LOGINQuentin did not give her time to change her mind. The moment the words left her mouth, his hands tightened on her hips and he pulled her flush against him. The hard length of him pressed between her legs through his trousers. Verity’s breath caught. She could feel how much he wanted her, and the knowledge sent a fresh wave of heat through her body. He kissed her again — deeper this time, then slower, as if he intended to take his time tasting every part of her mouth. One hand stayed buried in her hair, holding her exactly where he wanted. The other slid higher under her dress until his palm rested against the bare skin of her thigh. When he finally broke the kiss, both of them were breathing harder. “Look at me, Verity,” he said. Verity opened her eyes. His gray-blue gaze was dark and focused entirely on her. “I want you,” he said quietly. “Right here. In this room. On this table if I have to. Tell me you want the same.” She swallowed. “I do.” Something satisfied and possess
By the time Verity reached the studio, the locked doors upstairs were already fading from her mind. Sunlight poured through the glass walls. The ocean stretched blue and calm beyond the estate. Quentin had prepared everything she needed during their last stay, and the sight of the clean canvases and open paint boxes made her smile. She was squeezing color onto a palette when Quentin walked in carrying two cups of coffee. “You may stay,” she said. He set one cup beside her. “How generous.” “I was thinking of throwing you out.” “Of my own studio?” She turned slowly. “Your studio?” Quentin corrected himself at once. “Your studio.” She handed him a clean palette. “We’re using oils. Alla prima.” He picked up a brush without hesitation. “Fine with me.” Verity stopped. “How do you know that term?” “I’ve painted before.” “A little?” “For years.” She stared at him. “And you never told me?” “You never asked.” Something warm and competitive lit inside her. “Then show me.” They
After their shared bath, Quentin could not completely push their conversation from his mind. He stood near the balcony doors while Verity finished getting ready, thinking again about the way her body stiffened when he asked what she would do if he no longer wanted their marriage to end. He expected hesitation. Verity rarely gave him anything easily when emotions were involved. What he did not expect was how quickly she tried to escape the subject altogether. There was one thing Quentin had come to understand about his wife. Verity was difficult when it came to matters of the heart. She could argue with him openly about almost anything else. She could challenge him, tease him, become angry with him, or tell him exactly when she thought he was being unreasonable. But whenever the conversation moved toward what she truly felt, she seemed to build a wall around herself. Quentin did not blame her entirely. The people who should have taught Verity that love was safe had done the opp
Verity remained frozen for a second after Quentin’s sleepy voice interrupted her thoughts. “Thinking of me?” His eyes were still closed, but the faint smile on his lips told her he was fully awake. “No.” The answer came far too quickly. Quentin opened one eye. “Interesting.” Verity frowned. “What?” “You answered before I finished asking.” “I knew what you were going to say.” “So you were thinking about me.” “I was thinking about breakfast.” He opened both eyes now and turned toward her, clearly entertained. “While staring at my face?” Verity opened her mouth. Then she closed it. Finally she spoke. “I was not staring.” “Okay then.” He concluded. Verity pressed her lips together, trying not to laugh. Quentin shifted closer beneath the covers and rested one arm across her waist. “Tell me what you were thinking.” “Not again.” She said. “That usually means something very important.” Verity rolled her eyes. “Why do you always have an answer for everything?” “Years of e
It was well past midnight when Quentin finally returned to the Sapphire Coastline Estate. The entire house was silent except for the low sound of the television coming from the living room. He loosened his tie as he walked farther inside, already expecting everyone to be asleep, but the moment he entered the living room, he stopped. Verity was curled up on the sofa beneath a light throw blanket. One arm was tucked beneath her head, her dark hair falling loosely around her face while the television continued playing in front of her. She was completely asleep. For a few seconds, Quentin simply stood there looking at her. Something warm settled inside his chest as he realized what must have happened. He told her earlier that he would be home late and even asked her not to wait for him. She could have gone upstairs to bed, yet somehow, she ended up falling asleep right there in the living room. She waited for him. A small smile appeared on his lips as he walked toward her. H
Judith Sinclair was losing patience as she sat across Kingsley’s lap in the private sitting room of his Los Angeles residence, one arm resting around his shoulders while her fingers played lazily with the collar of his shirt. Once, getting his attention required almost nothing. A look. A touch. A private message telling him where to meet her. Kingsley always responded. But tonight, his mind seemed to be somewhere else entirely. Judith leaned closer and kissed his jaw. But no reaction. She moved toward his mouth. Kingsley turned his head. Then she stopped. “What is wrong with you?” “Nothing.” “That is obviously a lie.” She moved from his lap and sat beside him. Kingsley reached for the glass on the table. Judith watched him drink. “This has been happening for weeks.” He said nothing. “Every time I touch you, you act as though I’m bothering you.” Kingsley placed the glass down. “Maybe you are.” Her expression hardened. “Excuse me?” “You heard me.” Judith stared at him
Verity stood in the kitchen of the Central Park West penthouse, stirring a pot of pasta she had no intention of eating. The simple act of cooking had always calmed her, but tonight the sauce simmered untouched while her mind refused to quiet. She had spent the entire day trying to push yesterday’s
Verity barely remembered the drive from her parents’ house. The moment she got home, the tears she had held back finally broke free. She sat still in her car in the driveway, sobbing so hard her chest hurt. Her phone rang. It was Monica. “Vee? Where are you? I’ve been calling you for hours.” The
Verity pulled up to the grand Sinclair family home at Marpleton Drive in Bel Air just after sunset. The sprawling Mediterranean-style mansion glowed warmly under landscaped lights, but tonight it felt more like a battlefield than a sanctuary. She sat in the car for a long moment, gripping the steer
Verity Langford stood near the center of the gallery, smoothing down the front of her black silk dress for what felt like the hundredth time. Soft lighting illuminated her paintings on the white walls of West 24th Street in Chelsea. This was her first exhibition in two years, and the turnout had be







