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“Tell me what you feel right now,” he hums, squeezing my breast through the fabric, kneading my flesh. My hands thread into his scalp, holding his head closer to me.
“I feel empowered.” Because I do. Being in this room, with such exquisiteness, it makes me feel just as beautiful.
“You belong on these walls, you know,” he says, moving to my other breast. “Displayed for the world to see, such purity and beauty.” He releases his tight hold on my breast, skimming down my side, past my ribcage, and working at the hem of my leggings. “But behind every piece of art is a hidden message.”
“And what would mine be?” I moan as his hands find their way into my pants past the barrier of my underwear.
“You aren’t innocent. You crave defiance. You want me to take you up against this wall and fuck you right next to one of the most famous drawings in the world. You want to lose yourself in my touch, my fingers, have me fuck you as you scream, my name echoing off every single piece of history in this room.” A single finger dips into my sex, pumping slowly. “Tell me, Jensen, how do you feel?”
“Alive,” I moan.
He pulls his finger out, then roughly thrusts two back in. “You are empowered. You have more control than you realize.” He replaces two fingers with three. His movement quickens. I’m losing focus on anything but the way his fingers feel. So deep. The fullness of them brushing against my inner walls.
“I need to fuck you,” he growls, pulling free of me. He’s wild with need, tearing at my leggings, bringing them down past my hips. He works his cock out of his pants and plunges inside me.
He’s not gentle. He doesn’t keep a consistent pace. I experience a side of him that’s new. Wild and uncontrolled. He isn’t the man who holds the power. I do. I can’t help but lose myself in the thought that maybe I’m changing him. Showing him life isn’t always about being in control. Having the upper hand and feeling in charge, I tangle my fingers in his hair, gripping to a point of pain, which only causes him to lose more restraint.
“Damien,” I moan his name, feeling full and at the brink of my orgasm. Just weeks ago, I didn’t know what it could be like to feel such emotion, but now, I couldn’t imagine never knowing just how far someone sexually, psychically, emotionally can be pushed. “Oh God, I can’t last much longer. I’m going to… Oh God, I’m…” I fade off as my walls crush around him, and my eyes close as the blast through every nerve ending explodes throughout my body.
“Goddammit!” Damien growls, slamming into me three more times, and I listen in fear a painting will detach from its anchor and crash to the ground. He expands even larger, then loses himself inside me.
We’re laying on the floor of the museum, my head resting on his bare chest, enjoying the silence and comforts of one another. Damien has yet to fully dress, at ease in only his slacks and muscled chest on display. There’re no complaints out of me since it allows me to admire just how sexy he is. His arms are stretched above his head, his biceps flexed and inviting. Running my fingers down his ridged stomach, I’m tempted to pinch myself to see if this is a dream. Never in a billion years would I think I would be laying with a man of his stature chasing the highs of the best orgasm ever. In a historic museum at that. Feeling bold, I place my lips to his chest and spread small kisses over his heart.
“I was just like you once, you know.”
I lift my head. “Like what?”
“Ambitious.”
At that, I laugh. “I’m pretty sure you’re still ambitious.” If the soreness between my legs doesn’t prove so, I don’t know what does.
“I don’t mean that, you dirty girl. I mean in life. This wasn’t my dream.”
I push off him, fully sitting. “What do you mean?”
Damien adjusts his elbows to prop himself up. “This life. The club. It wasn’t my life. I didn’t choose it. My father did.”
His confession brings me back to the first painting. The man with two lives. One who is living a life on the outside, but on the inside, in his heart, he lives another.
“The painting. You were relating to it.” It’s more of a statement than a question. “Ask me how I know so much about art.”
Huh? He smiles and sits up, grabbing me and flipping me so I’m now on my back, his body hovering over me. “Ask me.”
“How do you know so much about art?”
“I went to school for it. Studied in Paris for two years. I wanted to travel, learn about architecture, photograph the entire world the way I saw it.”
