“Thank you for the dress.” I do a small turn to show it off. “And for the bed.” I’m looking right at him as I speak, so there is no missing the shadow that crosses his face. “Damien? What is it?”

He hesitates, and I see the ghost of a frown before it fades into a smile. “I’m just very pleased you like them.”

“Of course I do.” Worried, I look in his eyes, the dark one seeming to draw me in and the amber one bathing me in a warm, loving glow. Whatever hesitation I thought I’d seen has faded, but I am not soothed. There are things he wants to say to me, and yet he is not saying them. I start to press, but hold back. Now is not the time.

“We should join the party,” I say.

“In a minute.” He pulls me closer to him, so that my breasts are pressed against his chest and my chin is tucked onto his shoulder. I breathe deeply, memorizing the scent of him, all musk and masculine spices.

“How is it that I can miss you so much when you’re not beside me?” he asks.

“I don’t know,” I whisper. “But I could ask the same question.”

“Oh, Nikki.” The last sound of my name is cut off as his mouth closes roughly over mine.

My body melts against him, and I feel myself opening up. I want him. I want him now. Here. On the goddamn stove if we have to, but I want to know that this man is mine. I want to claim him. I want to fuck him.

And I’m frustrated as hell because none of that is going to happen. Not now, with our friends on the other side of this wall, just a few feet away.

Reluctantly, I break the kiss, then extend my hand to him.

“Are we observing formalities, Ms. Fairchild?”

“We are, Mr. Stark.”

He laughs, then presses a soft kiss to my palm that makes my thighs tremble and my nipples tighten almost painfully.

Damien eyes me, a smug smile on his beautiful face. “Me, too, Ms. Fairchild.”

I aim a prim smile at him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. But I will say that you look dashing as usual.” I nod toward the next room. “Shall we mingle?”

We leave the kitchen and join the other three, who have moved to the balcony. Evelyn is entertaining Jamie with stories about her television and movie deals back in the day, and Blaine presents a mock frown of frustration as Damien and I approach. “We’ve lost them,” he says. “Once she starts talking Hollywood, she never stops. And I think she’s found the perfect audience.”

“She has,” I agree, lifting my camera to take a few shots of the two women deep in animated conversation. “Jamie can talk classic television and old movies for days, but she’s just as happy if the conversation shifts to current sitcoms.”

“In other words, they’re going to keep each other occupied all night,” he says.

“Not all night,” I say. “I need some Evelyn time, too.” I say the words lightly, but I’m completely serious. It feels as if it’s been years, but it was only yesterday we spoke at my office. Evelyn knows about something that’s going on with Damien. Something she says I don’t need to worry about. But I am worried. And I intend to get answers.

I focus on Blaine and force a smile. “Right now, I want to see your other paintings,” I tell him. “Will you show us?”

“Sure.” The three of us head back inside and Blaine leads us around the room, pausing at the various canvases so that he can describe what he was going for in a particular scene. There is a similarity in all of them, both in color and in theme. Blaine has bound each of the models in some way, and though the images never cross the line into what I consider bad taste, some do display an intimacy that I would never have agreed to. Some even remind me of the pose Damien had me in last night.

There is one that particularly catches my eye. The model is on a chaise, her legs draped over either side. Two black ribbons bind her legs in position. Another ribbon ties one arm up above her head. Only one hand is free, and it is draped between her legs in such a way that it is clear she is touching herself. Her nipples are erect, her areolae puckered. The muscles in her belly are taut. Though her face is partly turned from view, there is no hiding her arousal.

I don’t bother to ask Blaine what he intended with that image; I know only too well. There is an excitement to being bound. To being helpless. A sensual thrill that comes from trusting fully and abandoning modesty at the command of your lover.

Damien presses his hand lightly against my back, and I shiver, imagining that it is me touching myself, and Damien who is watching. I tense, my skin suddenly too sensitive and too damn hot. I feel tiny drops of perspiration bead at my hairline and take a step forward, needing to either break contact with Damien or beg him to take me right there on the floor.

As I move away, I catch his eye.

Yes, he mouths, and his smile holds so much wicked promise that I go weak in the knees.

Honestly, it’s a miracle that I don’t just melt.

Blaine, thank God, is so caught up in his procession of art that he doesn’t notice our near tryst. We move from canvas to canvas, Blaine pointing out details about the composition or the color, telling stories about the models and how they came to him. Most were simply girls looking to make a little extra money. Some posed for free because they wanted the experience. And at each portrait, there is Damien’s hand on my back, and my body becoming increasingly, desperately needy.

My nipples, now erect and sensitive, rub provocatively against the soft chiffon with every step I take. My sex feels swollen, begging to be touched. I am wildly turned on, and there’s not a thing I can do about it.

It’s torture, but as torment goes, it’s pretty damn sweet.

Evelyn calls Blaine back out onto the balcony just as we’ve moved to another canvas, and I cannot help my sigh of relief.

Damien steps behind me and puts his arms around my waist. “This feels like the night we met, Ms. Fairchild. You and I surrounded by erotic art, and me unable to think of anything but fucking you.”

My breath is shaky. “We met six years before that, Mr. Stark.”

“So we did,” he says, his lips brushing my ear. “I wanted to fuck you then, too.”

“Do you always get what you want?” I tease.

“Yes,” he says, easing closer behind me so that I feel his erection pressed against my rear. “I thought you knew.”

“Why Mr. Stark,” I say. “I thought you told me it was bad form to host a party with a hard-on.”

“True,” he says. “Perhaps we should escape to the powder room. I can think of a rather pleasant way to prevent a social faux pas.”

“Keep talking,” I say. “You just might tempt me.”

His hand grazes over my skirt, and I feel the material snaking very slowly up my thigh.

“Stop it,” I say, my voice low as I push his hand down. I shift a bit in his arms, then freeze at what I see on the far side of the floor—Giselle stepping into the room through the kitchen. I tense, because Giselle is not one of the people who knows that I am the girl in the portrait, and I don’t understand why she’s here early. I tell myself that she owns the gallery. That it’s not like she hasn’t seen nude paintings before. And surely she doesn’t know it’s me. That was part of our deal, and Damien is a man of his word.