Entry-Level Mistress - By Sabrina Darby Page 0,16

large commissioned pieces that hung at the office but an eclectic collection of smaller, framed work. I walked around slowly, staring, trying to take it all in.

“You said you have a buyer,” I prodded. “And the ex-girlfriends of course.”

“Right, these are actually a few pieces I’ve picked up on my travels. Just random artists.” I arched my eyebrow in question. He shrugged. “I like to give people a chance.”

“Then … ”

“The loft is where the other pieces are.”

“You have another place in Boston as well?” I felt stupid, like I was missing something rather basic here, but everything was so overwhelming—the art, him … Then I remembered the photographs I’d seen of him “at home” in magazines. That must have been the loft.

“I have a home for show, for the girlfriends and the parties, and then I have this. For me.”

I tried to make sense of that. He’d separated out his life: the part that was public, and the part that was truly private. Interesting that his girlfriends seemed to be part of the public life.

“I thought you might like this better.”

I let out a disbelieving laugh and started toward him, my heels clicking on the old wooden floor. I came in close, studied his face and slipped my hand up his chest, and then around his neck.

He was sharing all this with me. Despite everything that lay between us. I could take it as a taunt, a dare to strike at him just as leaving me alone in his office might have been. And perhaps it was a taunt. Only, it was something more too.

“Who are you, Daniel Hartmann?”

The corner of his lips quirked up slightly, but I didn’t really want an answer in words. I wanted to know him the way I knew the shape of clay or metal or marble or any of the surfaces with which I worked.

He picked me up, almost effortlessly, and I held onto him, wrapped my legs around him. I could see my shoes behind his back.

“I’m the man who is about to take you upstairs and strip every piece of clothing off of your body.”

Oh. Okay.

“What about dinner?”

“It can wait.”

He let me down. Lifted his chin, indicating the next flight of stairs. I turned, shot a smile over my shoulder and then ascended. He was right behind me, his hand resting on my hip, sliding sometimes down, sometimes up, teasing over me until I wanted to kick off my heels and run. I paused at the landing. I felt the heat of his body as he stopped himself just before colliding into me.

“Is there anything we need to talk about?” I asked on a breath, trying to be sensible, at least in one aspect. “Diseases, anything?”

“I’m good,” he said, moving closer, wrapping himself over and around me again. “You?”

“Yeah, me too.” And thank goodness because what if he had said something else? And could I really trust him to tell the truth? Maybe it was because I was cloudy-headed with lust, but for some reason I felt I could. That same reason that had me here, about to sleep with the one man in the world I could actually call an enemy.

Intelligence felled by lust?

He reached out beyond me, twisted the knob of the door to the right. It swung open, and he stopped me in the threshold, trapping me between his arms. God, this was hot. I liked him being a little bit more in charge. This was so different from the other guys I’d dated. I lifted my face to his, took his kiss with a sort of fearful hunger. Then I turned my head away for air, and his kiss didn’t end, just moved lower, his dark head bent to my neck. His bedroom looked sparse, nearly unfurnished. There was a low platform bed, neatly made, with a thick rug at the foot. One standing lamp. Stacks of books around the room. But there were no proper bookshelves, no desks, nothing on the walls. Only a window that looked out toward the Charles River.

I felt his hand at my thigh, tugging up on my skirt. I rested my head back against the doorframe, let him take control and enjoyed the sensation of his fingers over my stocking-clad legs. In college I’d only ever worn thick, opaque tights to keep warm in the winter, but now I was appreciating these delicate, sheer bits of fabric. The sensation of skin on skin was one thing but feeling his touch through