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Even though he didn't say it, Claire could feel the “like us” at the end of his statement. Was that true? She couldn't speak for Ari's needs, but did Claireneedthis?
The few men she'd been with before hadn't been kinky. The fantasies had existed as mere theory inside her head—until Ari. She hadn't been able to get off with those few men she'd dated years ago in college, but she'd thought it was just her. Didn't a lot of women fake it? Didn't a lot of women have trouble with orgasm with a partner? She was sure she'd read that somewhere.
She'd told herself that maybe in a long term relationship it would get better. Maybe they'd introduce toys. Maybe they'd figure it out. But she just hadn't had the opportunity to find out. With Ari, there hadn't been a single time he'd touched or fucked her that her body hadn't responded like some starved creature in the desert, arching toward him, moaning and writhing, and yes, coming. Not a single moan or whimper had been artifice with him.
So did she need this? Yes, she probably did. And how the fuck would she have ever trusted a man again after the basement? How would she have trusted a man for a sweet vanilla fuck let alone the absolute power Ari wielded over her? She would have died alone in that apartment if this fucked-up thing hadn't happened between them. No one else would ever understand, but Ari had saved her. Claire took a long, steadying breath, willing herself not to cry.
Instead, she turned to Ari and whispered, “W-what do I call you in here?”
The subject hadn't come up in the car. They'd spent the hour-long drive discussing his art collection—Ari obviously surprised that she knew art as more than just atourist—but they hadn't discussed this most basic issue. She'd assumed she would call him by his name, but now she wasn't sure.
“Master, of course,” he said. “There will be other people here with pets using the same titles. You'll blend. And you won't be the only woman wearing a collar tonight.”
Claire wasn't sure how much she would blend, but she nodded and allowed him to lead her through the doors into the art show.
The space they entered was a huge, incredible art gallery, with a high ceiling and a domed skylight in the center of the room. The walls were white—to showcase the art. Imposing columns stood around the circular room which looked as if they were holding the gallery up and supporting it.
The art hung on the walls, protected inside glass cases which were obviously fireproof, given all the candelabras standing at what might otherwise be a little too close to the art. At the moment, though, the candles weren't lit.
There were a lot more people in the space than she'd expected—maybe fifty. Or maybe it felt like too many because of the NDA and the suspicion that art wasn't the only thing that would be passing from one person's hands to another tonight. She smoothed down the beautiful teal dress Ari had given her and stayed close to him.
Claire's eyes immediately found Kane's. He was dressed sharply in a tux, looking as suave as Ari at the moment. She quickly looked away from him. The only thing she could think when she looked at him now was Joseph Quill had painted her. She was one of Quill's nudes.
Claire was pretty sure every woman under the age of fifty—and maybe some older—who knew contemporary art had fantasized about being the subject of a Quill nude. She'd always thought the women in his paintings looked well-fucked. And now she knew why, having been up-close-and-personal with the artist's illicit process.
The place between her legs flared to life at thoughts of the dirty debauchery she'd somehow become a part of every time she'd looked at one of those paintings. There had been secrets that had been shared with her, encoded in the expressions on those women's faces. And now that she was one of those women, she had the decoder ring. She knew exactly what those women had felt as they'd sat perfectly still while Quill painted them.
Ari was stopped by a handsome man going gray at his temples. “Ari?”
“Yes?” he replied, guarded.
The man chuckled. “Our host said to look for the towering viking,” he said in a cultured British accent.
“I get that a lot,” Ari said.
“I'm Lindsay. Kane tells me you'd like some of that cream. I order it wholesale by the crate. I'm afraid I can't share my supplier, but I can get you a crate if you'd like. It should last you and your lovely pet quite a while.” His gaze cut appreciatively to Claire, and she felt the blush overtaking her again. But she wasn't afraid of him. None of the men here had the same creepy terrible feel of those men in that basement.
Claire glanced away and noticed a dark-haired man speaking to a blonde woman wearing a glittering back collar and a sleek black floor length gown that also glittered with rhinestones.
“Kiska,” he said in a thick Russian accent, “Would you like one of these paintings for our room at the house? Or perhaps more? I will buy you whatever you like.”
“Yes, Master,” the blonde said.
“Go. Choose something.”
The woman noticed Claire watching her and smiled, then went to look at the paintings.
“Claire,” Ari said, calling her attention back to him.
The words, “Yes, Master?” tumbled out of her mouth without her thinking about it, and she was oddly grateful that few seemed to notice this title being thrown around.
“Let's go look at the art before it sells out.” He took her hand and guided her toward the paintings.
In the background she heard various endearments likepet,kittenandmy little slut, and responses ofSirandMaster, floating on the air around them.
Many women wore collars. They weren't dog collars. They were elegant jewelry like hers. Some were gold, some a silver-white metal. Some had jewels, some were more simple. Claire could immediately spot thetourists, as Ari had called them. They'd huddled amongst themselves toward the back of the gallery, eatinghors d'oeuvresoff passing trays, whispering and staring open-mouthed at the art—what they could see of it from that distance anyway. They reacted whenever a woman said the wordMaster, as though it were shocking and dirty—even as it clearly excited them.
“Start over there.”
