s eyes, and his voice dipped indecently low as he asked, “What turns you on?”
You, Zandra thought without hesitation. The way you look, the way you smell, the way you say my name. The way you fuck.
She swallowed, watching his hooded gaze follow the path of her tongue as she licked her parched lips.
He’d shifted subtly closer. His nearness, his sheer physicality, always made her acutely aware of her own body. The friction of lace against her tight nipples. The dampness of her panties between her thighs, rubbing against her clit.
“It’s kind of dark in here,” Remy murmured.
“To protect the art from harmful light,” she explained, feeling and sounding breathless. “The room is also temperature-controlled.”
“You’re very good at this,” Remy remarked, and Zandra suspected he was talking about her role-playing. She could definitely say the same of him.
“Good at what?” she asked.
“Your job. You really know your stuff.”
“Thanks. I’m still learning.”
Mischief glimmered in his eyes. “Do you have to be an expert on sex to work at a sex museum?”
“Museum of sex,” she corrected with a chuckle. “And, no, you don’t have to be a sex expert to work here.”
“But it probably doesn’t hurt.”
Zandra smiled demurely. “When does it ever hurt to be an expert on anything?”
One side of his mouth lifted in a smile. “Well played.”
Grinning, Zandra glanced toward the entrance to the hall. She could see people milling around, but so far no one had ventured into the exhibit.
Deciding she and Remy had better leave before she was mistaken for a real tour guide again, she took Remy’s hand and ushered him from the hall.
“I need to use the ladies’ room,” she told him as they headed up to the second floor of the building, which was far less populated than the first level.
Remembering what had happened the last time they were at a museum together, Zandra gave him a warning look. “Don’t follow me.”
He chuckled, snapping his fingers. “Damn. I was just about to do that, too.”