I should’ve known the moment I saw him across the gallery that tonight would end with my legs wrapped around him and his come buried deep inside me.
The space was buzzing with soft jazz and overpriced wine, but all I could see was Daniel leaning against a steel sculpture like he’d just stepped out of one of my fantasies. He hadn’t changed much in the three years since I last saw him at that opening in Chelsea, but tonight, something was different.
He was looking right at me.
I adjusted the strap of my red heels and tried to focus on the exhibit. I was here as a guest curator, after all, not as a woman who’d spent years wondering what it would feel like to have Daniel’s hands on her body. But damn, he looked good. That dark button-up hugged his shoulders just right, and when he smiled slow, knowing it was like he could see every secret I’d ever kept.
“Long time no see,” a voice said behind me.
I turned and swallowed hard. He was taller up close, and the cedar scent of his cologne hit me like a memory.
“Daniel,” I said, lifting my glass in mock salute. “Still collecting artists you can’t afford?”
He chuckled, close enough that I felt the vibration in my chest. “Still collecting men you won’t keep?”
I blinked, caught off guard. “Touché.”