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The alarms in my head are drowned out as my mind becomes hazy with lust.
Fuck, you drive me crazy, Ian.
There’s a twitch in my lower region that makes me barely aware of the fact that I’m turned on. Ian’s hands are doing wonders. I lean into him and the kiss deepens for a few more seconds. His lips trace a line from my lips down to the nape of my neck. He moves a hand to the back of my hair, and his firm hold urges me on.
I want to feel more of him. Instinctively, I guide his hand playing around my breasts further down. I don’t know what the hell I’m doing, but here I am guiding Ian to the most sensitive part of my body. He reaches his destination with surprising ease and gently moves a finger around as his tongue moves to my ears.
I want him so badly and I want to have his hands all around me, but…
This is a bad idea. Don’t do this. You have to stop.
“I have to go,” Ian says, pulling back as if he read my mind, he has a disappointing look in his eyes that he can’t go any further, at least not now. “I’m sorry.”
Disappointment surges through me too. I force a smile and get to my feet, adjusting my clothes.
“It’s not your fault. Goodnight.”
He doesn’t meet my eyes as he exits the door. There’s no excuse this time. I’m not tipsy, nor am I desperate for a distraction. The truth is clear: I’m very attracted to my brother’s best friend.
Chapter Six: Ian
“I can’t believe you’ve never been here before. And you’re supposed to be my best friend.”
I grin at Dylan. “Better late than never, right?”
The gallery is the exact opposite of Dylan’s house. Minimal, its dazzling white walls and paintings covered with glass. The floor is made of rich brown wood, and the room is clustered with a few dozen people. A murmur of low voices draws my attention to a cluster of people near me. They’re peering at a painting with a lot of interest. Dylan’s face lights up.
“Jed’s here.” He pats my arm. “Talk to you later. Need to know what the critics think of my work.”
I make a beeline for an abstract painting at the other end of the room. Dylan’s loud laughter trails me.
“Claude! You made it,” he says.
Dylan’s hugging a tall willow-thin man with a big grin. My face pulls into a frown. I know that man—that face.
“Wouldn’t miss it,” Claude says.
And then it dawns on me that he’s one of Barrett’s minions. What’s Dylan doing with people like him?”
“Champagne?” someone says, holding up a tray of drinks. I reach for one and mutter my thanks, then turn to study Claude.
He hasn’t changed one bit since the last time I saw him. The same self-satisfied smile, the same irritating voice. I take a sip of my drink, fighting the urge to walk over there just for the satisfaction of seeing him all riled up. I’ll bet he’ll never expect in a million years to see me here.
“You should meet my friend, Ian,” Dylan says, and the footsteps come near me.
I take a sip of the champagne, plastering a smile on my face. Claude’s steps falter as he approaches me.
“Meet Ian Reynolds, founder of ColEx and a gazillion other startups.” Dylan pats Claude’s shoulder. “And this is Claude Jefferson. An art critic.”
I grip his hand tightly, looking him straight in the eye.
“You don’t come across as an art critic.”
Claude’s smile is equally forced. “Don’t judge a book by its cover.” He looks at Dylan. “Next painting?”
I stare at the back of his head as he walks away. Is it just him, or is Dylan getting chummy with all of Barrett’s minions? I drop my glass on the tray as the waiter walks past.
“He calls himself an art critic, but nothing about him suggests it,” a low velvety voice says. I turn to find a leggy blonde next to me. Her hair’s pinned up in a bun, and curls frame her heart-shaped face. Blue-green eyes smile up at me.
