Art Show

Lana Reyes

The gallery smelled like varnish and ambition.

Tonight was Mark’s night, and for once, the universe seemed to know it. The Greenwich Gallery—glass and steel and art-world pedigree—stood like a temple to talent. Inside, light spilled from elegant sconces, catching the edges of wine glasses and whispered conversations. The space pulsed with cultured energy, with the soft click of Louboutin heels and the low hum of praise from Manhattan’s elite.

Mark’s work was everywhere—raw, vibrant canvases that hit like emotion cracked open and spilled wide. His colors didn’t ask for attention, they demanded it. You couldn’t look at his art without feeling something.

I watched him from across the room—shoulders square, jaw tense with that telltale flicker of nerves he thought he hid so well. He looked… ridiculously good. The white shirt he’d agonized over hugged his frame perfectly, sleeves pushed to the elbows, exposing tanned forearms smudged faintly with paint. His brown hair fell in soft waves over his brow, and his eyes—stormy blue and shining with disbelief—met mine with a look that made my chest ache.

God, I was proud of him. Of us.

He was steady where I was chaos. Soft where I was sharp. There was no pretense in him—just grit and heart and talent. He’d sacrificed everything for this, and now here he was, surrounded by critics and collectors and art-world gatekeepers whispering about him like he was the next Basquiat.

“Lana,” he murmured, pulling me in by the waist when I reached him. His hands were warm and familiar, and his kiss—quick and soft against my cheek—made me feel like the most important person in the room. “Can you believe this is real?”

My throat tightened. “Yes,” I said. “Because you’re real. And you’re fucking brilliant.”

He gave me that crooked, boyish grin that always knocked the air from my lungs. “You kept me sane through all of it. All those nights I thought about giving up, quitting—you dragged me through it.”

I smiled through the sting of unshed tears. “It’s not dragging if I believe in it more than you do.”

We stood there for a moment, wrapped in the buzz of it all. I could feel the energy of the room orbiting around him—around us—but for a second, it was just me and Mark. He held my hand like a tether, like I was his anchor in a storm of praise, and maybe I was. He didn’t want to own the world. He just wanted a place in it.

The curator, a sleek woman in a dramatic black suit, raised her glass and called for quiet.

“Tonight,” she said, “we celebrate not just an artist—but a voice. A man who bleeds onto the canvas in color, in light, in shadow.”

She went on—elegant, practiced praise—but I barely heard it. I was watching Mark as he listened to someone else tell the world what I’d known for years: that he was remarkable.

When the toast ended, applause erupted like champagne, bright and buoyant and loud. Mark turned to me, eyes shining, and leaned in.

“I feel like I’m dreaming,” he whispered.

“You’re not,” I said. “You earned this.”

He kissed me then—right there in the middle of the gallery—and it wasn’t just gratitude. It was us. All the long nights. All the sacrifice. All the hope.

Later, as I walked the perimeter of the room, catching snippets of conversations about brushstrokes and emotional depth, I felt it again—that swell of something real and solid in my chest. Mark was everything I wanted the world to be: beautiful and raw and unflinchingly honest.

And maybe, just for tonight, everything felt possible.

Even peace.

Even forever.

I felt it before I saw him.

That low hum in the air. The shift in pressure. The way the air sharpened around me. Like it knew before I did.. I didn’t have to turn around to know Nathan Cross had arrived.

And yet—I did.

He entered the gallery like he owned it. Because, of course, he did.

Mark and I stood near one of the large canvases, his arm wrapped loosely around my waist, surrounded by a crowd of patrons murmuring praise about his work. But as soon as Nathan stepped into the room, everything else blurred. The sound dimmed. My breath hitched.

He looked like every sinful thought I’d ever buried. Charcoal suit tailored within an inch of his life, the dark silk of his shirt unbuttoned just enough to hint at the ridged muscle beneath. His hair—black, slightly tousled, devil-may-care—was criminally perfect. And those ice-blue eyes? Already locked on me.

He didn’t need to be announced. His presence unfurled like smoke—suffocating and unmistakable. He didn’t enter the gallery. He claimed it. Commanding. Calculated. Dangerous.

Mark followed my gaze, his brows pulling into a small crease of confusion. “Friend of yours?”

I hesitated. My mouth opened, but my tongue caught the truth before it could spill.

“Mr. Cross,” I said evenly. “He owns the club I work at. Vortex.” I glanced at Mark and added, a touch too quickly, “He’s...kind of a big deal in the tech world.”

Nathan approached with all the calm menace of a panther, his smirk slow and deliberate. “You make me sound so dull, Lana.”

My pulse skipped.

“Mark,” I said, forcing lightness into my voice, “this is Nathan Cross. Nathan, my boyfriend, Mark Bradford—the artist whose work you’re admiring tonight.”

Mark extended a polite hand. Nathan took it with a firm grip, his eyes never leaving mine.

“Big night,” Nathan said, the corner of his mouth curving. “You’ve got quite the eye, Mark. I’ve seen every piece in this room.”

“I appreciate that,” Mark replied, stiffly. “It means a lot coming from someone like you.”

Nathan’s gaze flicked back to me, slow and deliberate. “Yes... well. I have a personal interest in this gallery. I fund it.”

The words hit like a slap. I felt my blood run cold.

“Excuse me?” I said, barely hiding the edge in my voice.

His smirk deepened. “Greenwich is one of several cultural investments I’ve made recently. You didn’t know?” He tilted his head. “Strange. You work so close to power, yet still miss the bigger picture.”

Mark looked between us, confused, his smile faltering just enough to make my stomach twist. Sweet, trusting Mark. Too polite to ask why the temperature in the room had dropped ten degrees the second he walked in.

“I’m going to grab some champagne,” I said, voice tight, brittle at the edges. “Be right back.”

I turned before Mark could respond, heels clicking too quickly across the polished floor. I didn’t need to look over my shoulder—because if I did, it would be admitting I wanted to.

That oppressive heat. That insufferable gravity. That maddening pull that only came from one person.

Nathan Cross.

I made it to the bar, sucked in a breath like it might steady me, and reached for a glass.

Of course, it wasn’t that easy.

A shadow fell across the marble like a threat, and I didn’t have to look to know.

“You don’t belong here,” I muttered.

“Neither do you,” he said behind me, smooth and low. “And yet, here we are.”

I turned to face him, stupidly, because I should’ve known better. His presence was suffocating. Too close. Too much. The scent of him—dark, rich, expensive—wrapped around me like a vice.

“Was this your plan?” I snapped. “Buying the gallery just to ruin Mark’s night?”

He gave a quiet, almost pitying laugh. “Lana. I’ve owned this gallery since before you knew how to pronounce his last name.”

I stiffened.

“You knew I’d be here,” I accused, my voice a blade.

He didn’t deny it. Just took a lazy sip of his drink, ice-blue eyes steady on mine.

“I hoped,” he said simply. “And I wasn’t disappointed.”

I clenched my jaw, fury boiling up fast. “Why?” I hissed. “Why do this? Is it fun for you? Making me look over my shoulder? Watching me pretend I don’t see you?”

He stepped in closer, and my lungs forgot how to work.

“I don’t get anything out of this,” he murmured, eyes on my mouth like it was already his. “Except the satisfaction of watching you lie to yourself. Every time you look at him like you believe it.”

I slammed my glass down so hard it rattled.

“You’re disgusting.”

“And yet,” he said, voice dipping, slow and smug, “you still walked over here. Alone.”

The flush hit me fast. Shame. Heat. Something darker curled low in my belly. My body was betraying me, again—just like it always did around him. And he knew it. He counted on it.

“You really have a God complex,” I bit out, trying to laugh, trying to breathe.

Nathan leaned in, and I froze.

His breath kissed the shell of my ear, voice a silk-wrapped sin.

“No, Lana. Gods ask for permission. I don’t.”

I spun away like he’d burned me—because he had. Not with touch. With words. With presence. With that knowing smile that said he’d already won something I hadn’t even meant to give.

I made it back to Mark’s side before my knees could give out. Smiled. Kissed his cheek. Let the photographer snap the perfect, supportive girlfriend picture. And still—still—I could feel Nathan’s stare pressed into my spine.

Like a hand. Like a claim.

I shouldn’t want him.

I knew better.

But every nerve in my body remembered what it felt like to be wanted like that.

God help me.

I did.

And worse—I wasn’t sure I could stop.

The hum of conversation faded into background static. Champagne flutes clinked. Laughter rose and fell in well-rehearsed waves. Somewhere across the gallery, Mark’s voice floated above it all, bright and unguarded.

I tried to focus on it. I really did.

I was supposed to be here. Smiling. Proud. The devoted girlfriend of the man whose name was now inked in silver foil and framed by spotlights. And I was proud. Mark had earned every second of this moment.

But beneath the surface, I was burning.

I moved through the crowd like smoke, drifting from one polite exchange to the next, the corners of my mouth aching from a smile I no longer remembered how to drop. Mark stood with critics and collectors, beaming like someone who’d finally found the light switch after years in the dark.

He deserved this.

And I felt like I was suffocating in my own skin.

I veered toward my favorite piece—one of Mark’s oldest. A jagged explosion of oil and frustration that bled off the canvas like a wound. He’d named it Restraint, which was ironic, considering how violently alive it felt.

My fingers hovered inches from the dried paint, aching for something. Anything.

And then I felt him.

Not with touch. Not with words. Just the unmistakable shift in the air. Like gravity tilting. Like a storm moving in.

Nathan.

His presence slid across my spine like a whisper made of heat and silk. My pulse stuttered.

“Fitting,” he murmured behind me, his voice low and sinful. “You always gravitate to the ones about control.”

I didn’t turn around.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

A pause. A heartbeat.

Then I felt him move closer. The subtle brush of his suit against my bare arm. The warmth of him radiating into me like a secret I didn’t ask to keep.

“I fund this gallery, Lana,” he said, that arrogant edge laced with amusement. “I belong here more than you do.”

My jaw clenched. The air felt too thick. My skin too tight.

“This piece…” he said, voice thoughtful now. “It’s begging for surrender.”

I turned then—too fast. And instantly regretted it.

Up close, Nathan was a goddamn weapon.

Black suit, tailored to destroy. Collar open, hinting at skin I had no business looking at. His jaw, sculpted and smug. And those eyes—glacial, focused, already pulling me apart.

“You came here to provoke me,” I snapped. “That’s it, isn’t it?”

“No,” he said, lips curling into something sharp and dangerous. “That’s just dessert.”

Before I could blink, he reached for my glass. Took it. Set it aside like it offended him. Then his fingers brushed mine—light, slow, criminal.

“Come with me,” he said softly. “To the restroom.”

I blinked. “I’m sorry, what the fuck did you just say?”

He didn’t even flinch. “Two minutes. I won’t unbutton your dress.”

My stomach dropped. My legs nearly buckled. Rage collided with something hotter.

“You’re disgusting,” I hissed.

“And you’re wet,” he replied, voice so quiet it felt like it was inside my head.

I opened my mouth to slap him with words, to tear him apart—but my body got there first. My thighs clenched. My breath hitched. The moan caught in my throat was pure betrayal.

He stepped even closer. His hand ghosted along the small of my back. His lips brushed my ear, and I nearly came undone.

“No cameras. No crowd. Just you,” he whispered. “Breathing hard. Begging to be touched.”

I was on the verge of snapping—of breaking into a thousand pieces just from the pressure of wanting him—when a hand landed gently on my shoulder.

Like ice water.

“There you are!”

Mark.

His voice shattered the fog. He looked radiant, glowing, unaware of the wildfire I’d nearly let consume me. He grinned as he pulled me toward him, completely oblivious to the man who had just tried to wreck me in the middle of a goddamn gallery.

“All my pieces sold,” Mark said, breathless. “Every single one. An anonymous buyer. Can you believe that?”

My stomach turned to stone.

Oh, I could believe it.

Because he was standing right behind me.

And I didn’t even have to look to know Nathan Cross was still there.

Watching.

Waiting.

Owning.

“That’s… incredible,” I said, the words barely making it past my throat. They caught somewhere between guilt and nausea.

I smiled. Or tried to. The muscles in my face felt like they were tearing.

Mark didn’t notice. He was too high on adrenaline, drunk on the rush of finally being seen. Of being chosen. His joy lit up the entire gallery. I wanted to feel it with him. I did.

But all I could feel was fire under my skin.

“I’ve got to go sign paperwork with the curator,” he said, brushing a streak of hair out of his eyes. “Probably a couple hours of red tape, but who cares, right?”

I opened my mouth to say something. Anything. Maybe that I’d stay. That I’d wait. That I needed to stand beside him and not—

“I’ll drive her home.”

His voice. Smooth. Certain. Poison dressed as silk.

I froze.

Nathan Cross didn’t ask. He didn’t offer. He decided.

Mark turned, eyes lighting up like Nathan had just offered him a lifetime of good press. “Really? That’d be amazing. Thanks, man.”

“I can get home myself,” I snapped, sharper than I meant to. But not as sharp as I wanted.

Nathan’s gaze moved to me, slow and lethal. “It’s no trouble,” he said, soft but commanding. His eyes swept over my face like they already knew what I wouldn’t admit out loud. “I insist.”

And it wasn’t a suggestion. It never was with him.

My mouth opened, but nothing came out. No witty retort. No excuse.

Mark kissed my cheek, oblivious. Floating. “Don’t wait up,” he whispered.

And then he was gone.

Swallowed by a crowd that now adored him. That applauded him. That had no idea the man funding his rise was already laying claim to the woman at his side.

I turned back to Nathan, hate clawing its way up my throat. He didn’t smirk. He didn’t need to. The glint in his eyes said it all.

He’d won. And we both knew it.

“You planned this,” I whispered, the fury behind my ribs sharp enough to cut bone.

Nathan stepped closer, his voice low and silk-strangled. “I made an investment.” His gaze never wavered. “Call it support for the arts.”

My stomach twisted. “You bought everything,” I said. The words trembled.

“Because I could.”

So simple. So fucking arrogant.

His eyes raked over me, slow and shameless, lighting a fire in places I didn’t want to acknowledge.

“Shall we?” he asked, motioning toward the exit like he was holding a leash.

I should’ve slapped him.

I should’ve screamed, run, torn the whole gallery down around us.

But I didn’t.

Because my feet—my traitorous, cowardly feet—moved.

And I hated how easy it was.

And Nathan Cross held the door open like the gentleman he wasn’t.

He didn’t need to lock the cage.

I was already inside.

The car was too quiet.

The hum of the gallery was still in my blood—laughter, champagne, applause—but it felt distant now. Muted. Like it belonged to a life I wasn’t allowed to touch anymore.

Nathan’s town car was dim, silent, intimate in the worst way. The kind of quiet that made you aware of your own breathing. Your own guilt. Your own pulse.

The door shut with a soft click, but it echoed like a slammed decision.

He slid in beside me, settling into the leather with obscene ease. His posture loose, legs spread, presence absolute. The scent of him—expensive and dark, threaded with something sharp—wrapped around me like a memory I couldn’t scrub off my skin.

I stared straight ahead.

I didn’t look at him.

I couldn’t.

“You didn’t have to offer me a ride,” I said, tone flat, dry as dust. “I’ve taken the train before. Shocking, I know.”

Nathan didn’t even glance over. Just leaned back into the leather like he owned the world—and the sin sitting next to him.

“Not a fan of you on the subway at midnight,” he said smoothly. “There’s only so much self-control I have, Lana.”

That earned him a look. Sharp. Dangerous.

“Oh? And what exactly are you barely restraining yourself from doing right now?”

His smile was lazy, edged with menace. “From tasting you.”

A pulse snapped low in my stomach. I hated the way it hit me. Hated how fast my breath caught.

“You’re not subtle.” My voice came out tight.

“I’m not trying to be.” His gaze dropped to my mouth, lingered. When it lifted again, it was darker. Hungrier. “You want subtle? Pick someone else. You want honest? Then stop pretending.”

I crossed my arms, nails biting into my skin.

“I have a boyfriend.”

He didn’t blink. “Then tell me to stop.”

I should’ve. I wanted to. But then his hand moved—slow and certain—brushing the bare skin above my knee. Just a whisper of touch, deliberate enough to steal my breath.

“Tell me to stop, Lana,” he said, his voice pitched low, just for me. “Right now. One word and I walk away. No games.”

My heart was pounding. Every nerve on high alert. My skin practically buzzed under his palm. My body made the decision before my brain could catch up—legs shifting, parting slightly, like I was offering him the wreckage of my will.

I turned to him, every bit of me taut and trembling.

And I hated it.

And I wanted more.

“Touch me,” I whispered.

A choice. My mistake.

His eyes lit up—feral heat beneath a veneer of control—and then his hand was sliding beneath the hem of my dress, pushing silk higher, inch by devastating inch.

His fingers found my inner thigh, slow and reverent, like he wanted the ache. Wanted me writhing.

“You’re shaking,” he murmured.

“You’re cocky,” I managed, breathless.

He laughed, dark and low, before leaning in close, lips grazing my ear. “You’ve been wet for me since I walked into that fucking gallery. Don’t lie now.”

His fingers slipped between my thighs—and I arched, helpless and furious with how fast he unraveled me. My hips chased his hand like they had no shame. And maybe they didn’t. Maybe I didn’t.

“Jesus,” he growled, mouth brushing hot against my jaw. “You’re soaked.”

His fingers moved like he already knew every inch of me. Like this wasn’t seduction—it was inevitability. He touched me with the calm of someone who’d been waiting for this moment to explode since the second he saw me.

And I hated him for knowing it would.

His fingers circled with maddening precision—just shy of what I needed. Drawing it out. Cruel. Deliberate. He was pulling me apart, one gasp at a time.

“You like this?” he murmured, voice thick and full of sin.

My breath hitched. My body arched into his palm.

“Yes,” I gasped, furious with myself.

“Say it.”

I clenched my jaw, teeth grinding, heat crawling up my neck like shame made of fire. My thighs trembled. My hands fisted in my lap. I was unraveling, and he knew it—was watching it.

I wanted to lie.

I wanted to slap him.

But I was too far gone.

“I like it,” I whispered, venom laced into the surrender.

“Say you want it.”

I looked at him then—really looked at him. That infuriating calm. That maddening smirk. The hunger in his eyes masked by perfect control. He wanted power. Ownership. Worship.

And I wouldn’t give it to him without a fight.

“Fuck you,” I hissed, breath catching.

Then softer, broken from the inside out—

“I want it.”

His eyes darkened. That smirk flickered. His control held—but barely.

That was all he needed.

His mouth crashed against mine, all heat and teeth, desperate and furious. I kissed him back like I wanted to punish him. Like I wanted to drown in him. My hands tangled in his shirt, pulling, clawing, like I could get even a little bit of control back.

Too late.

And when I came—biting back the cry, legs trembling, chest heaving—I did it in his hand. In the back of his car. Like some cautionary tale with too much pride and not enough self-restraint.

He held me through it, mouth against my ear, whispering filth I couldn’t process, only feel.

When it was over, I sagged against the seat, stunned. Drenched in sweat. Shame. Need.

Nathan leaned back just enough to look at me, calm as ever. Satisfied. Infuriatingly put-together.

“You’re going to be the death of me,” I said hoarsely.

He reached over, brushed hair from my cheek with a tenderness that made me flinch.

“No, sweetheart,” he said. “You’ll survive me. But you won’t come out the same.”

And God help me—I believed him.

When the car pulled up outside my building, I didn’t speak. Couldn’t. My legs still trembled. My skin still buzzed where he’d touched me.

Nathan didn’t press. He didn’t gloat. He just sat there—watching me like a man who knew exactly what he’d done.

I opened the door.

The night air hit me like a slap—cool, sharp, laced with just enough bite to pretend it could sober me up. It didn’t.

My legs still trembled as I stepped onto the curb, the heat between my thighs a sick, pulsing reminder of what I’d just let happen. What I’d asked for.

I didn’t look back.

Couldn’t.

Because if I saw him sitting there—composed, smug, satisfied—I might crawl right back in and let him ruin me all over again.

I made it upstairs on autopilot. Fumbling keys. Shaking fingers. The lock clicked like a loaded gun.

The apartment was quiet. Still. Mark wouldn’t be home for hours.

I shut the door behind me and exhaled for what felt like the first time in years.

Then I slid down the wood like it had punched me in the spine. Purse hit the floor. Knees followed.

What the fuck did I just do?

My panties were still soaked. My thighs still sticky with him. The scent of arousal clung to my skin like a confession I hadn’t meant to write. Shame crawled up the back of my neck and settled behind my eyes, hot and unrelenting.

But worse than the shame?

Was the ache.

Because even now, hours later, I still wanted more.

I yanked off my coat, kicked off my heels like they’d betrayed me. The apartment felt too small, too quiet, every corner echoing with the sound of Nathan’s voice in my ear, his fingers between my thighs, the way he’d said don’t lie to me while I shattered against him.

I stumbled into the bathroom, desperate for heat. For pain. For something to burn him off my skin.

The shower hissed to life. I stripped fast—too fast—and stepped under water that scalded my shoulders and still didn’t feel hot enough.

I pressed my forehead to the tile. Breathed. Let the steam curl around me like penance.

But my mind was already slipping.

Back to him.

His mouth. His breath. That filthy whisper—you’ve been wet for me since I walked into that fucking gallery.

He wasn’t wrong.

And my body remembered it all too easily. A pulse low and insistent. My nipples tightened. My thighs shifted. Shame tightened its grip, but I still couldn’t stop the way my body reacted—like he was still touching me.

Pathetic.

The scent of arousal clung to my skin like a confession I hadn’t meant to write.

And no matter how I scrubbed, it wouldn’t come off.

I was supposed to be better than this. Stronger. I had a boyfriend. A future. A life I was clawing toward, brick by brick.

Mark was safe.

Nathan was anything but.

He was sex and destruction, wrapped in a three-piece suit and an ego sharp enough to carve up everything I’d built. And I’d let him in. I’d opened the door and handed him the knife.

I scrubbed harder.

But all I could see was that painting—Restraint—bleeding off the canvas like a scream. I had stood in front of it, aching for something.

Now I knew what.

I had become it.

Held together by the same frayed edges. Torn open and wanting. A masterpiece of surrender masquerading as control.

When I finally stepped out, the mirror was a wall of fog—thick, suffocating. I wiped it with the back of my hand and stared.

My reflection looked like a stranger.

Lips swollen. Cheeks flushed. Eyes wide and glassy, rimmed with guilt and something darker. Something needier.

I didn’t look like a woman with control. I looked like a girl who’d just been wrecked in the back seat of a car by a man she had no business wanting.

And the worst part?

The part I couldn’t escape, couldn’t drown or burn or scrub away?

Was that I’d liked it.

God help me.

I liked it.

And I knew deep down—he hadn’t just touched me.

He’d painted me.

And now I belonged in that gallery, too.

Right next to Restraint.