“Wow,” Dorian said. “Poor bastard.”
“You know what they say about suckers, right?”
Dorian grinned. “Bet bidder seven wishes he was sitting next to you.”
“Bidder seven wouldn’t stand a chance with me.Heprobably doesn’t bite until thefourthdate.”
Heat flared in her eyes, sending another bolt of desire to his cock. But with a frightening realization, Dorian’s blood went cold.
“The Whitfield painting,” he said urgently. “Do you know it?”
“Of course. Are you interested?”
“I am if it’s really the Whitfield.”
“Oh, that one’s totally authentic. I was relieved to see it, actually. For years it’s been… unaccounted for.” Her face clouded, a tiny wrinkle appearing between her eyebrows, her heart rate spiking ever so slightly. It looked as though she had more to say on the matter, but when Dorian pressed, she waved it off.
“Nowthat’san interesting piece,” she said instead, drawing his attention to an ancient alabaster bust that just went up for bid. “Also authentic. It’s King Darius the First, carved in the late period Egyptian style. Egypt was part of the Achaemenid Empire by then. The piece was probably commissioned by one of the king’s local wives.”
The auctioneer opened the bidding at $8,000. “Eight, to the gentleman in front. Do I hear eight five?”
“Nine,” his woman called out. She was all business now, the playfulness gone from her voice.
A third and fourth bidder entered the game, his woman keeping pace through a volley of bids. The price climbed to $55,000 before she finally dropped out. In the end, it sold for $72,000 to the Darkmoon witch.
Dorian wasn’t surprised. Witches often collected antiquities, using them to tap into ancient magic. And at the rates they charged for their services, they could certainly afford the bids.
“I’m sorry, love. I hope you aren’t too disappointed.”
“Nah. It’s a great piece, but not astellarexample of late period Egyptian art by any means. Certainly not worth seventy grand.”
“Someone disagrees with you.”
“What did I tell you about suckers?”
“After all your talk of pretense,” Dorian said, nudging her knee with his, “could it be you’re an art snob?”
She pressed a hand to her chest, feigning offense.
“It’s all right,” he whispered. “I’m a bit of an art snob too.”
“You don’t say?” She fingered the cuff of his suit jacket, stroking the fine Italian wool where not too long ago the evidence of his father’s demise glowed white in the setting sun. “Here I thought you were the type to have a trophy room full of dead-animal heads.”
“To be fair, the live ones are a bit harder to mount.”
Her unabashed laughter attracted more than a few impatient glares, but Dorian couldn’t get enough of it. She was even more beautiful when she laughed; her entire body glowed with it.
The curve of her bare shoulder glimmered—a temptation Dorian could no longer resist. With his arm still resting on the back of her chair, he reached out and risked a delicate caress. Her skin rippled with goosebumps, and she sucked in a sharp breath, her heart rate kicking up.
Dorian traced a soft path from her shoulder to her neck, fingers dancing over the pulse point near her throat. Beneath her satin-smooth skin, warm blood stirred at his touch, calling to that dark, ancient beast inside him, drawing his cock to painfully abrupt attention.
All this, from a mere shoulder and neck. He could only imagine what the rest of her body felt like, what it looked like under that dress, what it tasted like.
He drew his hand back, unleashing a sigh from her lips, a gentle shiver trembling across her shoulders like a wave kissing the shoreline.
Dorian’s mouth quirked into a smile. With nothing more than a touch, he’d commanded such a response. It was as if her body had already foreseen its destiny, already resigned itself to a future pinned beneath his hungry, insatiable mouth.
The dizzying scent of her desire washed over him anew.
