“Can we talk about your arse in this dress? Because that’s kind of like art.”
I laughed. “No, definitely not.” I stopped him in front of one of the larger pieces.Low Tide at No. 24, acrylic on linen. “I want you to act like you really like this.”
Hayes’s eyes scanned the print. “Oh, I do quite like it.”
“Even better. Act like you’re interested in purchasing it. I’m going to go to my office and return with some information on the piece,and then you are going to follow me into my office, as if you’re planning to buy it.”
He nodded, slowly. “Oh-kay. I see you’ve thought this through.”
Hayes cocked his head then, eyeing me closely. “What happened to your face?” His hand gestured toward my cheekbone.
I stood there, staring at him, looking for signs of recognition, but nothing was registering. “Really? The table.”
His eyes widened and his jaw dropped, and I wasn’t sure if he was going to laugh or cry. “Oh, Sol.” He’d never called me that before. “Why didn’t you say something?”
“It’s okay. I’m fine.”
“No, it’s not okay. I’m sorry.” He leaned in as if to kiss it.
“Don’t.”
“I’m sorry,” he repeated. “No more tables. Promise.”
“I liked the table,” I said, and then turned and walked away.
Minutes later we were in my office, the door securely locked.
“Now can we discuss this dress?” He did not waste time, his hands moving over the material, my waist, my hips, my ass.
It was a clingy jersey halter dress in smoke gray. Paired with my four-inch black Alaïa Bombe “fuck me” sandals with the embellished ankle strap. He did not stand a chance.
“What is it you wanted to say about it?”
“It’s very… nice,” he said, lowering his mouth to mine, his hand traveling up over my abdomen and reaching in the top of the halter.
“I did not bring you in here to do this.”
“Didn’t you?”
“No. I just wanted to smell you.”
“Really?” He smiled. “Just smell me? That’s all?” His mouth was on my breast. I could hear voices outside the door. Ed Sheeran: “Don’t.”
“You. Are like a fucking drug. Hayes Campbell.”
He pulled away after a minute and stepped back, smiling like the Cheshire cat. “Go ahead. Smell me, then.”
I took the opportunity to inhale him. His neck, his throat, his ridiculous silk scarf. I reached into his perpetually unbuttoned shirt and ran my hands over his smooth chest, his perfect erect nipples. I could live here.
“I have gum,” he said.
“Gum, but no condoms.”
He smiled then, sheepishly. “I have condoms.”
“You have condomshere?”
He nodded.
