Tyce lifted his mouth off hers. “Come with me.”
Sage looked around for Piper, caught her eye and Piper waved her away, silently giving her permission to leave without her. She shouldn’t; this really wasn’t a good idea. But instead of saying no, instead of dismissing him or walking away—creating distance between herself and people was, after all, what she did best—she placed her hand in his and allowed him to lead her out of the gallery.
* * *
Tyce rolled out of his king-size bed in his borrowed apartment and headed to the luxurious en suite bathroom. Three years later and sex with Sage was still fantastic. He never had better with anyone else, he thought as he tossed the condom away. Sex had never been an issue; everything else was… Had been.
Tyce leaned forward and placed his fingers on his right cheekbone, checking for but not expecting to see finger marks from the force of Sage’s hand connecting with his face ten hours before. Tyce blew out a long breath. Only they could rocket from a slap to a kiss to having wild sex all within the space of an hour. He and Sage Ballantyne were, had always been, a combustible combination. There was a reason why they’d avoided each other for three years; put them in a room together and some sort of firestorm always occurred.
Tyce gripped the edge of the vanity. Judging by her deer-in-the-headlights look when she turned around, she hadn’t expected to see him at his own exhibition and he couldn’t blame her. His presence last night had been an aberration. He hated discussing his work, having people fawn over him and his art. To Tyce, it was a simple equation. If you liked what he did, buy it. If not, he didn’t care. There was no need to endlessly discuss his influences and inspiration for every piece. Luckily for him, art lovers seemed to connect with what he produced. His taciturn attitude to publicity and art critics and his reclusive nature added, so his agent, Tom, said, to his mystique.
He’d only gone to the exhibition because Tom insisted he meet the wealthy CEO who wanted a sculpture for the lobby of her new corporate headquarters. It was a commission that would raise the levels of his depleted coffers and it wasn’t an offer he could treat lightly.
All thoughts of the commission, his agent and staying at the exhibition evaporated when he laid eyes on Sage for the first time in three years. A second after noticing her, Tyce felt his head buzzing, his skin shrinking and his world tilting. Damn; she was still as enticing and compelling and make-him-crazy as she’d been before. The world faded and he’d spun away from the CEO—who happened to be very female, very into him and very willing to give him a commission—and pushed his way through the crowds to reach her.
It was easy to call her hair black but it wasn’t, not really. It was the deepest, darkest brown he’d ever seen. Her eyes were the blue of Moroccan tiles and her body a product of a lifetime spent in ballet class. Sage, damn her, was effortlessly graceful and knee-knocking sexy. She was the only woman who’d ever caused his heartbeat to spike, his lungs to contract and his brain to chant…mine, mine, mine. He’d been thinking of cotton sheets and a massive bed as he’d approached her and it seemed natural to open their conversation with a sexy quip. She, obviously, hadn’t and responded with that furious slap. But, because he’d seen the desire in her eyes and heard her low, excited gasp as his lips met hers, he ignored his stinging cheek and…yeah, hell then broke loose. An hour later they were both naked and panting and pretty much stayed that way for the rest of the night. Tyce ran his hands over his face. Last night they’d let their bodies do their talking but the sun was up and reality was knocking on the door.
Literally. Tyce opened the door to Sage’s soft rap and looked into her vivid eyes. Ballantyne eyes. She was gorgeous, Tyce thought, feeling the action down below. They’d just had rock-my-world sex for most of the night and he wanted more.
Tyce tensed, waiting for her to ask him when they’d see each other again, whether he’d call her later. He couldn’t do either; there were far too many secrets between them, a history that didn’t make that feasible.
“I should give you hell about that sculpture,” she said, “but I don’t have the energy for anything more than coffee. Too bad there isn’t any. I checked. Do you actually live here?”
She posed the question as a joke but it cut too close to the bone for comfort. How would she react if he told her that he only occasionally used this Chelsea apartment belonging to his biggest client? It was easier to meet Sage in Manhattan than to explain to her, and everybody, that he, despite his sculptures and paintings selling for up to five million each, had just enough cash to keep producing his massive abstracts, to buy steel for his sculptures and to pay the mortgage and amenities on his warehouse in Brooklyn where he worked. And actually lived.