The gallery was hushed, humming with the soft echoes of jazz and whispered admiration. Sienna Carter moved through the space with effortless grace—her locs pulled into a high bun, a silk crimson dress hugging her hips like it had been sewn with her in mind. She wasn't looking for anyone. Tonight was about the art. The mood. The control.
But then she felt it—that sensation of being watched. Not just glanced at, but seen.
She turned. He stood across the room, next to a painting of a nude woman awash in golds and shadow. Tall. Clean-cut. His skin was the rich tone of well-aged cognac. Broad shoulders, black-on-black suit, eyes like velvet, daring her to look too long.
She didn't blink.
He moved first, slow and intentional, like a man used to walking into a room and owning it. He stopped inches from her.
"You're more compelling than the art," he said, his voice like bass and silk. "And that's saying something."
Sienna smiled, poised. "Flattery's predictable. Try again."
He leaned in just enough for her to catch the heat of his breath on her neck. "Fine. You look like trouble I'd like to earn the right to handle."
Her thighs clenched. She didn't show it.
"And you are?" she asked.
"Luca. Luca Hayes."
She didn't give her name. Not yet. Instead, she turned toward the painting. The nude, hips arched, mouth slightly parted. She let the silence stretch.
"You like women who surrender?" she asked.
He smirked. "I like women who choose to."
Her pulse stuttered.
"I own the gallery," he said, brushing a finger against the stem of her wine glass. Not touching her—yet. "I'd like to show you something in the private collection."
It wasn't a question.
She followed.
The hallway was dim, velvet curtains parting for them. At the back: a private viewing room. One single painting under soft gold light—an abstract, all dark curves and hot color, like lust caught in motion.
But Sienna didn't care about the art anymore. She felt the air change. Felt him behind her. Closer now.
"I don't touch without permission," he said lowly.
She turned her head. Their mouths were almost touching. "Then ask."
"Can I taste you, Sienna?"
Hearing her name in his mouth sent a jolt between her legs. She didn't remember giving it.
"You may," she whispered.
And that was all the invitation he needed.
He kissed her like he'd been waiting a lifetime—slow at first, a press of heat and promise. Then deeper. Tongue demanding. One hand at her throat, not choking, just holding. The other slid around to cup the curve of her ass, fingers spreading, testing her response.
She moaned into his mouth and arched into him.
"Tell me," he breathed, "do you want more here… or somewhere I can take my time?"
Her answer was a whisper: "Your place."
He growled. A deep, masculine sound that echoed in her bones.
As they left the gallery, her nipples already hard beneath silk, she knew she was walking into danger. The delicious kind. The kind you taste on your tongue and feel for days after.
And Sienna had never wanted anything more.