Page 48 of The Woman at the Funeral

“Okay. I’ll be right back.”

She was.

Then she was leaning over to carefully place and fluff the pillows, giving me a decent view of the swells of her breasts as I breathed in that chocolate scent of her.

It was going to be a long night.

CHAPTER TEN

Blair

The last thing I needed was a business trip to Georgia—dealing with a client who wanted to know why it wasn’t classy to hire forgers to replicate some of the classics.

Gee, I don’t know. Because anyone who knows anything about art would know thatThe Girl with the Pearl Earringis on display at The Hague.

On top of the fact that someone who only had a net worth of ten million could never afford an original like that, even if it was for sale.

Which it wasn’t.

And likely never would be.

In the end, I managed to curate several pieces for local artists as well as order a few from an artist I knew was going to be the next big thing. He’d have bragging rights in a few months. And increase his net worth. Which meant he was likely to recommend me to any friends who asked.

I was originally supposed to catch a plane the following morning after doing some sightseeing.

But I’d been so cranky and miserable that I decided to head back to the city right away.

A terrible decision. There were two delays and so much turbulence that I, someone with a lot of experience flying, felt queasy and panicked.

Then to get home to learn that someone had been rifling through my home while I was gone, it was all too much.

I expected to slip into the bath and just have a good, long cry.

Instead, all I could do was think about Nico out in the living room in nothing but sleep pants again. I’d been a little disappointed in the camouflaging the dark material provided.

All those thoughts, well, they had the desire pinging off every nerve ending, had my skin feeling electric, and a pressure building so hard on my lower stomach that there was no way I could just ignore it.

So I let myself reach down, to touch myself to thoughts of him. And I promised myself it would be the last time.

Somehow, though, even after that, I lay in bed not sleeping, thinking of him out there, wondering what he would do if I walked out and lowered myself onto him, if I buried my face in his neck to breathe him in, if I kissed my way down his chest, then licked the grooves of his muscles. What sounds would he make if I took him in my mouth? If I worked him until he was tugging my hair, until he was bucking up into my mouth, until his whole body was tensed and aching for release?

I grumbled at myself, rolling over and counting backward from five hundred until my mind was bored enough to finally just pass out.

The problem was, I had dreams of him. I woke up still aching.

I climbed out of bed and made my way into the kitchen, ready to make us each some coffee before getting started on breakfast.

Maybe cooking would help focus me. Or at least give me a few minutes of a break from my desire.

The problem was that I made his coffee, then brought it over toward the couch when I saw him stirring.

And my delicate pink blanket had fallen off the side, half-wedged under the back cushions. Leaving him fully on display.

I swear his pants had slipped down lower in his sleep.

And with the early golden light spilling in through the many windows, even the dark material was doing nothing to hide the way his hardness was straining against the material.

I don’t remember putting his mug down, but I must have at some point while my gaze had been raking over him.

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