“Entendres inside, too?” Lincoln quips, thick lips in a pout.
As carefully as I can in this wet suit of a dress, I scoot over and take his face with one hand. His neck works as he swallows, and his lips part. “Tonight,” I say, promising him with my eyes before kissing him slowly—seductively, in a languid way so I can savor his taste on my lips and tongue.
Lincoln breathes out roughly. “I’ve missed you.” We kissed yesterday, but it wasn’t like this—no holds barred, giving in to my desires. Angling his body toward mine, he takes my neck in his hands and slaughters the kiss I just gave him with ferocity. His hands are warm against my skin and his lips crush mine. His breathing is erratic, and I grasp his jacket, trying to find purchase. I can’t get near enough. I want to drown in what being close to him makes me feel. He’s safe now. We’re safe to be together and for the first time in weeks, I can just let… go. Almost.
“Ramona,” I whisper in between jagged breaths. “We’re going to be late.”
Lincoln pulls away, but keeps my face in his hands. “This can wait until tonight.” The way he swallows, like he’s trying to rid himself of lust, makes me wet.
“You’re going to stop being this hot, right? I’m going to soak my dress.”
His eyes slit. “If you don’t stop talking like that, it’s not going to wait until tonight.”
I pinch my lips between two fingers. I’ll ignore the crackling and popping residing in the space between us for Ramona. She’s about the only person I’d grant this boon.
“Okay, okay. I’m driving. But Maeve, know I’m going to be thinking about that kiss and what’s coming next all night long.”
Lincoln does. He reminds me every time I glance his way, by dragging a finger over his lips nonchalantly. Sometimes he does it without making eye contact, but he senses I’m glancing his way. Like now, as I sip a glass of champagne and engage the man in front of me in conversation about Ramona’s art. He’s talking about the juxtaposition of colors Ramona used in the composition of what the hell, and he said what. I’m nodding along and smiling wide.
“Which is your favorite?” the man asks.
I look at him for the first time for more than a half second. He’s gazing at my face intently, like he truly cares what my response is. The truth is, I don’t know much about her paintings, but I know the first one she painted after Stavros died. It’s darker than the rest, has a haunting, taunting life-form of its own.
I point at the black abstract piece in the corner. “That one,” I breathe. “She really put a lot into that piece.”
As I admire the wisps and strokes, I catch sight of Ramona. Her dress is beautiful, and she’s more put together than I’ve seen her since the funeral. Her hair and makeup are flawless. That’s the point though. To look as shiny as the art you’re creating. I see through it though. The dark circles that aren’t quite hidden with concealer. The way her mouth downturns when she believes no one is looking. The edge of pain she’s constantly balancing on top of. My neck works as I swallow.
“I’ll buy that one, then,” he says, stealing me away from my thoughts.
I raise my brow. “Oh, that’s why you were asking.” Clearing my throat, I bring my attention back to the man. “Ramona will be so pleased.” I mean, I think that’s the point. Selling them off after the show.
He’s a little older, his eyes crinkling at the corner when he lowers his voice and says, “I see you’re here by yourself tonight. I was hoping you’d join me for a drink at my place. It’s walking distance from here.”
A fair assessment as Lincoln and I have worked the crowd separately. A little because being near him when the sexual tension has reached fever pitch is hard, but also because I’ve legitimately been busy. Besides Ramona, I know the most about her and her work. This is the first time I’ve been stopped by someone this long.
“Uh, so will you still buy Ramona’s painting if I tell you I’m not here alone?” I smile big and awkward. Leaning slightly, I spy Lincoln watching me with eagle eyes. He must see the ask in my eyes, because he stalks across the room like a gentleman dressed to kill.
He stops when he’s next to the man, just in his line of sight. “Ramona needs you, Maeve.” His voice is smooth, but holds an edge. “Why hello,” Lincoln says to the man. Yeah, that had more than an edge. I excuse myself to find Ramona to tell her the good news.
She’s draining a champagne flute when I walk up. “Slow down. You sold the black painting to the guy behind me getting frightened by Lincoln right now.”
She peeks.
“You might need to hold an intelligent conversation. One that you don’t want to be drunk for.” It’s a gentle tease because I know how much a sale would mean to her, but also, she really shouldn’t get drunk at her own show.
“The dynasty?” she replies, looking at the black painting. “That’s great.”
“The dynasty,” I reply, frowning as I study it. “What the hell does it have anything to do with a dynasty. It’s black lines.” This brings up the memory of one of our first fights in college. She was smearing paint on a canvas and I told her it wasn’t art. Bad move.
“Die, nasty bitch,” Ramona says, drawing each word out, then shrugs. “Figure it would be easier to sell if I left bitch out. More professional, you know.” She sighs and looks at me. “I have to tell you something.”
“Every time you’ve said that during the course of our lives, nothing good has come of it,” I reply.
She shakes her head. “You’ve been so inside your head about Rena and then taking care of Lincoln, that I wasn’t sure how to tell you.”
“You can talk to me about anything at any time and you know that. I’m offended.”
“Don’t be offended, it’s just that, it’s also sort of weird. You know Stavros’ cousin, Vin? You met him when you were in Europe that one time that… you probably don’t remember well because we drank too much wine.”