by Wolff, Tracy
Pose for me... I’m going to immortalize you.
Pose for me.
Pose for me.
Pose for me.
I re-read the card again and again, the words sinking into me. This is no thank you to a museum curator, no token of appreciation. This is...more.
* * *
The idea both thrills and terrifies me. Thrills because the way he asked—and the way he looked at me—warned that he wants so much more than to take a few pictures of me. Terrifies for the exact same reasons.
Jaxon’s photos are the most simple and the most complex I’ve ever seen. I don’t know if I want to let him in that deeply, don’t know if I want him—let alone the world—to see that much of me. And yet, there’s a part of me that wants to show him.
It’s the same part that melts when he looks at me.
That burns when I look at him.
That quivers when he speaks and nearly brings me to my knees when I see one of his paintings.
Photographer or man? I wonder as I reach out and stroke one of the rose’s silky soft petals. Which side of him am I responding to? And does it even matter when he is both equally?
I read the card again. No one has ever written anything like that to me before, no one has ever pretended to see anything powerful or fiery or shiny or beautiful within me. Me. Plain old Grace, with the too-weird eyes and the too-long limbs, “on fire from within”?
I don’t think so.
And yet, isn’t that what I love about Jaxon’s work? His ability to see in his subjects what no one else does? It’s what elevates him, what makes him brilliant in a world where so many are very, very good.
But what if what he sees isn’t there? What if it’s all just smoke and mirrors?
The alarm on my phone goes off, my reminder that I have two and a half hours before the Silva exhibit opens its doors to the museum’s very enthusiastic donors for a cocktail hour with the author and four hours before Jaxon speaks in front of a sold out crowd.
They don’t call him the art scene’s biggest rock star for nothing...
I slide the card back into its tiny envelope and drop the envelope in the front drawer of my desk to wonder about—and worry over—later. Right now, I want to take one more tour of the exhibit and make sure everything is in place before we open our doors.
I know it is—I supervised the hanging of the last photographs yesterday evening and already double and triple checked today. But I want one more look for peace of mind and one more moment with this exhibit that, for so long, has been mine alone. I’m more than thrilled to turn it over to the museum board and donors, to throw open the doors and let the world see this man’s brilliant and thought-provoking art. But for now, I want to walk through the maze of photographs that makes up my vision of Jaxon’s work and just be.
After grabbing my phone—the texts from Richard, the board and local journalists have been coming fast and furious all morning—I head over to the beginning of the exhibit that takes up most of our first floor.
The first photograph I chose is a self-portrait Jaxon did fifteen years ago when he was twenty-two and fresh out of art school. It’s unassuming in its simplicity—him, dressed in a black turtleneck and jeans, sitting cross-legged on a bench in Central Park. He’s wearing a pair of wire-rimmed glasses that do nothing to hide the burning intensity of his black magic eyes and his dark hair is tied back into a short ponytail at the nape of his neck.
He’s long and lean—almost gaunt—but somehow that only makes his ridiculous face even more beautiful. His jaw is sharp enough to cut glass and his full lips look nearly obscene in contrast to all the other angles.
For a second, I can’t help but think about those lips hovering near my ear last night. Can’t help but think that fifteen years has done nothing to dim the intensity in his eyes. If anything, it’s sharpened it. The way he looked at me last night had my breath catching in my throat. It had my knees trembling and my mind racing and every muscle in my body poised for fight or flight...or surrender.
I chose to surrender and it’s that choice—that need I had to give in to the demands of those eyes and that voice, that kept me tossing and turning most of the night. And it is that need that turns my steps wary as I move past the entrance and into the exhibit.
The room is set up like a double spiral maze—the closer you get to the center, the tighter and smaller the spiral gets. Then, once you work your way through the heart of the exhibit, you start winding your way back out through the other half of the ever-widening spiral.
Originally, we had planned on having several open spaces where people could enter the maze, but doing so took away from the power of the journey I want to take patrons on. So while we have several discreetly marked exit spaces throughout the spiral, there is only one entrance.
Only one place to begin.
To keep people occupied as they wait for their turn inside the spirals, we’ve filled the gallery’s two main walls with a series of portraits from his most ambitious project yet. He’s taken pictures of people from every country and every walk of life, each in their favorite place and each posing with the object that means the most to them. The uniqueness—and the similarities—are breathtaking. I’ve spent hours poring over the exhibit and I could spend hours more, looking not just at the images, but at what Jaxon has chosen to do with shadow and light and negative space.
Two documentaries are playing at opposite ends of the room—one an Academy Award winning short on Jaxon’s journey (I had to move heaven and earth to get it here) and one a collection of formal and impromptu interviews he’s done through the years talking about his work.
I know both pretty much by heart and yet I’m still drawn to them—maybe even more now that I know how powerful his charisma and magnetism are in person. He’s on screen right now, standing in front of another display of his work—this one at the MOMA in New York—and he’s obviously excited. He’s bouncing his weight from one foot to the other and his British accent is peeking out, especially when he drops his r’s, draws out his o’s and sharpens his t’s. I heard a little—just a little—of it last night and it was even sexier in person.
Despite my best intentions, I walk through the seating area until I’m only inches from the three televisions that take up much of the wall space. Only inches from his deep voice and sexy face and oh so compelling eyes.
What is it about this man that makes me wish when I never wish?
That makes me want when I never allow myself to want?
That makes me think that maybe, just maybe, boring, responsible me could find a way to catch fire from within just by being close to him?
My phone dings and I reach for it, figuring its Richard with some last minute crisis. But when I swipe it open, I find a message from Jaxon. It’s only four words but it shakes me to the bottom of my soul.
What have you done?
My stomach hits my shoes as I try desperately to figure out what he means. I haven’t done anything since I saw him last night. I haven’t—
A sound from behind has my senses slamming into overdrive. I don’t know how I know, but I do and I whirl around to find Jaxon only a few feet away.
He’s standing in the exit doorway from the spiral, face pale and eyes blazing. I didn’t think it was possible for my stomach to clench any tighter or drop any more, but as he takes a step toward me I have to fight down a sudden burst of nausea.
He doesn’t like what I’ve done. It’s written in the lines on his face and the tenseness of his body. It’s written in the downward curve of his lips and the tight curl of his fists. And he’s walking straight for me.
My brain races frantically. I don’t have time to re-do the exhibit, and probably wouldn’t even if I did. If it’s just one or two photographs, maybe I could take them down or try to switch them out with something else of his choice. But why would he have a problem with t
he photographs when he’s the one who released them to begin with? Either way, until I know what it is he’s so upset about, I won’t be able to fix anything.
“Jaxon?” I stretch a cautious hand toward him. “What’s the matter? What don’t you—”
I never get to finish the sentence, because he grabs my wrist and pulls me forward with one sharp tug. I cry out in surprise, but even that is stifled because his hands are on my face. His fingers tangle in my hair and his lean hips press against my abdomen as he slams his mouth down on mine.
For a second I’m so shocked I can’t do anything but stand here, mouth and body passive against him. But the surprise doesn’t stop heat from coursing through me anymore than it stops me from registering the hot, hard feel of his body pressed against mine from shoulder to hip.
Flames lick at my lips, my breasts, my sex, as he ravages my mouth with his. As he nips at my lower lip and slides his tongue inside my mouth. As he consumes me.
And I let him. Of course I do. I’ve never been kissed like this in my life, as if his very existence depends on the feel of our mouths against each other. As if my very existence depends on the same.
He tastes like coffee and dark chocolate—sharp, rich, deep—and I’m instantly addicted. Instantly want more. My hands slide up his back to his neck and I tangle my fingers in the cool, raw silk of his hair. It’s loose today, falling freely across the back of his neck and the sharp line of his jaw, and I love the look of it almost as much as I love the feel of it. The feel of him.
I tug him forward a little, pulling him closer, pressing his mouth more tightly against my own. He groans a little, deep in his throat, and the sound shoots through me like a firework. It lights me up, turns me on, has me pressing myself hard against him.
There’s a small part of my brain that’s freaking out right now, that’s screaming at me not to kiss this man here—not to kiss this man at all, let alone in the middle of the exhibit I’ve worked so hard on. The exhibit that is going to make my career.
I’ve spent the last five years building my reputation into what a museum curator should be and I’m sure as hell not going to throw that all away on the morning of the biggest night of my life. Respect is everything in this business and a female curator who sleeps with the artists is asking to lose everyone’s respect.
I can’t afford that, can’t afford to throw everything away just because I want this man more than I’ve ever wanted anyone. After all, desire is fleeting, but security cameras are forever.
It’s that thought that has me loosening my grip on his hair, that thought that has me breaking the kiss and taking a few steps away from him.
Immediately, I miss his closeness and his heat.
Turns out, I’m not the only one, because the moment I put a little space between us, Jaxon yanks me back. And growls, “Don’t you dare.” It’s a plea as much as it is a warning.
“There are cameras,” I tell him, glancing up at the ceiling.
Understanding dawns on his face. And then he’s wrapping his arms around me, lifting me right off my feet. I start to protest, but he starts moving before I can—out of the main gallery and into the shelter and the shadow of the spiral, where the photographs are wired into the security system and the only cameras are at the entrance and exits.
“Okay?” he asks as he backs me up against a wall.
And it’s not okay. On a lot of levels, it’s the furthest thing from okay. This is my place of work, and it’s my reputation that’s on the line. Jaxon will be gone in a few days and I’ll be the one left to face the music. The one left with the shattered reputation.
And still I whisper, “Okay.”
Because this is Jaxon Silva, whose talent and vision I’ve admired for almost half my life.
Because this is Jaxon Silva and things like this—men like this—don’t happen to women like me.
Because this is Jaxon Silva and I want him even more than I did last night, when he made me come on the street with just a few caresses. I want him even if it’s just for today. Even if it’s just for this moment.
And that’s before he grins at me—a wicked, wild thing that gets my heart pumping and my sex aching—before once again lowering his mouth to mine.
This time he’s gentle when he brushes his lips across the corners of my mouth.
Gentle when his tongue strokes across my bottom lip.
Gentle when his fingers slide up and down my spine.
The gentleness doesn’t lower the impact of the kiss, though, any more than it lessens the heat deep in my belly. All it does is make me melt instead of burn. And when he wraps his arms around me and pulls me right off my feet, I can’t do anything but melt right into him.
“Did you bring another outfit for tonight, luv?” he whispers into my mouth as he backs me up against the nearest wall.
“Tonight?” I’m so dazed from the feel of his lips against mine that the words don’t register.
“Did you bring a dress?” he asks, cupping my jaw in those talented artist’s fingers of his and tilting my chin up.
“A dress?” It’s hard to think—hard to breathe—as he kisses his way across my cheek to the sensitive spot behind my ear.
“For the reception tonight. Do you have one?”
This time the words get through. “Yes,” I manage to gasp out as he nips at my ear, sucks gently at the edge of my jaw.
“You have a dress?” he repeats and I want to ask him why he cares so much, but the truth is right now his answer doesn’t matter. Nothing does but his mouth on my jaw and his thumbs stroking up and down my throat.
“Yes!” I gasp out as need slams through me, ripping up and down my spine in a rush so powerful that I swear I feel dizzy. “A red one.”
“Good. Because I’ve been dreaming about this since I saw you in yesterday’s suit.” And that’s when he does it. That’s when he tangles his fist in the collar of my silk button-up and yanks, fast and hard.
I gasp as the buttons go flying, my eyes flying open and my hands slamming against his shoulder. “What did you do? Why would you—”
The words get stuck in my throat as he shoves my jacket and what’s left of my shirt off my shoulders, my whole body going on red alert as the cool air hits my hot skin.
“God, you’re beautiful,” he whispers reverently, stroking his fingers down the hollow of my throat and across the tops of my breasts. “The most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”
I freeze at the words—and at the tone they’re spoken in. No one’s ever called me beautiful before. At least not like that, with a sultry combination of reverence and desperation that has my head spinning and my skin burning.
“Let me touch you,” he whispers against my fever hot skin. “Let me make you feel good.”
There are a million reasons for me to say no, a million reasons for me to cut and run, but I’m not going to do it. From the moment he put his mouth on mine, I’ve been in.
Is it wise? No.
Do I care? Not even a little bit.
For once in my life, I’m not walking away from what I want. For once in my life, I’m going to say to hell with it and just take.
“Yes,” I finally say, and just the word sets butterflies off in my stomach. “Please. Yes.” I tilt my head back against the wall, lifting my chin in a kind of offering.
His eyes gleam under the exhibit lights—dark and dominant and delicious—and then he’s pushing my bra out of the way and sucking my nipple into his mouth so hard and fast that I’m not sure where pleasure leaves off and pain begins. It feels good, though, so good, and all I know in that moment—all I care about—is that I want more.
I arch my back, tangle my fingers in his hair. Call out his name in a broken, breathy plea that has him lifting his head and studying me for long seconds. “Okay?” he asks once more and I nod because I don’t trust my voice to cooperat
e.
My nod must be enough reassurance for him, though, because he lowers his head again and nips at my breast just hard enough to have my body bucking violently against him.
“Jaxon,” I say again, high and harsh, and he laughs even as he slides a hand up to my mouth. He runs his thumb over my lips once, twice, then presses it inside and in some tiny, still functioning part of my brain it occurs to me that he’s trying to keep me quiet. Trying to protect me. It’s the last straw, and as I pull his thumb deeper into my mouth, I can feel the last little bit of wariness inside of me just melting away.
It’s Jaxon’s turn to groan as I swipe my tongue around his thumb and start to suck. I shiver in delight—I love that he wants me as much as I want him—but then he’s biting down gently on my nipple and I forget everything but the need rising sharply inside me. Forget everything but the feel of his tongue stroking around my areole and his hips thrusting against mine as he keeps me pinned to the wall.
Another swipe of his tongue and my body is spinning out of my control and into Jaxon’s. I gasp when he uses his free hand to flick at my other nipple, moan when he pinches it between his thumb and forefinger, and let out a muffled scream when he twists it just hard enough to send a tiny shock of pain through me that somehow only heightens the pleasure.
I’m panting now, breath strangled and body demanding. I need him—need him against me, need him inside me—as I’ve never needed anything. I arch my back in a desperate plea for more, pressing my breasts deeper into his hand and mouth.
He obliges me, pinching harder, sucking harder, and I nearly choke on my own desperation. My clit is throbbing, my sex aching, and I’m more than ready for him.
But Jaxon is so much better at delaying gratification, so much better at stringing this out, and he pulls away just as my orgasm starts swelling inside of me. I whimper, try to follow him, but he holds me in place with a hand against my stomach.
