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As I push open the door and step back into the other room, my clit makes a painful throb and rubs against the fabric of my panties. Roman got me so hot and wet that moisture has seeped through the silk. At this rate of sexual frustration, all I can think about is him and his wretchedly tempting body.
My head won’t clear until I get an orgasm.
I continue to the chair and hike my foot up on Roman’s seat. It’s still warm from his body heat, and I close my eyes.
Shivers skitter down my spine and settle into my pussy. What would he have done if I’d climbed on his lap and rode that juicy cock?
I slip my fingers beneath the silk and rub tight little circles over my swollen clit. Roman would probably have liked it if I grabbed his shaft and took what I needed. My throat resounds with a groan. That’s what I should have done—fucked him so hard that he collapsed against the chair and stayed still for the portrait.
There’s always next time.
“Is this a private party or can anybody join?” asks a deep voice.
My heart leaps to the back of my throat. I turn around to find Dominic standing in the middle of the room. The guard smiles so widely his pencil mustache disappears into his top lip.
I snatch my hands away from my pussy and skitter back toward the canvas, where I left my apron. How the hell did I not hear him entering?
“What are you doing?” I yell.
He places a hand on his chest. “Easy, Miss. I ain’t here to hurt you.”
“Get out of here.” I pick up my apron with trembling hands and slide one strap over my head, followed by the other.
Dominic continues staring at me like I haven’t just told him to leave.
“Roman’s in the other room,” I add, trying to keep my voice from trembling.
He grins as though he thinks I’m lying. Of course he would. He thinks Roman’s still being evasive. He obviously didn’t see Roman posing for me in the studio.
“Now that Tony isn’t around to eavesdrop, we can finally talk,” he says.
“What do you want?” I snap.
Dominic raises his palms in the universal gesture for surrender. “Hey, I’m a friend.” He glances from side to side, taking in all the canvases and the supplies. “So… You’re an artist?”
“Roman?” I yell and back toward the door.
“Easy,” he says, his smile fading. “What I have to say is for your ears only, and it’s about why the boss doesn’t want you to leave his estate. Ever.”
My ears prick at his ominous tone, which makes my mind spiral toward suspicion. He’s just hinted that I won’t pass through those gates alive. Or at all.
“What are you talking about?” I ask, my voice lowering.
“Your Mom was Lena Kay, am I correct?”
I don’t answer because he could have dredged up that information online.
He nods as though taking my lack of reply as a yes and continues, “Did you ever meet your old man before he died?”
My jaw tightens. Nobody but Mom ever knew the identity of my dad. I even checked hospital records and my birth certificate, which said ‘father unknown’. She remained tight-lipped about him until she died.
When I sent a DNA sample to one of those ancestry companies hoping to track down my blood relatives, they didn’t even bother to reply. There’s more information on what’s going on in the Bermuda Triangle than on the identity of my father.
“What do you know about my dad?” I ask.
“Only that he never stopped looking for you and your mom. My uncle kept you both hidden.”
My jaw drops. This could be a crock of bullshit. I never told anyone that Mom was always paranoid that we were being hunted.
