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“I have a surprise for you.” Deacon held the door open for Abby as they walked into the lavish hotel.
“Is there an addition to the collection?” she asked.
He shook his head. “Guess again.”
“Do we hav
e a tour with the museum curator?”
He laughed. “I don’t think so. Not really my style.”
“Then what is it?”
He guided her through the hotel and toward the museum. “What if I told you I rented out the museum for the afternoon? It’s ours.”
“What?” Her eyes lit with amazement. He loved all the shades of green when she was happy.
“Just for you. You can take your time and look at every single painting with no one looking over your shoulder. No one rushing you on to the next work. It’s all yours.”
“This is too much. You didn’t have to do that, Deac.”
He nodded at the guard who unlocked the exhibit for them.
“I know I didn’t. But I wanted to.”
“It’s extravagant. I’m fine looking at the paintings like everyone else. It’s what I’m used to.” She hesitated at the entrance.
“Abby, enjoy it. This is our day together. Don’t worry about the money. It’s not like I robbed the museum.” He winked.
She giggled involuntarily. “Ok. Fine. I’ll enjoy all the priceless works of art if you insist.”
“I do.”
The guard nodded, leaving them alone inside the recesses of the museum. Deacon wound his fingers through Abby’s and led her through the first row of paintings. They examined each one, discussing the lines and the colors. Abby told him what she liked and what she would have used instead, or remarked on how she wished she had come up with a particular color combination.
They strolled, taking in each canvas. Walking through the hushed halls.
Abby sat in front of one of the ballerina paintings.
“I think this is my favorite,” she whispered. “She’s sad, but I see the control and strength she has.”
Deacon sat next to her. He inhaled the shampoo from her hair as he brushed the strands away from her shoulder. He planted a kiss on her neck.
“I don’t think she looks sad,” he commented. “I think she looks serious.”
Abby shook her head. “No, she’s sad. Trapped almost.”
He tilted her chin toward him, grazing his lips against her mouth. She tasted like the sweetest honey, especially when he was between her legs.
“Do you still feel trapped?” he asked.
“No,” she whispered. “You freed me.”
He pressed his lips harder to hers, threading his tongue along hers. Twisting and licking. Sucking at her lips.
“You freed yourself, Abby.”
