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Stuart clears his throat, an attempt to break the awkward silence spreading between us. “I can put you on our email list and—”
The look I give him cuts him off. If he can’t tell by now that I’m a dangerous man, I should enlighten him.
A small hand grasps my arm. I look down at my wife, noting the blush spreading over her face and the discomfort in her expression.
“It’s okay.” She nods and smiles brightly as if that’s supposed to convince me. “I can wait.”
I give her my best rendition of a sweet smile. “No, moya lyubov', you wait for no one. Not for the gallery, not the museum, or even for Mara Vezcovy. You are here now.”
Something different slides into her expression. It looks like shock. But there’s a mixture of different things going on that tells me a lot. She’s always had to wait for everything. No matter how small it is. Sometimes she never gets what she wants. That changes with me.
My sternness returns when I look back at Stuart. “If my wife weren’t here, I’d rip your fucking face off.”
Finally, he looks worried for his safety. Idiot.
“If you don’t want a problem with me, Stuart, you’ll give us access to the exhibition.” I say that with as much calm as I can muster. “What’s it going to be, muzhchina?”
He nods vigorously, trembling from his bald head right down. “I don’t want a problem.” His lips wobble into a nervous smile.
“Didn’t think you did.” I tap the desk with my index finger, making him jump. “Now, toropit'sya. Get the hell up. Clock’s ticking.”
He gets up so fast, he knocks over the glass of water next to his laptop keyboard. The water spills over it, but Stuart seems to have learned to value his life more than his work.
“Follow me this way,” he says, motioning for us to move behind the desk.
I look at Gabrielle, who’s staring at me, lips parted in surprise, and I give her a wink. Her expression softens, and she squeezes my hand. We follow Stuart through the back entrance that takes us right onto the gallery floor.
“Just come back this way when you’re done.” Stuart points to the door we just came through. “I’ll leave the door open for you.”
I don’t bother to answer. Enough words have been wasted on him.
Stuart scurries away, and I turn back to Gabrielle.
She’s not looking at me. Her gaze is fixed on the masterpieces before her displaying landscapes and people. This is just the beginning, but even I’m blown away, and I can see exactly why my wife is so taken with this artist.
The funny thing about it is, though, while Mara Vezcovy may be a celebrated, world-renowned artist, my girl creates from a different place. A place that evokes the mind, the heart, and even calls to lost souls like me.
Darkness and light are embedded in every stroke of her pencil. The same way they coexist in every fiber of her mind.
Every creation is uniquely her. That’s something I haven’t seen here today among the works of people considered to be the world’s finest.
Gabrielle floats away from me, moving toward the thing that lights her up most like it’s a calling, and I watch her fall deeper in love. I’m almost jealous, wishing she could look at me like that. I don’t even want to share her with her love for art. But I’ll take this for now.
We spend the rest of the day here, leaving just after the museum closes for the public.
I finish up our day with dinner at a quaint French bistro I sometimes visit when I want privacy.
Unlike our previous dinner date weeks ago, I’m not making a statement or trying to show the world that I took Corrado’s princess. This is just about us.
Gabrielle is still glowing from the museum trip, and art is what she talks about for the entire time. She talks and I listen.
She tells me about a class she was thinking of taking, because she’d love to take the plunge to paint.
All I can think about is this newness between us and how much I want it. More of it. More of her.
When we reach home, we barely step through the door before I have her up against the wall. Getting somewhere more private doesn’t even enter my mind.
I strip her right there and bury my aching cock deep inside her.
