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I return to the present, watching Josh’s damn hand settle on Faith’s back as they stand talking with two older, distinguished men. Possessiveness rises in me, and I clamp down on the urge to go break his damn arm, reminding myself that I want to fuck Faith and then fuck her over, not marry her. Irritated at myself, I turn away from her, walking to the Chris Merit displays, admiring his skill, these particular pieces all San Francisco skylines in black and white that of course even a damn near blind eye to art would call brilliant. Interested in Chris’s reference to Faith’s inspiration, I cross the white tiled floor of the gallery to a corridor that has Faith’s name on it, two high, glass-blocked walls creating her walkway.
Entering her display, I find ten or so guests viewing random paintings, and I decide to continue past them to the farthest corner to view from the end of the display forward. At the far corner, I find myself standing alone and studying a painting of the Reid Winter Mansion, rolling hills behind it that most would craft with the brilliant colors of Sonoma’s many grapes, flowers, and trees, while Faith does not. Instead, this work is black and white, a technique Chris also favors, but there are differences between the two. Chris sticks to various shades of gray and whites, but as with this painting, Faith always adds a splash of red. In this case, a bloodred moon.
“I’m afraid to ask what you think.”
At the sound of Faith’s voice, I turn to find her a few feet away, her blonde hair brushed behind her shoulders, her neck as creamy white and delicate as the rest of her. “You know you’re talented,” I say.
“No, actually,” she says, a flicker of something in her eyes. “I don’t. I never…” She lifts a hand and gives a wave. “I just don’t.”
I close the space between us, stopping toe to toe without touching her. “Well, you are.”
Her face flushes a pretty pink like her lips. “Thank you.”
There are footsteps to our left before we hear, “Ms. Winter.”
At the sound of her name, Faith turns to the several guests now beside us, who in turn rave about her work. She signs autographs for them, and they declare their intent to buy one of her paintings. They depart on that note, but another couple steps forward. This continues in a rotation of guests for a good half hour or more.
“You don’t take compliments well,” I say when an announcement about the Chris Merit auction approaching clears the hallway, leaving Faith and me alone again.
“Everyone can’t be as arrogant as you,” she says, an obvious teasing note to her voice.
“Confidence isn’t arrogance,” I say.
“Is that what you are?”
“No. You’re right. I’m arrogant, but it works for me and against my opposition.”
“You’d make a bad enemy,” she says. “My attorney says so.”
I close the space that distractions have placed between us, my hand settling at her hip, and I do not miss the slight tremble of her body in response. “And what do you think, Faith?” I ask.
“That there are a million reasons in my head right now that say you’re a bad idea.”
“Then why am I touching you right now?”
“Because you touching me still feels better than you not touching me,” she says, surprising me with her quick, direct answer. “And because tonight, I’m allowing myself the freedom to be someone and something I cannot be tomorrow. That’s my hard limit. No tomorrow.”
“Hard limit,” I say, the term implying knowledge of a world I know well but did not expect her to know at all.
“I know that this is mine,” she says, neither confirming nor denying her understanding of a broader, kinkier meaning.
“Negative,” I say. “I do not accept that limit.”
“It’s myhard limit.”
“Idon’t acceptthat limit,” I repeat.
“Then we end before we begin,” she says, backing away and leaving me two choices: let my hand fall away from her hip or pull her close.
“It began the minute we met,” I say, letting my hand fall away from her rather than pulling her close. Seeking that free will I’ve told her I both want and will have. “And if we’re really done,” I say, “why are you still standing a step from my reach, instead of walking away? And why are we both thinking about how fucking good fucking each other will be?”
“One night,” she breathes out.
I close the step she’s put between us, but I don’t touch her, my voice low, for her ears only. “I could spend one night with just my tongue on your body and never get inside you. In fact, if I had my way, your dress would be up, and I’d be finding out how sweet you are right now.”
“That was—” she begins.
“Dirty?” I supply. “Yes. It was. And I am. And so are you, or you wouldn’t know what a hard limit is.” I lower my head, my lips near her ear, breath intentionally warm on her neck. “You have no idea how dirty I can be,” I say, “but you will. And soon.”
