She draws swirling circles on my skin. “There is an exhibit at the Tanglewood Art Museum I’ve had my eye on.”
I think of the traveling exhibits. “The one with mummies?”
“No.”
“The one about bugs in gemstones.”
“No.”
And then I groan. “It’s the instruments of the Middle Ages, isn’t it? That’s a permanent exhibit, mon amie. Part of the original collection, I believe. It hurts my heart that you have not seen it.”
“I know,” she says, hiding her face against my chest.
“We will work up to it,” I promise.
Naturally I don’t mention that I know the director of the museum on an intimate level, that she was a regular client who was rather peeved when I told her I would no longer be working. Perhaps I could even arrange a private show of the instruments for Bea…if I made it worth the director’s time. But no, we will attend the museum the old-fashioned way, with a ticket of admissions.
She shivers in my arms, still not quite ready to venture out. “Okay.”
“I must tell you one of the most wonderful things about leaving your bed. It’s thinking of all the delicious things to do to you when I return.”
Her hand slips under the blanket. “Delicious?”
My breath catches when she touches somewhere particularly sensitive. “Yes.”
My innocent ex-virgin has turned into a sex goddess. Her fist closes around my cock while her lips hover near my ear. “I do love the way you taste,” she whispers.
I groan and press my hips up toward the night. “Please.”
She moves down my body and takes me to heaven with her mouth, her hands. Her eyes, full of reckless confidence. This is how I want her—unafraid. The climax hits me, almost violent in its strength, making me choke out her name in a litany, “Bea Bea Bea.”
It feels incredible, but nowhere near as good as it does to flip her onto her back. To turn the sly grin into an O of shocked bliss. We dine on the best food available in the city, in the world, but none of the flavors compare to the sweet salt of her arousal. The essence of this woman, which has become like sustenance. The taste that made me come awake, after so long spent in the dark.
Epilogue
SIX MONTHS LATER
I spent many evenings at the Den before I met Bea, but none of them were a Saturday night.
Those were reserved for work.
Now I’m no longer a male escort. I suppose you could say I’m an investor now, though that word is rather boring. My modest fortune was restored when Bea purchased L’Etoile from me, and so I’m free to play with money like the Monopoly game. Though I consider my true profession to be pleasing Bea. That’s something I find far more satisfying.
At first I thought we would focus on the museum, but then I realized another place would hold a far greater intellectual curiosity for her with its ever-changing population, its unique cross-section of the city. The Den. It also had a built-in support system. And so we visited a month after I moved into the penthouse, leaving quickly before she could succumb to panic.
And then we went again. And again.
The members of the Thieves Club were fascinated to meet the woman who had tied me down, but it was Penny who accepted Bea into her fold. For her part, Bea has flourished among a new group of people, like a flower that has survived in brittle, almost desert-like conditions, which has finally been given water.
I’m standing behind the curtain on the small stage set up in the ballroom. The Bluthner grand piano has been restored by craftsmen and expertly tuned, ready for Bea to play for the small crowd of the city’s elite.
If she doesn’t hyperventilate first.
She leans over a potted plant, heaving like she might throw up. It would be a waste of a beautiful roasted lamb I prepared for her, and it would not taste nearly as good on the way back up.
“Mon amie,” I say softly, a little coaxing. “Come here.”
She moans her refusal. “I can’t do this. Why did I think I could do this?”
“Because you can do anything. This small show is only one small thing in a very large list.”
“There’s a stage,” she says. “I’ve never been on a stage before.”
“You have played for millions of viewers instead. You will do very well up there. And I’ll be waiting in the eaves for you to return, to congratulate you.” My tone makes it clear this congratulation would take a sexy form.
“Can we do that now?” she asks, hopeful.
Always ready, this one.
“But no, they are about to begin.” I glance between the two heavy velvet curtains at the chairs filled with men in tuxes and women in glittering gowns. “Did you know that there was once a virginity auction on this very stage?”
“What?” Bea looks scandalized—and also curious, which I had hoped for.
“Yes, and now she returns as a guest.” Tickets to this event were extremely sought after. The debut of the internet phenomenon Bea Sharp. “There she is on the front row. Next to Harper.”
Avery James looks beautiful and composed, though the growling animal of a man beside her probably has something to do with it. No one in attendance would dare make even the smallest remark to shame her. Gabriel Miller would rip their head off.
“You know her?” Bea narrows her eyes. “Did you attend the auction?”
“Of course not. It was a Saturday.”
She laughs softly, shaking her head. “Well done. You’ve successfully distracted me. Now all I can do is picture those two having sex.”
“Very beautiful people, those two. I’m sure they are pleasant pictures. However, they’re nothing compared to what you and I will look like after your show.”
The corner of her lips turns up. “What will we look like?”
“This will be new. And impossible to describe. Much better if I show you.”
She looks skeptical. “Something new?”
Our nights have been passionate and inventive. I have many tricks up my sleeve. That has less to do with my previous profession. It’s Bea herself. Her body, her smile. Her music. She makes me dream up new ways to make love to her every night.
“Something new,” I repeat, pointing to the curtains where Damon Scott appeared.
“Is the star ready to go on?” he says, but it’s not really a question. I don’t think he would look very kindly on her if he had to refund all of these people’s money. So it’s a good thing I don’t doubt her.
Bea takes a deep breath and nods. “Let’s do this.”
I stand with her in silence, my arms around her, my lips against her temple, while Damon gives a stirring and awe-inspiring introduction. It includes her video-watched stats and the incredible artists who have praised her work. He finishes with, “Please welcome the luminous Bea Sharp to the Den tonight.”
It’s only with reluctance that I let her go, because she deserves to shine.
She deserves it as much as I deserve to witness it.
Her green eyes look back at me, filled with serenity that I knew would be there. When it comes to music there is nothing that makes this woman nervous. Not even the Den, which she has managed to visit a few times now. Not even this crowd of wealthy and powerful people, all of them watching her with wonder. There is only grace and confidence as she crosses the small stage and sits down on the bench.