Page 91 of Worth Every Penny
“Come on, let’s get dressed,” I say, pulling away, but she touches my face with a fingertip.
“Nico, wait.” I look up at her from between her legs. “Does this mean I belong to you?”
“I thought we covered that.” I smirk and she blushes. “Why do you ask?”
“That’s what you said, back at Mum’s house. ‘When I sleep with you’”—she does a curiously deep voice as she impersonates me—“‘it’ll be because I’m the only man you want. Because you need me more than anyone else. Because you belong to me.’”
The tightness in my chest loosens and I sit up, frowning. “You remember exactly what I said?”
“I remember everything you say.”
An odd skittering occurs behind my ribs. Why does hearing her admit that feel so fucking good? “I wouldn’t want to assume anything about the other stuff, but to answer your first question…” I crawl over and kiss her. “Yes. Of course, you belong to me. You’re mine. Absolutely, indisputably, mine. And not just for the duration of the flight.”
At this, she smiles wider than I’ve ever seen, and a curious warmth floods my lower belly.
I am completely screwed, and I don’t even care.
Spending time with Kate is intoxicating. I’m high off her presence, her touch, her scent. I’m trying to enjoy it rather than think about it, because if I do it’ll be fucking terrifying.
We had lunch at a low-key bistro that was so romantic I’m surprised at myself. This is shit I haven’t done for anyone.
Afterwards, we wander hand in hand through the balmy streets of Paris. It’s idyllic. I’ve never had a better day than this one. Most of the time I need a goal, an objective, something to fucking aim at that feels like an achievement. But here, with Kate, I need none of that. Having her is enough.
She gives my hand a tight squeeze. “When are we going to your apartment? I smell like sex. I need to shower.”
I laugh and nuzzle her hair, deliberately inhaling her scent. I don’t know what she’s fussing about because she smells like coconut shampoo and floral perfume. “You smell wonderful. But if you do want that shower, we only have one more stop before we can go to the apartment.”
“Are you deliberately making me wait all day to get you into bed again?”
“We’ve got all night for that.” Her enthusiasm delights me and I tap the tip of her nose. “And tomorrow.”
She leans into me as we continue to walk and finally, I guide us down a side street to a small art gallery. There aren’t many tourists around, but the gallery is beautifully lit, and inside there are smartly dressed people drinking champagne.
We stop outside and Kate stares through the glass windows. “What’s this?”
“This is why we’re in Paris.” I take her hand and lead her inside. A waitress dressed in black offers us champagne and we both take a glass. Kate arches a brow, like she’s giving me an opportunity to refuse it as I did on the flight.
“Drunk sex. Sober sex. I’m good with it all,” I tell her, tilting my glass to hers. “As long as it’s with you.”
She drops my gaze like it’s too heavy and takes a sip of her champagne, but her brows lift as she notices what’s around us. “These are all Stephen Condar paintings.”
“Yup." I force my voice to sound casual, as if I haven't been desperate to surprise her with this all day. "He’s here, too.” I gesture with my glass towards a grey-haired man in the corner, chatting to a couple of other guests.
“He who?”
“Stephen Condar.”
Kate’s jaw drops open. “I thought he never left his house? He hasn’t had an exhibition since before my dad died. How on earth did you find out about this?”
She turns to look at me, wide-eyed with wonder.
“This isn’t an exhibition,” I say. “It’s a private collection.”
She rests a hand over her heart. "Oh, wow. I can't believe you brought me here. This is so thoughtful. I… I don't know what to say." She scans the paintings in admiration. “Thesemust be worth a fortune. Who owns this many Stephen Condar paintings?”
She evidently doesn’t expect an answer, or is too excited to wait for one, because she immediately spins on the spot to take in the room; each wall displays a handful of black-framed pictures. The curator’s done a wonderful job. The lighting is magical, each picture illuminated in shafts of gold that fall from above.
“That one was Dad’s favourite.” Kate points at a painting of a beautiful young woman curled up in a window seat, reading a book. There’s a candle in the forefront and moonlight streams through the window behind. It’s a quaint image—old-fashioned even though the woman is wearing jeans and a t-shirt, one bare foot dangling off the seat.