Page 2 of Sweet Torture (Torture Games #1)
TWO
GRIFFIN
" I s that a dick?"
"It certainly is, sir. Champagne?" the colorful woman before me says in a cheerful tone.
I adjust my mask, again, to see the waitress and her seductive offering better in the low light surrounding us in this forsaken gallery.
One would think that more light is needed to see the art properly than what is provided by the bright gallery lamps mounted above every artwork.
"Where did they get the uniforms made?" Viper, as I dubbed her, who bought me on this presumptuous date, speaks up.
I take a closer look at the vivid colors displayed on the waitress's body and see the outline of her pert nipple.
"Oh no, ma’am. The artist has personally painted every helper's body.
The motivation was to make this more of an immersive art experience.
The clientele is allowed to peruse and touch the art in any way, and anywhere, they desire.
" One hand holds the empty tray while the other moves suggestively along the curves of her hip.
"Anywhere?" I ask, shoving my hands in my pockets and assessing her petite structure.
Deciding to focus on something else instead, I glance around the dimly lit interior to the menagerie of beings writhing amongst carefully curated sculptures.
The risqué images mimic the scene of abandoned lust as I see familiar influential men who form part of the elite class in town ogling and grabbing strange tits – some in front of their wives.
Although all of them are wearing masks, it is hard not to recognize the Director of Cardiology, who has her hand relatively high on an attractive waiter's thigh.
Animals, all of them.
"Anywhere you wish, sir." There is no mistaking her seductive tone that brings me back.
"Thank you. That will be all for now." Viper gives the waitress a scathing glare with eyebrows raised and lips pinched.
It is her own fault for bringing me to a gallery show of this caliber. New York is known for its provocative cultural scene.
I take in the scene that unfolds before me. Every patron hides behind a mask of anonymity, indulging in the exotic delicacies of the strange flesh that money can buy.
Darker corners are occupied by flailing creatures in color.
Older ladies spill drinks and feign indifference while muscular men grind on them.
A group of rowdy men watch as one of them grabs a waitress’s ass and says something obscene to her flushing face. The rest of the group cheers at the utter suspension of decency.
Every person here has been personally invited, and I bet the crowd was drawn here by the exclusivity it promised.
We are all enveloped in a tinge of sensual possibilities as I march to the nearest painting hanging on the wall on my left.
The viper and I have been hiding in a secluded corner, but it might not be isolated for long.
Everywhere one turns, one is confronted by the blasphemous impulse of desire.
And from the looks of it, it emboldens more than my blind date.
I hear the clacking of Viper’s heels echo behind me, and I pretend to inspect the brush strokes before me.
"What is your" – Viper gestures with her champagne glass around us – "opinion of all this?"
We are standing before a highly inciting abstract painting of a woman in racy lingerie.
Naturally, there is some questionably erect genitalia in her hands, considering the theme of the event.
The lines are suggestive, and with a smidge more imagination, I could feel that hand with the elegant fingers strangling my hard, wanting cock with ease.
"I can imagine that most will find it very…stimulating," I say, keeping my tone neutral.
"I bet you do too, a strong, handsome man like you. Maybe you can introduce me to some of your… friends while we are here," she suggests coquettishly while touching my arm that’s holding my own champagne.
I know exactly which friends she is referring to. I shake her hand off my arm and walk toward the next painting, pretending to inspect it closely.
The female subject has more curves than my Bugatti La Voiture. I adjust my hard-on subtly with my hand in my pocket.
I know precisely why her curves turn me on.
She is a real woman with a body made for filthy sin.
And I love being a sinner.
Naturally, the devil in me won't be captivated by a woman like her for long.
That is what gets to me every time.
I want to be with a being solely created to take the punishment of my dominant nature. A real woman, literally with kinks and curves, to be explored and pushed to her limits. A woman who wants to be with the raw part of Griffin Maxwell.
A woman with enough body to absorb my thirst for vengeance.
Indeed, it appeals to me more than when I think of the slender woman next to me pretending to play coy. I can feel her staring at me expectantly under those thick, obviously fake lashes.
I’m so tempted to just turn around and walk away without a word.
If I didn't owe my business partner Mike a favor, I would have canceled this so-called blind date in a fucking heartbeat.
Now, I am stuck with this vapid woman at this ridiculous, mostly pornographic, art exhibition.
I stare directly at the painting, although I feel her scrutinizing glare burning the side of my face. The flamboyant feathers on her mask are already drooping. I want to sigh loudly when I recall the words exchanged two days ago.
Mike marched into my office and asked me to accompany this woman to the art exhibition. He didn't give anything more away about what this exhibition would entail.
I hope he was unaware of all the sordid details – for his sake.
This is most definitely not what I had envisioned when he called it ‘some sort of a cultural event.’
It must be another ruse to get me into bed, since that is what every other woman wants to do when she learns who I am. Everyone wants to bag the heartless bachelor of New York who turns broken hearts into multi-million-dollar business deals.
I turn slightly to take in my date’s image to compare her to the sight before me imprinted on the canvas.
She is dressed in a flamboyant, multicolored, tight-fitting dress that reaches the floor to expand into a little train behind her. She is undoubtedly a beautiful woman, but when I look at her, one word comes to mind.
Bony.
Not to mention the vulgar gleam in her eyes when she looks at me like I am a prize. Money tends to bring out the cheap truth, and the truth is this woman isn’t interested in me. She doesn’t even see me as a man.
Fucking. Golddiggers. All of them.
Another bout of irritation washes over me.
If only I could find a woman who wasn't distracted by my status and wealth, someone who wanted to know more about my inner demons. Considering that said demons are demanding to escape every chance they get…
I need a demon wrangler.
Or is it more of a cock wrangler?
Regardless, I am fucked – and not in the way I want to be.
"Mike said you were the CEO of Maxim Enterprises. That must be exciting," she says, trying to rekindle the conversation .
I sigh.
Here we go.
"Spoken like someone who hasn't had to endure years of hard work."
A flush creeps across her cheeks, and I return my focus to the painting.
I glance at the artist's name in the bottom right-hand corner of the painting. I see the big, pretentious strokes that spell out Naz Adams.
Jackass!
Maybe we will get to meet the arrogant sex fiend here tonight.
At least then, the night won't be a total waste of my precious time. Perhaps I can give him a piece of my mind. Teach him a lesson or two on how to do business.
These paintings all have exorbitant price-tags considering they’re basically paint-by-numbers for porn. The one in front of me is listed at $1.3 million. And they are all depicting a sex scene.
It's like a porn slide show. There is not a fucking flower or landscape anywhere.
Unless you count the paintings where the subject is lying on her back.
I discreetly start moving on to the next painting, partly to escape my date. Viper starts talking again, even though I've given her no indication that I am listening .
"I would have expected less male frontal nudity from a male artist, especially one as big as this guy," she said.
I snicker to myself. This is what she calls ‘big?’
The statement slips out before I can help it, "Why is he so famous anyway? He could be overcompensating. These prices are ridiculous. It isn't like he's painting anything new."
Viper looks up at me, grateful that I'm engaging in conversation with her, even if it is a frivolous rant. I curb the placating smile that wants to cross my face. I don't want to give my date the false impression that I'm flirting with her.
Her voice is already grating on my last nerve.
I place my glass on the tray of a passing waiter and cross my arms over my chest while I widen my stance. Not that my attitude deters the woman.
"Well, according to the reviews I read online of the show, he is considered mysterious and has never given an interview to anyone before. No one can deduce the reason or origin of his inspiration," Viper states.
I would say his inspiration is fucking obvious.
I hear a woman's voice behind me, and the hair on my neck rises instantly.
"It looks like the artist is a little nymphomaniac who can't focus on anything else except the pleasure given during the exchange of trust between human beings. But I am curious to know what you think it is. "
Her voice is breathy, yet I sense a specific commanding tone like taut velvet scraping the inside of your thigh, quite contradictory to the striking vision of softness that comes into my peripheral view.
Her long brown hair ripples and flows, forming cascading waves down her open back. Every time her hair swishes, it creates swells of temptation that ebb and flow along her abundant curves.
I’ll bet my business a man can get lost in the comfort that surrounds her.