Page 52 of For the Plot

She breaks eye contact first. She’s on edge. I can see it in the way her lashes flutter, the way her fingers tighten around the stem of her glass. She takes a step back, not much, just enough to exhale like she needs air I’ve somehow stolen.

“I’m going to check out the next room,” she says, her voice aimed at Maya but her gaze skimming past me. “That abstract series, I think.”

“Go,” Maya says. “I’ll catch up.”

Skye gives a tight smile and turns. And of course I follow her.

The next room is darker. There’s a single installation: a series of canvases in varying stages of completion, all in hues of deep crimson, violet, charcoal. The placard beside the first one reads:Desire / Restraint.

Of fucking course it does.

She stands before the largest canvas in the center of the room, arms crossed under her chest, which does things to the line of her silhouette that make me want to unhinge my jaw and groan. I pause a few steps behind her, giving myself a moment. Then another. Just to look. Just to let the reality of her burn through the parts of me I’ve kept on ice.

She turns, sensing me, her brow raised. “Following me now?”

“Making sure you don’t get lost.”

“In a one-room exhibit?”

I shrug. “Stranger things have happened.”

She rolls her eyes but she’s smiling, and for the first time tonight, it hits me, how much I like that smile when it’s just for me. I step closer but she doesn't retreat. She glances back at the painting, then gestures toward it. “This one looks like someone bled onto the canvas and called it erotic.”

Without a second thought, I reach out, my fingers millimeters from touching the bare skin of her back when I stop myself. My hand drops and I glance up to make sure her attention is still focused on the painting. The warmth radiating from her body makes me wonder how fucking good it would feel to slide my cock deep into her heat.

I look at the painting, pulling my thoughts back to the present, then look at her. “Isn’t that what art is? Bleeding all of your emotions and trauma onto a canvas?”

She laughs. God, that laugh. “That sounds like something someone says to get laid.”

I take another step. “Would it work?”

Her eyes flash. “You tell me.”

We’re too close. Too aware. Every inch between us is stretched thin with tension and need. She shifts her weight, and the strap of her dress slips just slightly. My fingers twitch. I want to fix it. I want to drag it farther down.

But I don’t.

“It must suck to run into your employee during your off hours,” she says after a pause. “If you were trying to avoid me.”

“I wasn’t trying to avoid you.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Even after this week? Your… confession on the executive terrace?”

I don’t answer right away. Instead, I let my gaze trace the slope of her neck, the collarbone peeking out from that whisper of silk. I imagine myself tearing it from her body with little resistance… imagine my teeth grazing along her neck.

“I’d say more of a warning than a confession.”

“A warning?” She pauses, her eyes meeting mine.

“Because I can’t figure out how to do the right thing.” Her breath stalls. “And seeing you in that dress isn’t helping,” I add quietly.

She wets her lips. “Then maybe you shouldn’t be following me into dimly lit rooms, Mr. Blackwood.”

“I’m not strong enough to do otherwise.”