Page 116 of Muddy Messy Love

“Avery Lee.” She dips her chin in acknowledgement, offering me a tight smile. The knots in my stomach loosen some. I neverknow if Mum will match my dread or not. Tonight, it seems she won’t, which is a relief. Hell, if all goes well, she might see me in a new light. Concede this “starving artist rubbish” has merit. Treat me like she treats Beth. That’s my secret hope, anyway.

Cole returns with three flutes of champagne, obviously having spotted Beth and Mum arrive. “Champagne, ladies?”

I observe Mum’s reaction. She and Cole haven’t seen each other sincethe confrontation. But to my surprise, Mum bats her lashes and takes the crystal flute between her French-manicured fingertips like nothing ever happened. “Thank you, Cole,” she says, all flowers and honey.

He stiffens a smidge but fast recovers. “Sheila.” He nods. “Nice to see you.”

With a kiss to my temple, Cole hands me a flute, then offers Beth hers.

“Thanks,” Beth says, taking it. “I gotta say, it’s nice to finally put a face to a voice.” She darts her gaze between us with curious delight.

“Likewise,” Cole says, holding out his hand. “Nice to finally meet you, Beth. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Their hands shake. “And I haven’t heard nearly enough about you, it seems.” Beth throws me an arched brow and leans in. “That needs to be rectified ASAP,” she whispers behind a cupped hand.

I grin. While Beth is lacking in the juicy detail department, I have no intention of over-sharing. Cole is different.Thisis different. It only belongs to us.

Gloria reappears. “Sorry to interrupt, but people are asking about you, darling. I’ll introduce you shortly, then it’s time to mingle and share your magic, okay?”

A wave of nausea rushes over me, and I gulp down the rest of my champagne. It floats straight to my head, only worsening matters. Cole takes my empty glass, locking his eyes on mine.“You’ve got this, okay?” His conviction strengthens my spine, and the eye contact grounds me back to earth.

With a deep breath, I turn to face Gloria. “Okay,” I sigh. The gremlins grip my vocal cords and swing like Tarzan wannabes, but it’s now or never. Time to sink or swim. At least I can take comfort in the fact artists are known to be eccentric. If I mumble high-pitched incoherency, then puke into one of my bowls, it might only fulfil expectations. “I’m ready,” I say.

But oh God, who am I kidding?

Two hours fly by in a blur of bubbles, jazz, cash, and colour. The feared criticism never comes, and my ability to network smooths. As wingman, Cole interjects with intelligent wit whenever required, and together we charm the pants off potential buyers as if we’ve practised for years. It’s a glimpse of how our future could be, and I want to wrestle it to the ground and never let go.

Countless times, I catch Beth watching us with a smile ghosting her lips. And before she leaves, I soak up every precious minute I can with her.

When the first red sale dot appears onGirl, Crushed, I want to cartwheel across the gallery, dance in circles, and squeal. I want to drag Cole to the toilets, strip that sexy tux from his ripped body, and sin my dirty little heart out. Judging by the ever-growing fire in his eyes, he feels the same. But I remain composed. And continue to do so as every. Single. Piece. Sells.

It’s midnight when we arrive back at Cole’s house, high on success with the escalating hum of sexual tension threatening to explode. The car engine shudders silent, and our twinkling eyes lock. Cole tilts his mouth into a glistening smirk full of dirtypromises. Mine follows suit, and in silent agreement, we hotfoot it out of the car and race up the stairs.

Our mouths collide as we reach the deck. Cole blindly fumbles with his keys but somehow unlocks the front door. We stumble in through the dining room with needy breaths and frantic hands tearing off each other’s coats. Shoes tumble to the ground, and Cole’s socks follow.

“Can you believe everything sold?” I ask. Our mouths rejoin as I whip off Cole’s bow tie, then fumble open the buttons of his dress shirt. Courtesy of my impatience, the bottom two ping free and roll across the polished concrete. Cole chuckles as he plucks bobby pins from my hair and rustles it free, but I don’t. After spending a night in an art gallery without seeing the best there is to see, I’m antsy—desperate.

“It was inevitable,” he says, undoing his cuff links to slide off his shirt. He scrunches it into a loose ball, then tosses it away. “You’re brilliant.” It lands, dangling haphazardly from a chair, and I bite my bottom lip as I admire the resulting view.

Heis the brilliant one.

Cole stands barefoot in black suit pants, lit only by the fireplace’s crackling amber glow. His muscular chest rises with each loaded breath, causing the lush jungle to sway as if alive. Abs ripple through the shadows and crest in firelight.Vmuscles plunge from his hips into his pants, teasing the way to ecstasy. But eclipsing it all are his intense pale-green eyes—prettier than the Emerald City—holding me captive. Desire slickens the insides of my thighs.

“So how does it feel to make more in one night than four months?” he asks.

“Screw the money.” I lick my lips. “All I want is you.”

Cole stalks forward, closing the space between us. He presses one hand to the centre of my back and jerks me closer, landing me hard against his chest. “This dress,” he murmurs against myjaw, dragging rough stubble across my skin. He slides the long zipper slowly down my spine, then nudges each strap from my shoulders. The dress slumps to my feet in a shiny pool of ruby satin, leaving a lacy black G-string and nothing else. Cole steps back, allowing his eyes to drink me in. Goosebumps flourish across my skin under the scorch of his gaze, and his throat bobs as he swallows. “I need inside you.”

“I need that too,” I whisper.

We eye the giant tan ottoman squatting in front of the fireplace—one of the few surfaces we have left here to christen—and I squeal as he tosses me atop the soft, oiled leather. I land with a thud, sinking into feather fill that deflates with a sigh.

The fire-kissed leather is warm against my back as Cole’s body covers mine. He grinds his erection between us, and I spread my legs wider to allow him better access—loweraccess. We moan into each other’s mouths as we kiss, swallowing each other’s pleasure. I drag my fingernails across his silky back, hard enough to leave parallel pink lines that will mark him mine for the rest of the night.

The retaliatory pinch to my nipple makes me yelp, and Cole’s low chuckle reverberates through his chest. “You want to mark me, Angel?” His greedy hands continue to roam my body, leaving delicious, tingly trails. “Well, two can play at that game.” He bites down low on my neck, sending a flash of lightning to my nethers, and I clench and shudder, growing ridiculously wet as he sucks on the delicate skin. As if he knows, Cole slips his hand south. He moves the crutch of my panties to one side and then plunges fingers deep into my core. My gasp melts into a mindless wail as Cole raggedly groans. “You’re soaked.”

Once upon a time, that would have embarrassed me—yet another humiliating thing out of my control—but not anymore. Not with him. To him, everything about my body is beautiful. Every part he worships as if sacred. “That’s what you do tome,” I say, undoing his pants to slide my hand beneath the monogrammed band of his briefs. I grip his rock-hard length and squeeze, causing a sharp breath to hiss past his teeth. “Take them off,” I whisper. “I need you.”

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