by J. Kenner
“It’s so great to see you.” My words are genuine. I’ve used Sally for a number of different events, and while I truly love her confections, I also adore her as a person. Only a few years older than me, she has a maternal personality, as warm and comforting as freshly baked chocolate cake.
“I’ve been thinking about the girls,” she says, leading me past the display cases and into the private tasting area set up to resemble a homey kitchen with countertops and cabinets lining two walls, along with a refrigerator, stove, and cooktop. It’s a new feature she added when she expanded the bakery into the space next door, and she gestures for me to take a seat at one of the stools surrounding the quartz-topped kitchen island that dominates the center of the room.
She stands beside me, her hip brushing the stool as if she’s thinking of sitting as well, but can’t quite commit to the action. “At the risk of it looking like I have no imagination at all, I think we might want to go with cupcake displays again. Only this time with a little bit of a twist.”
“A twist?” For our wedding, Sally had designed cupcake towers. The finished product had been stunning, and the guests were able to pick whatever flavor they wanted from the five tiers of beautifully decorated, fondant-iced cupcakes. My mother had been mortified by the idea, but I’d been thrilled.
Sally nods, then bends down to open one of the cabinets under the island. When she stands, she’s holding a huge platter with a two-layer round cake, perfectly iced with a thick chocolate frosting so enticing I want to drag my fingers through one of the ridges and taste the gooey sweetness.
“Something like this for the center,” Sally explains. “But I’ll build out and up for the kids.”
Once more, she reaches into her cabinet of goodies. This time, she pulls out a mountain of cupcakes. The center, as she described, is the double-layer of chocolate cake. But that base is ringed by two concentric circles of cupcakes, one frosted with what looks and smells like butter cream, the other with chocolate.
Four spikes extend upward from the main round cakes and act as support for the first layer of a tower that is topped with a collection of cupcakes. Another four spikes extend up from that, and this layer is smaller in diameter and hosts fewer cupcakes. The top layer has one over-sized cupcake.
“For the birthday girls,” Sally says, pointing to the top cupcake. “Obviously, we’ll have two towers, one for Anne and one for Lara. Each with birthday candles, of course. And I can frost in their favorite colors if you want.”
“I love this,” I say, genuinely delighted.
“I’m not done yet.” This time she doesn’t reach below the island, but goes to the shelf above the sink upon which sits a collection of her published books along with a few three-ring binders.
She pulls down one—a pale blue binder, lightly dusted in a layer of white flour. Inside are pages of photos protected in clear plastic sleeves. She flips quickly through, then shows me a photo of the tiered cupcake tower surrounded by a decorating station with plain silver bowls filled with colorful sprinkles, candies, and other cupcake toppings.
“It will be messy,” she says. “But I promise the kids will have fun. And when we set it up, we’ll put down a protective flooring that looks and feels like regular carpeting. We can even bring toddler tables if you need.”
“I’ve got that covered,” I tell her, then look up quizzically. “I didn’t realize you did such a booming business for the under five set.”
She laughs. “I catered my nephew’s party, then figured what the hell. Now I’m able to offer full-service toddler parties.” She winks. “I love my work, but there’s a special reward in watching a little kid grin at me with a mouth covered in frosting.”
“Can’t argue with that. I hope you’ll be able to attend yourself?” Sally often sends one of her employees to her catered events, but she’s known Damien for years, and we’ve asked her to join us as a guest after the cupcake station is set up.
“I can’t wait. It’s been far too long since I’ve seen your girls. Or you and Damien, for that matter.”
“We’ve all been busy,” I say. “Anything new in your life?”
“With everything I’ve got going in this business? Who has time for new?” She smiles as she speaks, but under her words, I think I hear a hint of regret. I start to ask, but stop myself. It’s not my place. More than that, it could very well be my imagination.
We wrap up the details for the party, making the final frosting and decorating choices right as Sally’s next appointment walks in the front door, a tall, young woman whose face is glowing in such a way that I’m certain she’s there to talk about wedding cakes.
All in all, I spend about half an hour in Love Bites, then I walk leisurely back to the car. Unless there’s been a wreck on Santa Monica Boulevard, I should arrive at my new office space in plenty of time to meet Luis and my team.
Love Bites is on Beverly Boulevard, and my car is parked a few blocks away on Dayton Way at Two Rodeo Drive, one of the many upscale shopping destinations in the area. I’d been hurrying after I dropped the car off, focusing entirely on my destination. Now, I walk back more leisurely, letting my gaze wander to the storefronts.
The perfectly cut flirty dresses displayed on headless mannequins. The elegant evening gowns that cost more than most people’s cars, and will be worn down the red carpet, then zipped into a garment bag and tucked into the back of a closet or donated to charity. The meticulously constructed handbags. The stunning jewelry that glitters and sparkles under the hidden lighting, designed to display every piece to its best advantage.
I generally don’t pay much attention to labels, but I can’t deny that there is a world of beauty and opulence tucked into the blocks surrounding the famous Rodeo Drive. The prices are out of reach for so many, and yet the well-known shopping district is a draw for tourists and wealthy locals, both craving the glitz and the glamour. The attention to luxury and comfort and detail that acts like a balm against a world that can be harsh and brutal.
As I walk along, I soak in the colors and the patterns, then stop short in front of a window filled entirely with black and white images of nude women in undeniably erotic poses, modest only because of the contrast of shadow and light.
I know these pictures—they’re the work of Wyatt Royce, a rising star in the world of photography. His real name is Wyatt Segel, but since his family is Hollywood royalty, he changed it for work, wanting success on his own terms, without trading on his family name.
He’s also a good friend, and though I don’t really expect him to be inside the gallery that is hosting his art, I step inside anyway. Photography has been my hobby since my sister gave me a Nikon when I was in high school, and I crave a closer look at Wyatt’s beautiful compositions and stunning imagery.
I’m drawn first to a photograph of his wife, Kelsey, who was his model when he finally broke out in a big way. Her face isn’t identifiable in this photo, but she’d told me about the shoot, and I’m certain it’s her. Taken in her dance studio, she stands at the barre, one foot flat on the ground, the other flexed on the wooden rail. She’s bent over, touching her toe, wearing only her ballet shoes and a tutu. No tights, no leotard. Her long hair loose around her face, as if it’s that neglect—and not the lack of clothes—that is the affront to ballet.
She has a dancer’s lithe body, the lines of muscle revealed. And because he shot the image at an angle that captures three of the four walls of mirrors, it seems that there are an infinite number of Kelsey’s. The photo is both sensual and sweet, and though it seems tame at first glance, the more I look at it, the more I think that it will be the one that stays with me after I walk out of this gallery.
“Good afternoon. Can I help you?”
A tall, slim woman with short silver hair that accents sharp cheekbones steps toward me. I guess that she’s in her mid-sixties, probably more than twice my age, and I hope that I look as amazing when I’m that old.
She offers me a welcoming smile, and I notic
e that she wears a small, neatly engraved nametag identifying her as Emily. “Are you looking for something in particular?”
“To be honest, I was heading back to my car. I saw Wyatt’s work and had to pop in.”
“You’re familiar with Mr. Royce?”
“I’m both a fan and a friend. Nikki Stark,” I add, extending my hand.
“Ms. Stark, it’s a pleasure. I feel almost like I know you.”
I tense, and she laughs, a little awkwardly, as if hiding embarrassment.
“I’m sorry. That came out wrong. I meant that Mr. Royce has spoken highly of you and your sister-in-law. Ms. Steele? I understand you’ve both studied under him.”
Immediately, I relax, understanding that her perception of me wasn’t fed by the tabloid’s fascination with my marriage, the infamous painting, or Damien’s money.
“I’m not sure I’d call it studying,” I tell her. “Syl and I are both amateurs. But I do love photography, and I know good work when I see it. Wyatt’s work is outstanding.”
“That it is.” She waves an arm, indicating the freestanding display wall on which much of Wyatt’s work is displayed. “I don’t know if you’re interested in other mediums, but the gallery is currently exhibiting Sins of the Flesh, a curated exhibit of erotic art for sale in a number of mediums by a number of different artists.”
I can’t help the smile that tugs at my lips. “Love the title.”
“In that case, I’ll take credit for it. I confess I was inspired by The Rocky Horror Picture Show. It was a guilty pleasure of mine back in my youth, and I’ve always loved the music.”
“I wondered,” I admit. “My sister snuck out to see the movie when she was in high school, then bought the soundtrack. She played it over and over. Originally to irritate our mother. But then the songs started to grow on us. It was completely inappropriate for me, of course, but it was our sisterly secret.” I smile wistfully. I’d forgotten those memories until this moment, and now I blink rapidly, trying to forestall tears.
“Why don’t you take a look around,” Emily says, and I nod in gratitude, certain that she’s seen my distress and is giving me an easy out.
“I will. You’ve got me curious now.” That’s the truth, and though I’ll have to hurry to my meeting, I can spare a little time.
I walk along the wall, taking in Wyatt’s prints, a couple of which I saw at his studio the last time I was there. Then I reach the end of the freestanding wall, round the edge, and stop short. I know these paintings.
Not these paintings, but ones so similar that my legs feel weak simply from the memory of it. Because these are Blaine’s paintings, so like the ones that hung at Evelyn’s house the very night that I met Damien in LA. The night that started it all.
I take a step forward, realizing that I’ve wrapped my arms around myself. Not in protection, but in an act of pure selfishness. I want to hold these images close with my memories. As if the taste and texture of those past moments could be lost if I don’t hold tight to them.
Never. Those moments are burned into me. Seared on my heart. And I want nothing more than to have Damien beside me right now.
Since that’s not possible, I let myself slide into the desire that these paintings have sparked. Memories of those moments with Damien, before we were together, but when our attraction burned like wildfire—hot, dangerous, and out of control.
The painting in front of me reflects a different type of desire. While Blaine’s earlier work focused on reds to accent the often black and gray images, this canvas is dominated by bold strokes of stormy blue—ribbons tied fast around the nude woman’s ankles and wrists, binding her tight to a chair. She is arched back, her torso shadowed by the lines of her ribs. Her face is tilted up toward the ceiling. Her long hair falls backwards, a few strands trailing over her shoulder and curling over one bare breast.
Her sex is hidden in shadows, the brush strokes subtle, and with her face raised, there is no way to see her facial expression. Is she aroused, waiting for a trusted lover? Nervous, playing sex games with a man she hardly knows? Is she there of her own volition, or is this an image of fear and violation?
I tremble at the thought, then jump when I feel the pressure of a man’s hands cupping my waist as he steps close behind me. My body tenses, a fight or flight reaction that I can’t control in the split second it takes for my mind to send the message to relax. Because there’s nothing at all to fear.
Damien.
I start to turn, but he increases the pressure, keeping me firmly in place.
“D—”
“Shhh.” I feel his breath on my hair. “Stay just where you are, baby, and don’t turn around.”
7
His name dies on my lips, but I hear it all the same in my head. Damien. My voice breathy. Full of need.
He eases me back so that my body is flush against his, and I close my eyes, losing myself in the way his touch makes me feel even while fighting the urge to step away. To tell him to stop. That we’re in public, and we can’t do this.
But I don’t. I stay, and as I close my eyes in acceptance of my own desires, I hear his low, soft moan of satisfaction and feel the swell of his erection against my lower back, his arousal growing with my acquiescence.
Mine, too.
Because while I may not want to be the kind of woman who gets turned on by her lover’s touch in a public gallery, I can’t deny the heat building between my thighs any more than I can deny the basic truth that where Damien is concerned, there are no limits. Not because I have none, but because he knows how to take me right to the edge. To make me breathless and needy and desperate. But never to push too far.
I’d changed before meeting Jamie for lunch, and now I’m wearing a knit tank that hugs my body and a wrap style skirt that fastens with a single button at my hip. His hands are pressed against the curve of my waist, the heat of contact burning through the black knit of my top. I make a small move as if to turn around, but he tightens his grip, his utterance of no so soft that I may have only imagined it.
But I know I’m not imagining the motion of his hands as he slowly eases them up my body, making my heart beat faster with each millimeter of progress higher and higher. My breath is shallow, and I whisper his name, “Damien,” not certain if I’m acknowledging the moment, pleading with him to stop, or begging him to continue.
His hands curve under my breasts, his palms lifting them as he presses his thumbs down until my nipples are pinched tight between his thumbs and forefingers. He increases the pressure, and I suck in air, squeezing my legs together, my clit throbbing as I bite my lower lip and fight the urge to surrender to the heat that is building inside me.
“You’re wondering if it’s pleasure she’s feeling,” he says, and my mind has traveled so far from these walls that it takes me a moment to realize that he’s referring to the woman in Blaine’s painting. “Pleasure or embarrassment,” he adds as his right hand eases lower, his fingers finding the flap of material where the ends of the skirt overlap.
He slips his hand in, his palm sliding over the brushed cotton, his fingers slowly tugging the interior layer toward him. It bunches within his hand, and I bite back a gasp when his fingertips graze the bare skin of my thigh. “Was she turned on by the knowledge that so many would see her portrait?”
His fingers slowly ease higher, closer and closer to my bare sex. I bite my lower lip and close my eyes, my entire body aching with need, craving his touch. I can imagine his hand cupping my sex, his fingers sliding inside as his lips brush my ear while he whispers to me, his sensual words making my imagination soar as my body quivers and tightens and explodes around him, and I taste blood from biting down so hard to keep from crying out.
I imagine all of that. Craving it. Desperate for it.
And at the same time terrified of it.
“Not here,” I murmur, resting my hand over my skirt. Over his hand. “Not now.”
His fingers still, but he inches closer, his heat burning into
my body, the beat of his heart reverberating through me.
“I got your note. And your present.” His whisper rumbles through me, his words making me even more aware that I’m bare beneath this skirt. “I missed you by just ten minutes.”
“How did you find me?”
“I have my ways. And I’m willing to use all my resources to get what I want.”
There’s a tease in his voice, and I smile in realization and amusement. Because it didn’t take too many resources. Just the app that’s installed on both our phones as well as our cars—and Bree’s, of course, in case we need to find her and the kids.
He would have checked his phone, seen that I’d parked in Beverly Hills, and remembered that I was going to check on the girls’ cakes today. Presumably he was following my route and saw me step in here.
“Do you really think I need a tracking device to find you?” he counters, after I tell him all that. “Don’t you know that you’re always in my heart, and how can I lose track of that?”
I smile and sigh happily, his words delighting me. And, who knows? Maybe it’s true. My husband is a remarkable man.
“I wanted to see you.” There’s a tone of finality in his voice. As if the details simply don’t matter. As if his will alone is enough to find me.
Maybe it is.
“To touch you.” The fingers of his hand that still cup my breast tighten on my nipple, sending a new shock of desire running down to my core.
“I wanted to know if you’re still bare, or if you’ve put on a fresh pair of panties.” His hand stays perfectly still, but, damn me, I relax the pressure of my own hand that’s been keeping his in check.
“We can’t.” It’s a public gallery. Anyone could come in. But even as I think that, my eyes scan the room. The section we’re in has no windows. And the gallery is empty and echoey, with a bell over the door. We’re alone, except for Emily. And if she comes this way, her heels will undoubtedly click on the floor, giving us plenty of warning.
