“I’m so fucking polite,” I say, “I deserve an award for proper manners.” I stroke the silk between her legs, her spine arching as I do. “I’ll carry your bag for you,” I continue. “I’ll hold the door for you.” I lean in and press my cheek to hers, mouth at her ear. “I’ll make you wet,” I say, shoving aside her panties and stroking the slick heat of her body, my reward in the soft moan that slides from her lips. “I’ll let you come when I’m ready for you to come. I’ll even warn you right before I rip your panties off.” I grip the silk in my hand and yank it away, shoving them in my pocket before settling on one knee in front of her. “And now I’m going to lick you in the very spot you want me to lick you but I’m not going to let you come.” I lean in, and run my tongue along the exposed skin just above the lace of her hose, then caress a path to her sex, where I pull back just enough to allow my breath to trickle over her, my cock so fucking hard it hurts.
She makes a sexy, desperate little sound, her hips arching ever so slightly, urging my mouth closer, and I give her nub a tiny lick. She moans, and I swear I feel that sound like a stroke of her tongue on my cock. Restraint is my friend and her satisfaction, and for that reason, I suckle her gently, then tease her with a long swirl of my tongue. And damn I do want more, I want everything right here and now, but waiting for the sweet taste of her orgasm, and that perfect moment that I bury myself deep inside her, is all about anticipation, about submission. Her submission.
I pull back, my fingers flexing into her legs. Her eyes go wide, a pained moment in her eyes when she realizes I’m really not going to let her come. “You’re evil,” she says, as I stand and set her on the ground.
“But polite,” I remind her. “I warned you in advance.” I pull down her dress. “I even put your clothes back on.”
Her eyes flash and she reaches into my pocket and grabs her panties. “You don’t get to keep these,” she declares, scooting past me to walk to the trashcan where she tosses them.
I shackle her arm and pull her to me, her hands on my chest, my hand at the back of her head. “I didn’t want the panties,” I say, “I wanted this.” I slant my mouth over hers, my tongue licking long and deep into her mouth, and I don’t give her time to object or submit. “Now we both will taste like you for the rest of this event,” I say. “Until we both taste like you at the end of the night.”
“Like I said,” she whispers. “You’re evil.”
“Your torture is mine,” I promise. “I’m hard as fuck and want to be inside you, but without limits. And this bathroom is one big limit.” As if proving my point, knocking erupts at the door. “Faith! Are you in there?”
At the sound of Josh’s voice, Faith’s eyes go wide, her fingers curling on my lapels again. My hands come down on her shoulders and I lean in close to her ear. “Easy, sweetheart. Answer him.” I lean back and she takes a deep breath, giving me a nod.
“I’m here,” she calls out.
“Did you fall in or what?” he demands. “The auction’s about to start.”
“I’m coming,” she says, her voice a bit louder now and when I smile, she glowers at me, and adds. “I’ll be right there.”
I barely contain a laugh, and she must think I won’t, because she pushes to her toes and presses two fingers to my lips. The flare of heat between us is instant, and I take her hand, leaning in to brush my lips over hers before my lips finger her ear. “This is our secret. Go. I’ll follow.” I lean back and she nods, but when I would move away, she grabs my sleeve and gives me a confused look that turns to gratitude, before whispering, “Thank you.”
And once again, she is nothing I expect, and it seems everything I want. I give her an incline of my chin, and step around the corner and into one of the stalls. I can hear her moving around, fixing herself before the click of the lock sounds, and she opens the door. “What the hell, Faith?” Josh demands. “You need—”
The door shuts, but I still hear her reply, “You embarrassed me,” and the way her voice trembles with accusation with those words. “Why would you ask him to buy my work?”
I don’t hear his reply, their voices moving further down the hallway, but I heard what was important. She’s embarrassed. But is she really, or is it an act? “Fuck,” I murmur. I want it to be real. I want to prove she’s innocent, but the facts are inescapable. There were checks equaling damn near a million dollars written to her mother by my father, and notes that lead me to suspect blackmail. And my father and her mother died of unexpected heart attacks and my father died after her mother. That points to Faith double-crossing her mother, but if she did it for the money, where’s the damn money?
I push off the wall and press fingers to my temples. Maybe her mother had another partner who took the money. Or maybe Faith is in bed with that partner, who’s hiding the money. I unbutton my jacket, my hands settling on my hips. I don’t do stupid and I’m not going to start now. My father ran through women, including my mother. He didn’t write them checks and he damn sure wouldn’t write nearly a million dollars to one woman. And no one proves guilt while trying to prove innocence. I cannot lose my focus. I have to kiss Faith to taste the murderess beneath the woman and I have to tear down that wall of hers to ensure she can’t hide behind it. I’m not here to save her. I’m here to expose her, even destroy her. And I have to make sure that every moan I get from her is one step closer to one, or both, of those goals.
I walk to the door and yank it open, stepping into the hallway, my stride measured, with purpose. Find Faith. Get her out of here and alone. Fuck her. Expose her. Own her. With this intention, driving my every step, I find my way to room 4C where the mostly seated crowd encircle another stage, the easel on display there still covered. Scanning the chairs middle, left and right, as well as the rows of people standing behind each, I locate Faith, standing behind the chairs in the center row, Josh by her side, and I watch as he pats her shoulder, and then leaves his hand there. And she lets him.
I inhale on yet another rush of possessiveness over this woman that could easily lead me to Faith’s side, pulling her to me. But I am not a man to act rashly, or without calculated action. My mentor back in LA, the smart, hard-ass bastard that he was, used to say that if you have a bird and it flies away, if it doesn’t come back you never had it in the first place. He was talking about clients and reliable witnesses, but I’ve found that premise to have broad reach. I’ve pursued Faith. It’s time for her to come to me. It’s in that moment of decision that an elegant woman I estimate to be in her late fifties to early sixties takes the stage, her dress floral, her hair long and gray.
“Hello everyone,” she says. “I’m Katie Wickerman, Chris Merit’s godmother, and I am so very proud to share his newest release. This one is special to him and while I believe you will find it rather different for him, as well, I believe it’s his most brilliant work to date. But I won’t talk your ear off. Without further ado…” She reaches for the sheet. “I give you Rebecca.”
My spine straightens at the name of the painting, and when the sheet slides away, gasps and murmurs fill the room, while the familiar scene the work depicts punches me in the chest. It’s a beachfront, on a pitch-dark night, and yet you can make out the hundreds of people gathered there with lights in their hands. Honoring a woman named Rebecca, who, after months of being missing, was declared dead.