Page 12 of Prince of Queens

"Only a dozen?" he teases. "Come on, Red. I'm sure you can do better than that."

I can't help but laugh. "Fine. How about this? I'd rather be swimming with sharks. Or walking across hot coals. Or listening to my great-aunt Luciana's stories about her cats for the hundredth time."

Dominic clutches his chest in mock hurt. "You wound me, Gia. And here I thought we were getting along so well."

Hours pass, and no one comes. We continue our banter, trading quips and increasingly ridiculous scenarios we'd rather be in than stuck in this elevator.

"I'd rather be in a room full of clowns," I declare at one point.

Dominic shudders dramatically. "Now that's just cruel. I thought you artist types were supposed to be sensitive souls."

I laugh, surprised at how easy it is to talk to him. "Oh, we are. Sensitive to beauty, to emotion... to the soul-crushing terror of clowns."

He grins, and I find myself admiring the way his eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles. "I'll remember that. No clowns on our next date."

I scoff, ignoring the way my heart skips at the word 'date'. "Bold of you to assume there will be a next date when I don’t recall the first, Esposito."

"What else should I call what happened between us?" he shrugs, his smile turning cocky.

As the night wears on, we slowly relax in each other's presence. Dominic sheds his jacket, rolling up his sleeves to reveal strong forearms. I try not to stare, but it's hard when we're in such close quarters.

"So," he says eventually, nodding towards my canvas. "You going to let me see what you've been working on?"

I hesitate, suddenly shy. "I don't know..."

"Come on," he coaxes, his voice soft. "I’ll show you mine, if you show me yours."

I roll my eyes at the innuendo, but find myself unwrapping the canvas anyway. As I turn it to face him, I hear his sharp intake of breath.

"Holy shit," he murmurs, stepping closer. "Gia, this is... incredible."

I watch his face as he studies the painting, fascinated by the play of emotions across his features. He reaches out, his fingers hovering just above the canvas as if he wants to touch it but doesn't dare.

"You're her," he says suddenly, his eyes snapping to mine. "You're the artist. The one whose work I’ve been buying." He looks at me like he’s seeing me for the first time.

I nod, unable to speak past the lump in my throat as realization dawns. He’s the buyer Rachel mentioned. He's so close now, I can feel the heat radiating off his body.

"I had no idea," he murmurs, his eyes searching mine. "Your work... it speaks to me in a way I can't explain."

I swallow hard, acutely aware of how little space there is between us. "Thank you," I whisper.

His hand comes up, his thumb brushing gently across my cheek. "You've got paint," he murmurs, his voice husky. The look in his eyes is almost reverent. It sears my soul, strips away my defenses.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” My voice is barely a whisper.

“Like what?” he asks as he leans his forehead against mine.

I can't breathe. Can't think. All I can do is feel the warmth of his touch, see the desire burning in his eyes.

“Gia,” he says. It’s a whisper and a prayer.

And then he's kissing me, and the world falls away.

His lips are soft but insistent, coaxing a response from me that I'm helpless to deny. I melt into him, my hands fisting in his shirt as his arms wrap around me, pulling me flush against his body.

The kiss deepens, becomes hungry, desperate. I feel like I'm drowning in sensation, in the taste and feel of him. This is entirely different from the other night. That was lust, attraction, chemistry. This, this is something I don’t have a name for.

His hands roam my body, leaving trails of fire in their wake. I arch into him, wanting more, needing more…

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