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.

The thought—the fantasy—makes my body tighten. “We can’t,” I repeat, as much to underscore the point as to remind myself of that very basic truth.

“No?” His mouth brushes my ear, his breath disturbing my hair and sending shivers down my spine. “What if I told you that Emily was busy at her computer. That she’s locked the door for lunch. That I’m certain we won’t be seen.”

I swallow and say nothing, afraid that if I speak, my desire will betray my common sense.

“She won’t want to disturb us. Not when we might be contemplating a purchase. Destroy the moment, and she could lose a sale. She knows that. Knows that a client needs to get lost in the art. In the moment.”

His thumb has been making small circles on my breast, and my heart is beating so hard now that I’m surprised Emily can’t hear its echo on the far side of the gallery. On my legs, his fingers move subtly. Not rising, but neither are they still. Instead, his fingertips brush my bare flesh in sensual movements designed to entice and tease.

“What do you want, Nikki?” His words are as tender against my flesh as his fingers. “Do you want me to move higher, millimeter by millimeter, up your wet thighs as you hold your breath in anticipation? Would you cry out if I stroked your clit, unable to hold back the explosion?

“Or maybe I shouldn’t stroke you there at all. Maybe I should slide my fingers deep inside you. Feel how slick you are, the way your body will clench around me, drawing me in as I use my thumb to tease around your clit. Never quite touching, but drawing you up and up, until you can’t take it anymore.”

I can’t take it right now, and I’m certain he knows it. I want to tell him to stop—except I don’t want him to stop.

And so all I do is whisper his name. A plea. A prayer.

“Damien.”

“That’s right, baby.” I hear heat in his low, melodic voice, a passion now equal to my own. “Would you scream my name when you explode? Or would you be so quiet as you tremble in my arms, that I’d be the only one who knows the force of your orgasm rocking through you?”

I’m trembling now, so close to the explosion he’s describing that my skin seems to sizzle. The thin whisper of air from the ducts above does nothing to cool my heated flesh. I want the release, crave it, and yet I can’t quite let myself go. Not here. Not like this.

Damien knows that, of course. His real purpose isn’t to make me come—it’s to take me to the precipice. Pleasure, yes, but underscored by frustration. By need. And, ultimately by anticipation.

“Tonight,” I whisper, then boldly—and a little regretfully—ease his hand off my thigh.

“I look forward to it, Mrs. Stark.”

He takes a step backward, releasing me entirely. I draw a breath, mourning the loss of contact. And, maybe, perhaps, regretting that this encounter didn’t go further.

“It was both, by the way,” he adds.

He is still behind me—just as he’s been since he first approached me in the gallery. Now, I turn, but only enough so that I can see the shape of him in my peripheral vision. “What was?”

“The model. Pleasure, yes, but tinged with a hint of embarrassment. Not because she’s on display—that isn’t what embarrasses her.”

He falls silent, the obvious question going both unspoken and unanswered.

“Then what is?” I ask, when the quiet becomes too much.

He bends toward me, his breath tickling the back of my ear. “That she likes it.”

The words shoot through me, and I tremble from the force of that simple sentence.

“I’ll see you at home,” he says, taking another step back, and this time I don’t mourn the distance. On the contrary, I need it. Distance and time if I’m going to pull myself together by the time I get to Santa Monica.

I turn, taking his hands as I look into his face. It’s the first time I’ve looked straight at him in days, and I revel in his beauty. The raven-dark hair. His dual-colored eyes, one black and one amber. That lean, muscled body that seems to have been designed for a tailored suit, but looks damn perfect without one.

But it’s not his looks that make him so compelling. It’s his bearing. His confidence. As if there’s nothing in the world that he wants that he can’t have. Including me.

The thought makes me smile, and as always, I’m struck as much by the beauty of this man as by the love for me reflected in his eyes. “I’m glad you came.”

“But I didn’t,” he says, managing to keep a straight face.

I bite back a laugh, then flash him a stern look. “Mind out of the gutter. You know what I mean.”

“I do,” he says. “And we’ll take care of my interpretation later.”

I flash a coy smile. “Is that a promise?”

He hooks a finger under my chin, his eyes locked on mine. “Baby, it’s a demand.”

“It’s a wonderful gallery,” Damien says to Emily as we walk back into the reception area.

“I’m so pleased you enjoyed the exhibit. Is there anything that called to you in particular?”

“The Blaine piece with the woman in the chair. I believe it’s called Woman and Blue.” He releases my hand so that he can take a slim wallet from the interior pocket of his suit jacket. He pulls out an American Express Black Card and hands it to her. “Please ask Blaine to call me to arrange a time for delivery and installation. He has my number.”

She doesn’t even bat an eye at his request that doubles as an order. Or at the fact that he didn’t even ask the price. “Certainly, Mr. Stark.”

They finish the transaction at record speed, and after Emily and I say goodbye, I step through the door with Damien and blink in the sunlight.

“Where do you plan to put it?” I ask. “It’s not very kid friendly.”

“That’s true,” he says, with a slight downward curve to his mouth that tells me he hadn’t thought of that. He simply wanted the painting, and so he bought it.

His smile fades, and his expression grows serious. “You do like it?”

“The painting? Of course.” That’s the truth, but I hope he doesn’t see the rest of the answer in my eyes. Because there’s more to it than that. The power of money. The wish fulfillment. And the messages that we send to our kids. But that’s a different conversation. A harder one. And definitely not a conversation we need to have on a Beverly Hills sidewalk.

“Good.” He tilts his head, looking back toward the gallery, presumably picturing the painting and imagining it inside our home. Maybe he’s thinking about the Blaine portrait that hangs on the third floor, affixed to a stone wall at the top of the stairs. A nude of a woman standing, her wrists bound, her face turned away. It’s me, of course, and that simple fact makes it difficult for me to look at it objectively.

Difficult, but not impossible, and the truth is that while there is an element of eroticism in the image, it is not an erotic painting. That wasn’t what he’d commissioned. Instead, the portrait is a life study of nude woman, her face hidden. It’s beautiful and tasteful.

And the girls, of course, don’t yet know that the model is their mother.

In contrast, Woman and Blue is one of Blaine’s overtly sexual images, especially so since the woman is facing the viewer, her legs spread, her body bound.

“We’ll find a place,” he says. “Maybe our bedroom. We can install a recessed frame with automatic shutters. When the girls are in the room, we’ll have a remote that can hide the painting.”

I can’t help myself. I laugh, then slide into his arms. “You have an answer for everything, Mr. Stark. And I think you just increased the cost of that painting—including installation—by several thousand dollars.”

“A small price to pay for the memory of this afternoon.” He releases my waist, then cups my cheek. “I want to see it and remember the package on my desk, then finding you here with your gaze locked on that painting while you remembered that first night at Evelyn’s when we saw the painting of the woman bound in red. And I want to look at the woman in blue and think about the way I held you today. Touched you. I want to hold the memory of the things I said close, along with the knowledge that if I’d taken it further, you would have gone there with me.” I see the movement of his irises as he studies me. “Wouldn’t you?”

“You know I would.”

A smile touches his lips, conveying both gratitude and a hint of melancholy. “And that’s my final reason. I want to stand in front of it and recall the satisfaction of knowing the depth of your trust today. Do you know how much that means to me?”

“Of course, I do.” I search is face, and for a moment I think I see a flicker in his eyes, as if there’s something troubling him. “Damien?”

He reaches out, then slides a strand of my hair through his fingers. “You should have called me.” I have no idea what he’s talking about, and it must show on my face, because he continues. “The reporter. The security buzzer. Nikki, dammit, why the hell didn’t you call?”

His voice has gone from soft to urgent, and my stomach twists as I understand his fear. Of course, he receives alerts when our security system goes off. That hadn’t even occurred to me.

“It was nothing,” I say. “You must have called the guardhouse. You know I was fine. It was no big deal.”

He searches my eyes, but says nothing.

“I’m fine, Damien,” I assure him. “But, yes, I was a little shaken. That’s why I went to the office. Just leaving you that note calmed me down.” I rise up and brush a kiss over his lips. “I’m fine,” I repeat. “Truly.”

He draws me to him and wraps his arms around me, one hand cupping my head as I press my cheek against his chest. I hear the steady beat of his heart and close my eyes, wishing I could reassure him even more.

Except it’s not my reassurance he needs. He already knows I was fine. Knows that I would have called him first thing if I weren’t. This is about something else entirely.

I ease away, then tilt my head up to look at him, my expression like a question mark. He answers with a kiss, hard and deep and so deliciously intimate that I moan and move closer, ignoring the passersby on the sidewalk. Ignoring everything, even the certain knowledge that I’ll see a picture of this moment if I log onto social media later today.

But I don’t care. He needs this. Needs to touch me. To hold me. Our moments in the gallery were for play, a follow-up to the present I’d left on his desk. This is for him. For reassurance that all is well. That I’m here. That I’m his.

I don’t know why he needs that now, but it doesn’t matter. I’ll always give Damien what he needs.

My knees are weak when he finally releases me, and as I step back, I notice the gawkers nearby. I focus entirely on my husband as they pass on, realizing that the show is over. “Careful, Mr. Stark,” I say, lacing my voice with a tease. “I have to get to Santa Monica to meet my team. We don’t have time to rush over to the Beverly Wilshire for a quickie.”

The corners of his mouth tug into an amused smile, but a shadow remains. Something dark and impenetrable. Something I’m certain has nothing to do with me.

Something I don’t understand.

Not yet.

But I will. Because I’m going to make it a point to find out.