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“Now, Melinda, I know you’re not trying to worm that gorgeous charcoal sketch piece out from under me, are you?” Mr. Freidrichson, one of the richest art dealers in the state, teases as he joins in on our conversation.
I smile proudly. My men are so freaking talented, they’re making a splash before we’re even officially open. But what charcoal sketch? Did Ezra add something?
“Our website is still in progress, but there is a link for an inquiry form. Fill it out, along with the number of the piece, and we’ll be in contact about it. Good luck to you both,” I say, beaming, as I make my way to where Cal and Ezra are peeking at me over their shoulders.
Cal has a shit-eating grin on his face, clearly satisfied with himself for whatever trouble he’s gotten himself into. Ezra’s face is harder to discern. He’s clearly a little nervous, but happy, and maybe even proud?
The sight of the two of them, standing next to each other in this place we’re building together, fills me with a kind of joy I’ve never felt before. Aside from the fact that Cal is leaving in a few short days, life has never been this good. I’m worried about him leaving, but I have to believe we’ll figure things out as theygo. He seems all-in and willing to try long distance, and I have Ezra to keep me warm while he’s away.
My insides tighten, reminding me of the heaviness I’m carrying with every step, as I remember some of the ideas we’ve discussed to keep our budding relationship alive while Cal is gone. Video chats, our group text thread that is usually full of sexting. And pictures have become more of a thing as well. As I get more comfortable with the two of them, I am also getting more confident with my body.
My body that is currently flushed and having a hard time ignoring the pressure of the toy inside me. These dirty bastards are going to put me into an early grave. What if I have to use the restroom? Will it fall out if I go pee? How long before my ass gets sore?
Trying to take my mind off how uncomfortable I am and keep up an appearance of professionalism, I take another sip of champagne and think of how proud I am of this mini-opening. It’s come together so nicely, and I take a deep breath of relief. There’s a lot of work ahead of us, of course, but rushing to open for just this event has shown me that together, the three of us are capable of doing some great things. Great, dirty, filthy things, like walking around in public with a plug up my ass, wondering what kind of fuckery they have planned to take this thing out of me.
I narrow my eyes at them as I reach where they’re standing, both wanting to congratulate them for having a bidding war on their hands within half an hour of opening, and wanting to ask just how they’re planning to—
Wait a second, what is that?
People are mingling and loitering near each of the art pieces,but I notice a larger group is concentrating around the corner. There’s a sitting area over there, so it makes sense that more people would congregate, but they’re all standing around the back wall…
I gasp.
One whole wall, the one we’ve decided to dedicate to up-and-coming artists, is covered in new art. Not the art that I helped choose, that we approved together. But familiar pieces that only two other people have ever seen before.
Art thatImade is lining this wall.
My heart beats so hard I can feel the pulse of it in my ass, the pressure of the plug feeling more overwhelming with my body tensed as it is. Rather than feel a blush rise in my cheeks, I think all the blood in my head drains out, leaving my face cold and clammy. My eyes dart around, panicking, until I realize that no one knows these are my pieces. Not only that, but they seem to like them.
The mayor and Mr. Freidrichson are standing with a few other notable guests, discussing a charcoal sketch that I did of part of the downtown park area. They’re looking at it like it'srealart, and a few of them are using their phones to check our website.
My phone pings to notify me that interest forms are being filled out for multiple pieces across the gallery, and many of them aremypieces.
A voice to my right gets my attention.
“This is remarkable. Look at the attention to detail in the brush strokes here. The artist really brought this to life. It feels like a living, breathing piece. Ezra!” The man, an art collector Irecognize from The Gregg, calls out to the man standing just behind me. “Who did you say this artist is? I don’t believe I’ve seen their work before, but I should have known that anyone you featured at your opening would be beyond compare.”
Beyond compare? He’s talking about…me? I watch as Ezra approaches the man who is discussing an acrylic still life I did in shades of gold and amber—inspired by the very eyes watching me—as he explains that the artist wishes to remain anonymous at this time, but that he’s hoping she’ll be doing a feature exhibition for the gallery very soon.
I’m dumbstruck. My wide eyes are prickling with tears as I look around and see that they’ve not only put a few of my pieces on a feature wall, but interwoven it with some of their own art. As if I were on the same caliber as them, deserving of space next to these accomplished artists.
“I told you,bláth fiáin,” Cal says behind me, his low voice sending shivers down my spine. “It’s all you. You’ve spent too long working hard for other people, giving other people the spotlight. If you don’t want to believe us, believe them. They have no idea who did these pieces, but they’re falling over themselves at your talent. The art speaks for itself.”
Speechless, I turn and let him engulf me in his arms. His lips press against my temple, my cheekbone, and then my neck just below my ear, bypassing my mouth so he doesn’t mess up my lipstick. His kisses help to calm the anxiety rising in my chest, and then he obliterates every outside thought entirely.
He whispers in my ear so only I can hear, “I can’t wait to have that delicious shade of red smeared all over my cock while Ezra slides his cock into your tight ass.”
A heavy breath escapes me, and I do my best to keep a neutralface, but I’m nearly positive everyone in the room can see how flushed I am. The room is near sweltering, and my ass is pulsing around the plug.
“Not much longer now,” he chuckles.
Ezra makes an announcement, asking everyone to follow him upstairs to the “most exciting part of this venture,” as he describes it. Many people line up for the elevator, and Cal leads the way to the stairs. I hang back and try to gather my composure.
Cal’s publicist, Elain, hangs back with me, which I find surprising.
“You’re very talented, Miss Heaton,” she says with a knowing smile. “I’m assuming by the way those two dote on you and the secrecy behind their last-minute changes, that you’re the anonymous artist everyone is so excited about.” I don’t answer, too overwhelmed by everything that is happening. “Mr. Flynn and Mr. Beckett told me that you have the marketing forTheBEChandled, but if you decide that you’d like to focus more on being featured rather than featuring others, I’d love to be part of getting your art displayed nationwide, and potentially even globally. Cal has my card, and there’s no pressure. You’re welcome to call if you have any questions.”
“Thank you,” I say quietly, overcome with the possibilities that lay ahead of me.
