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She thought she did, but she wasn’t sure.
“It’s not as if any of my work could be hung in a gallery with Derick dead. The risk of exposure is too great, and Niche Industries’ stock would plummet if this came out.”
“Or it could soar. You don’t know how people would react.”
He sighed. “Trust me, I know. You underestimate the pearl-clutching disdain of the American public. They’re all a bunch of perverts in private, but bring anything out into the open, and it’s nothing but self-righteous denial and hand-wringing. As if the existence of a woman’s cunt was a brand new discovery threatening to end the world in flames if its power were to be unleashed.”
“But what about all those paintings in the gallery I’ve never seen before?”
“They were all completed when Derick was alive. I’ve done nothing since.”
She wondered if it was depression or grief over the loss of his friend rather than fear of exposure that had stalled him. After all, couldn’t someone mysteriously discover work created before the artist had died? At some point such a ruse had to end of course, but a gallery full of work no one else had seen seemed to suggest the credibility of the idea.
“So why now? If you can’t sell them or display them out in the larger world...”
It was a long time for an artist not to work with or without a payoff. Saskia could feel the creative impulse inside him itching to be free. With that much down time, she imagined once he started painting again, it would consume him and everyone in his orbit.
Quill’s eyes narrowed. “I notice you are speaking to me as if we are equals. Don’t think I’m not keeping a mental tally of the number of lashes you’re getting for each instance of casual speech. You’re forgetting your place with me. I can assure you that won’t be a problem much longer.”
“Master, I’m sorry,” she whispered.
“Not yet. But you will be. Sit, and do not move a muscle until I return.”
She looked around the gallery. “Sit... where?”
“On the ground. Anywhere. I don’t care. Just sit. And wait.”
He hadn’t answered her question, and she didn’t have the bravery to ask it again. There was a strange new intensity to him which Saskia wasn’t sure she liked. She sat on the marble and crossed her legs like some seasoned yogi. She only wished she felt that calm on the inside.
The door clanged shut behind him. There was a place deep within that screamed for her to run—make an escape while she still could. She doubted he’d locked her in. What if she just... left?
And go where? He’d confiscated all her bank cards on the plane. She no longer had access to the money he’d given her. And even if she did, if she started using it, he’d find her again. Even if she could take cash out of machines, with the withdrawal limits, there would still be a neat trail outlining her path. She may as well draw him a map.
Without his money, she had nothing. Her few semi-close friends were married and currently on the part of the life path that included small children with sticky hands. They were too wrapped up in their cozy families to pay much mind to her needs or even her existence. It wasn’t as if she could crash on just anybody’s couch at the moment.
Little Kaylee had ballet. And little Justin had a cold. And on and on. She didn’t blame them—really. They’d remember her as the kids got a bit older and more independent. She didn’t begrudge them their lives, but she’d picked differently. And the lack of a partner at this point in her life made for a lonely stretch of highway.
The people whose couches shecouldpossibly crash on were all men—men who would want to take and use her body just like Quill did. Maybe it wouldn’t be as kinky or scary, but it would be just as wrong. Probably more so in its way.
There was a small comfort and peace in knowing that at least Quill was willing to acknowledge the power he had over her—what she was to him. The lack of pretense was refreshing. She at least respected his honesty and thought that honesty somehow respected her in return.
By the time she could work up the nerve to slip out a side door and head for homelessness or blowing a casual acquaintance for a bed to sleep in, Quill was back.
She hadn’t moved an inch. He seemed impressed with what he must perceive as striking obedience, not knowing it had simply been the result of a verbose mental monologue she couldn’t manage to tunnel all the way through before his return. Let him think what he wanted—especially if it might offer her a stay of execution.
He’d changed into jeans and a black T-shirt. The two of them made a matching set. He wore casual shoes that slipped on without trouble so he could kick them off and out of the way as he did now. He carried a cardboard box like what one might use for packing belongings for a move.
Quill set the box next to the cage and walked the few feet to where Saskia sat like a sculpture on the ground. He pulled her up and, without a word, began to undress her. She didn’t dare speak.
He unbuttoned her jeans and slid them off her hips, his hands running carefully over each inch of skin as he exposed it to the cool air. She braced her hands against his shoulders as she stepped out of the jeans, kicking her own shoes off in the process.
She’d worn a thong under the pants—subconsciously seducing him, knowing he’d discover it because of course this was coming. Quill ran an appreciative hand over the bared flesh, then removed the thong as well. She was left in the black cami top and collar. She hadn’t bothered with a bra on the plane. She’d tried not to think too much about that choice.
It took almost nothing, not even the hint of a breeze, for her nipples to stand at attention. Typically, she wore bras with padding, not to look larger, but to avoid looking sexually excited even when she wasn’t. It attracted the wrong kind of attention. And she couldn’t be bothered to constantly explain to men with a frat-boy mentality that they justdid that.
Quill cupped her breasts over the thin fabric and tweaked her nipples into even harder points as he stared into her eyes in the most unnerving way. She tried to look down. Some demure submissive instinct? She wasn’t sure, but when her gaze dropped, he slipped a hand under her chin and forced her gaze back to his.
Minutes passed in this aching silence. It was a challenge. A game. Who would speak first? As in any negotiation, whoever spoke first, lost. She knew that at least. She’d already lost once with this man, and she wasn’t willing to keep doing it.
