Chapter Six
Nathaniel
It’s been two weeks. Two weeks of working with Poppy every day, listening to her voice, and smelling her when she walks past. Two weeks seeing that she’s as passionate about this work as I am.
Two weeks of fantasizing about taking her over my knee and spanking her perfect ass every time she’s said something sassy to me. Which is often. Ever since our lunch together last week, I’ve been thinking about her constantly—trying to come up with a way to get between her thighs without being a sleaze ball.
I’m currently in my office, finishing up a conference with the directors of some of my other galleries. I’ve got good people on my staff all across the country. It hasn’t been easy. I’ve been really picky about who I hire, and during the process it seems like such a pain in the ass, but this is when it pays off; when I can be here in what I consider my “home” gallery, and know that with very little supervision from me, my other galleries will just keep humming along.
I step out of my office and into the loft area that overlooks the gallery floor. I can hear Poppy from up here. Not her exact words, but the hum of her voice. She’s working with Roberto again today; preparing the gallery for the upcoming show. I had her on administrative tasks for the first few days, but her talents were totally wasted there.
Not that she complained.
She reminds me a bit of her father, Bruce, in that way. He seems to have passed his tireless work ethic on to his daughter. That would serve her well, and it made her a valuable person to have on a team. They clearly have a strained relationship from the little bits and pieces I’ve heard from Poppy about her father. I wonder what happened there?
As I watch, she listens to something Roberto is saying. Roberto seems to enjoy having her around. Now he has someone whose ear he could talk off about whatever his current obsession is. If Roberto weren’t happily married, I’d be bothered by how much time they spend together, but it was him or me, and I’m having a hard time keeping my head when I’m near her. I avoid her for the most part, and when we do talk, I try to keep it distant and professional. And quick.
The thing is, I want to be the one down there, talking to her, teaching her. But she’s just too damn tempting, and my control seems to start lacking the second she walks into a room.
I watch her a while longer. I start at her feet, in another pair of sky-high heels, up her shapely calves and thighs, her hips. From where I’m standing, I can appreciate her pert, round breasts without her knowing. Yeah, I feel like a perv, but I also feel like I’m goddamn drowning in my need for her. I’ve only been like this about one other woman in my life.
And that unsettles the hell out of me.
A long time ago, I made a vow to never love again. To never dare to imagine that I could find another Danneel. She was my high school sweetheart and best friend. We’d suited each other in every way, and the memory of her perfect, model-like face the night that our baby was born, is bittersweet.
I’ll never forget the first cry that came out of Micah’s mouth… the feeling of his tiny swaddled body in my arms… the ear-to-ear smile Danneel gave me as she watched me carry Micah across the room so I could lay him on her chest… then the way that smile had drooped just before I reached her… her eyelashes fluttering right before her head crashed back onto the pillow.
A flurry of doctors and nurses were suddenly clotting around her bed. The two words that I did manage to hear in the chaos of it all gutted me on the spot and told me all I needed to know.
Brain aneurysm.
At that moment, I knew my darling Danneel was gone, and that the baby in my arms would never know his mother.
When a single tear slides down my cheek, I swipe it away with more force than necessary, beating the memory back again.
Below me, Roberto has now gone off to do something, and Poppy is arranging a few of the sculptural pieces. She has a flair for utilizing space; a combination of a natural eye for details and attention to her studies. It’s not every day you find both things in a curator.
Maybe I should hire her for real? Bring her on staff? If not here, then in one of my other East Coast galleries.
I immediately toss the idea away. She’d want to stay here. I’ve heard her saying to Roberto that she never intends to move out of the city. And I can’t have her here all the time, even if I had a full-time position to offer her. The temptation is already nearly overwhelming, but knowing she’d be here permanently would drive me nuts. Not a chance.
It’s more than just admiring her and wanting to do all manner of filthy things to her sweet little body, though. There’s something about her…
I’ve started painting again, for the first time in years. I completely lost the desire to even try, after Danneel—
No. I’m not going to think about that again now.
In any case, Poppy walked into my life, and now I’m painting again. No matter what else she is, or what else I want her to be, she appears to be my own little muse, and there is no amount of thanks I’ll ever be able to give her for that. I’m caught, at the moment, between wanting to stand here watching her, and finishing up for the day so I can get back to painting.
For now, I content myself with resting my forearms on the metal railing overlooking the gallery and watching Poppy. When she’s thinking, she furrows her brow and pulls her lush lower lip between her teeth. She’s been doing that for a little while now as she looks around the gallery. Her focus is admirable.
I can only imagine how rewarding it would be to have that focus turned toward me. Preferably when I’m naked, and she’s on her knees in front of me.
I stifle a groan and turn away. I shouldn’t be this obsessed with her. Yes, she’s cute. Yes, she’s smart and focused and driven. But this need, this unquenchable desire to bend her to my will, to show her just what kind of a man it is she works for, to hear her scream my name over and over again as I show her what pleasure really is… it’s enough to drive me insane. It feels wrong. She’s too young for me, and I know it.
Most of the time, I just can’t bring myself to care.
I walk back into my office and get a few more things done. Around six o’clock, I head back down to the gallery. It seems like Poppy’s just finished up for the day. She’s looking over her work, and I glance around as I walk down the stairs.
“Well. What do you think?” she asks, biting her lower lip as she turns to me. She’s shed the jacket that she was wearing earlier and is standing there in that little skirt, a chocolate brown button-down shirt that matches her dark eyes, and a pair of red stilettos that have been adding to my fantasies all day.
I walk through the gallery, inspecting her work. It’s just her and me here now, I realize. She follows a few steps behind as I stroll along. I ask her about her reasoning behind why she displayed a few pieces the way she has, and her answers are well-reasoned and intuitive.
I finish my inspection and turn to her. “You're a natural, Poppy,” I tell her. “I can’t find a single thing I’d change.”
Her jaw drops, and my gaze is drawn to her plump, pink lips. My cock twitches at the sight, and I try to will it to calm down.
“Thank you. That’s so not what Roberto said you’d say.”
I laugh, and she studies me. There’s that little quirk to her lips, and it takes everything in me not to bend down right this moment and kiss her breathless.
“Roberto's used to hearing it because Roberto is jaded and losing sight of what we do here,” I tell her. “I have to tell you, your work these past two weeks has been exemplary. You have a tireless work ethic and enough talent that I don’t doubt you’ll go far in this industry.”
She stares at me for a moment, and then looks down, but not before I’m rewarded with that sweet little blush I’ve been craving.
“Thank you. That means a lot to me. These past two weeks have cemented what I already suspected. When I have my Ph.D., I know I want to be a curator. I want to launch my own exhibits, build collections for museums… any waffling I had on that issue has been erased after actually being able to do the work these past weeks, so thank you for that.”
I nod, and then I remember the expensive bottle of red wine one of my clients had delivered as a thank-you earlier in the day. I walk over to the counter and pick up the gift basket with its bottle of very old, very pricey wine. I hold the bottle up so Poppy can see it. This goes against every bit of sense I have, but fuck it. I want this, at least, with her.
“Shall we have a drink to celebrate two weeks of tireless work coming to fruition? No one can card you here,” I add with a smile.
She smiles but shakes her head. “I shouldn’t. It’s getting dark out…”
“Oh, come on now. It’s Friday night. Unless you have somewhere to be?” I ask, and the spike of jealousy I feel at even the idea that she might have plans with someone else shocks me.
She shakes her head again. “No, it’s not that. I just—”
“Boss’s orders, then,” I tell her with a smile, and, after a moment, she nods, laughing a little. I lead her upstairs, where, other than the administrative office, there’s also a small gallery. I sometimes host artists and clients up here, but mostly, this gallery is for me, and I want her to see it.
I open the glass doors into the upstairs gallery and step aside as she walks in, her eyes wide as she looks around. Before I can say a word, she’s strolling over to one wall, which is dominated by some of my favorite pieces.
“I wondered what was in here,” she murmurs. “You can’t see the art from outside the door.”
“Did you try?” I ask with a smile.
She turns back and gives me one of her crooked little smiles. “Obviously. Nose pressed to the glass and everything.” She turns back to the art, and I can’t take my eyes off her. She moves like a dancer; graceful and fluid. As she looks around, I grab two wine glasses from the wet bar tucked into one corner of the gallery, uncork the wine, and pour it. I carry both glasses over to her and offer her one, which she accepts with a smile.
“I’m pleading inebriation for anything improper I might say from this point on. I don’t drink much,” she says with a little laugh as she takes a sip.
“I can’t imagine that you’d say anything that would be considered improper.”
She raises one eyebrow, and her eyes twinkle with a hint of mischief and humor. “Well, you never know,” she murmurs, taking another sip.
I motion her toward one of the long sofas in the middle of the gallery. There’s a chaise lounge tucked into another corner, but she seems to be into looking at the art, and I’m happy with letting her get her fill of it. It gives me more of an opportunity to admire her without her knowing. Before long, we’re talking like old friends—about college and art and books and places we’ve been and places we want to visit. She’s kicked off her shoes and has her legs curled beneath her, her body facing me as we sit and talk. Soon, the wine bottle is empty, and I’m feeling drunk. Not on the wine, but on Poppy and her scent and her laugh and that devilish little twinkle in her eyes. The desire I felt the first moment I saw her, and then again at lunch last week, has just continued to build at an almost frightening pace.
And at that moment, I realize that I’m done pretending I don’t want her. I’m going to have her. I’m going to know her body in ways no one else ever has. And she won’t turn me down because I’m going to make her the kind of offer she’d be crazy to want to walk away from.
Finally, after all this time, the scar of my past doesn’t burn so bad.