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Coffee turns to dinner, drinks, and fun with a group of friends, but I can’t sit still.
Not because of the message I get from Trent asking for more pieces of art as he’s got an idea for a full-on show when he’s back in town, something I’m both excited and unsure about.
I can’t stay focused because I keep looking for Orion.
Even Harley notices me squirming, but I show her the Trent texts and she mutters something not nice about him.
I don’t care about Trent or the wheelings and dealings of the art world. I mean, I do. Of course I do, it’s the career I want. But in the grand scheme of things, I don’t. As long as I can make art, I will. I like creating things with my hands.
I’m about ready to call it a night when Adam, one of my friends, challenges me to a game of darts. Suddenly, my spine starts to prick and sing. Slowly, I turn.
There in the Brooklyn bar, in the shadowed corner, drinking a beer, looking all levels of dangerous and hot, is Orion.
We make eye contact, and the bottom falls out of my stomach.
But he doesn’t make a move.
I screw the game up. My hand shakes too much, my mind keeps slipping to that spot, and when I turn, he isn’t there.
But I can still feel him.
Watching.
Like a caress against my skin, like his hand caught in my hair.
He’s there. Somewhere.
When Adam hugs me, I hug him back. A little too long. A little too familiar. And I slide my gaze around the room, but there’s still no Orion.
Shit.
“I think I’m going to go home,” I say to Harley. “Stay and have fun.”
Because I’m taking the train, I duck into the bathroom. That’s when a hand grabs me and hauls me up and into the one stall, the door slamming behind me. I don’t even need to turn to know who it is.
I know the feel of him, the buzz he sets off in me and the smell of him.
“Flirting gets you a bigger punishment, little girl,” Orion says, his mouth skimming along the side of my neck. He sinks his teeth in, biting and sucking and making me moan loudly.
“I’ve been waiting for you?—”
He spins me, yanks open my jeans, and pulls them and my panties off before picking me up.
“Daddy—”
“Shut. Up.” He thrusts three fingers into me and my eyes roll to the back of my head, an electric shock of desire and pleasure striking me as he does so. “Leading that boy on, just to get Daddy’s attention.”
Then he pulls his fingers from me and lifts me high, so my thighs are on his shoulders. I grip his hair with one hand and push the other against the low ceiling as he thrusts his tongue into me. He tongue-fucks me hard, then he sucks on my clit.
He keeps repeating this as I’m crushed by the cascades of sensations, the pull of pleasure and the ache of the climb toward orgasm.
I ride his face, trying to grind into him, the orgasm right there, right?—
He stops and drops me back to the ground. “Get dressed, slut.”
With shaking hands, I do what he asks.
I know I should hate him calling me that, but it sends frissons of desire through me, of belonging. And he only does it when we play.
