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So I’d gone alone, my gut hating every second of it. And within ten minutes I knew I’d made a mistake.
As nice as everyone was, I didn’t want to float around a cocktail party alone. I didn’t want to look at the art with no one to talk about it with. I didn’t want to circulate like I was hoping someone would talk to me. I’d never been all that good at it, and I was lonely. I wanted someone with me. I wanted Devon.
I stood in front of a painting—a few striking slashes of red, supposed to represent something about the artist’s tortured childhood—and pulled my phone from my clutch. I’d text him to come and at least stand here with me, even if he was mad. This was stupid. I was just trying to figure out how to word it when I heard a small commotion at the door.
People were murmuring excitedly. My new boss, Grace, was smiling from ear to ear, striding forward, her elegant arm outstretched to offer someone her hand. “What a lovely surprise,” she said, her voice a little thrilled. “It’s nice to meet you. I’m Grace Hellen, head of the Pedersen Gallery.”
“Hey there,” said a low voice. And there was Devon Wilder. In a suit.
I stared. Devon was immaculate—this suit was dark gray, with a green and black tie that set off his eyes—but he was still Devon. His hair was brushed back, curling slightly behind his ears. He had a dark beard on his jaw. And that tattoo, peeking from beneath his shirt cuff and the gleam of his watch.
Everything stopped inside me. Slowly, I realized that I wasn’t the only one staring. His presence commanded the small room, tuned everyone in to him without even trying. Grace was chatting with him animatedly, because he was a billionaire and this was a fundraiser. But she wasn’t immune to his looks, either. I could see it in the way her eyes danced when she looked at him. Grace was in her forties and had been married for nearly twenty years, but she wasn’t blind and she wasn’t stupid. Even toned down and behaving, Devon Wilder was a hot piece of man flesh. You should see him in jeans, I suddenly wanted to tell her. His ass will give you dreams for a week.
As if he could hear my thoughts from across the room, he turned his head and looked at me.
And that was when it clicked in my head why he was here. It wasn’t a random coincidence. He wasn’t feeling generous with his money—though he probably would be. He was here for me.
I briefly wondered how he knew I was here. And then I forgot the question as he made his excuses to Grace and came across the room toward me.
Everything went warm in me as he approached. He was zeroed in on me, his gaze unwavering. He stopped when he got close, but not too close, and looked down at me. “Why are you holding your phone?” he asked.
I tried to make my brain think past the sexy sound of his voice and stared down at the phone in my hand, which I’d forgotten about. “Oh,” I said. “I, um, was about to text you.”
His eyebrows went up as I shoved the phone back in my clutch. “What were you going to say?”
I could see Grace, far behind Devon’s shoulder. Her eyes were wide and she gave me a look that I easily read: Why the hell didn’t you tell me you know
Devon Wilder? I ignored her and looked back at Devon. “I was going to tell you to come and be my date,” I said. “I thought I wanted to come alone, but it turned out I was wrong.”
“Hmm,” he said, and oh, I wanted to jump on him in that moment. I wanted to put my hands on him and lick his skin, right in the middle of an art gallery. I actually curled my fingers so I wouldn’t touch him. He was such pure suit porn and so dirty at the same time. “Your boss is nice,” he observed.
I flicked a glance at Grace again. She was talking to someone else while still managing to watch us obsessively from the corner of her eye. “She looked like she wanted to eat you with a spoon,” I said, conveniently ignoring the fact that I was probably looking at him the same way.
He shrugged. “Maybe, but she’d probably prefer to spoon some money out of my wallet. For the good of the gallery, of course.”
I swallowed. “Are you used to that yet?”
“Getting there.” He watched me for a minute. “So does this mean you’re done running from me?”
I bit my lip and tried to turn and look at the painting, but the red slashes hurt my eyes and I looked back at him again. “I think so. I’ll return your car.”
“Keep it,” he said, his voice low. I could feel the heat radiating off him, could smell the clean, sexy scent of him. “It suits you.”
“What does that mean?”
He reached up and brushed my neck—just his fingertips tracing briefly across my skin, then gone again. I felt my bones melt. I was surprised the oils weren’t melting off the painting four feet away. “It’s classic,” he said. “Well made. Beautiful. Not meant to be locked up in a garage. Meant to run.”
If there was a woman on earth who could withstand talk like that, I wasn’t her. It took me a minute to formulate an answer. “That’s good,” I finally said. “Because I really fucking love that car.”
He smiled at me. It was slow, and secretive, and I knew exactly what it meant. “We’re done here,” he said. “Let’s go.”
His skin was perfect. Perfect. Taut and warm, the muscles moving mysteriously beneath, the happy trail on his stomach surprisingly soft. I felt all of this when I pushed his shirt up the minute we came through the door of the house in Diablo.
He was already kissing me by then. He pulled out the few pins I’d managed to put in my hair and wound his hands through it, his mouth hot and familiar on mine. We stumbled upstairs, tearing at each other in the dark like two people starving. His tie was gone. My shoes were kicked off, somewhere behind us. I pushed his jacket from his hard shoulders and worked on his buttons as I bit his lip. In the bedroom, he threw me on my back on the bed and knelt between my knees, pushing up the hem of my little black dress and hooking his fingers into my panties. “Spread your legs,” he said, throwing the panties away.
I did. He was in glorious disarray now, his shirt pulled out and half unbuttoned, his hair deliciously mussed. He looked down at me with such hot adoration I felt my pulse throb hard in my pussy. He ran his warm hands over the insides of my thighs, then raised his gaze and nodded toward my breasts. “Show me these, too.”
Squirming, I unzipped the side zipper on my dress, unhooked my bra, and slid the straps of the dress down my shoulders, showing him everything.
