Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 80919 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 405(@200wpm)___ 324(@250wpm)___ 270(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80919 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 405(@200wpm)___ 324(@250wpm)___ 270(@300wpm)
“Are we sure she is actually going to show up?”
“I called her staff myself and told them you had arranged a special lunch and sent the car. I have no reason to think she won’t be there. They said she would be excited when I mentioned the Met.”
“Henry, what would I do without you?” I asked, stepping out of the elevator.
“Entertain the Irish mob and go home to a wife that despised you,” he said as we went out the front door.
He wasn’t wrong.
CHAPTER 19
LUC
We got to the Met, and Amelia’s car pulled up right behind mine.
I went to open her door, and she stepped out, stunning in a bright red sundress.
Its longer skirt hit just above her knees and the top was modest enough to be appropriate, but the elastic neck begged for someone to yank it down to expose her generous tits. I had been mostly joking with myself about fucking her in the bathroom. The idea of someone else being able to walk in made that a non-starter.
Maybe if today went well, I would get the chance to take her somewhere more private.
Not in the limo.
This time I would bring her back to my place and take my time worshiping her body.
She knew how I fucked when I was angry and ravenous.
This date was about showing her a different side of me.
I offered my arm, and she linked hers with mine while we headed up the steps.
“How did you get us a private showing of the Manet/Degas exhibit?” she asked. “It doesn’t open to the public for another week.”
I had no idea how Henry had managed any of this.
“Darling, you are no longer the ‘general public,’” I said as we entered the large stone building. Henry was waiting just inside the door to give us a moment of privacy.
“Right, this way miss, sir.” He led us past several exhibits and through the European art room to a special exhibit room.
It had been cordoned off with a velvet rope and a large tarp, explaining the exhibit was under construction.
Henry unclipped the rope and pushed the tarp aside to let us step in.
Amelia gasped, taking in the room, and even I had to admit that Henry had outdone himself.
The exhibit had been finished, and the art was all displayed. A small table had been set up on one side of the room with an ice bucket and a bottle of champagne, as well as a display of perfectly red strawberries.
A man in a tuxedo stood next to the table with a white cloth over his arm. He poured the two champagne flutes and brought them to Amelia and me. She didn’t even notice. She was transfixed by a painting of a naked young woman lounging on a chaise, with her maid offering flowers and a little black cat by her feet.
“Olympia,” she said. “This painting has never been displayed in the US before. Isn’t it incredible?”
“Stunning,” I said, looking at her more than the art.
The way her lips parted as she was transfixed was one of the sexiest things I had ever seen. There was more than just an appreciation for something beautiful, or expensive. Most of the women I had known would love this because it would make them feel special and cultured.
Amelia was different. She looked like she was in awe of the art.
Not the special access, not the waitstaff here to serve her, not even the Dom and strawberries. Not even me taking time from my work to indulge her. The rest of this could disappear, and she would still have that expression of wonder.
I handed her the champagne flute which she took and just held while taking in the Impressionist masterpieces.
While she examined the art, I examined her.
There was a lot more to this girl than I had given her credit for, and I worried that if I wasn’t careful, the damage I had already done would become a permanent crack between us.
When Henry signaled to me that lunch was served at the small table, I pulled her away from the paintings and guided her to the table and chairs. I even pulled her seat out for her and lifted the silver dome to reveal a light lunch of poached salmon with butter, roasted asparagus, and rice pilaf.
“Tell me which painting is your favorite?” I asked, taking the side across from her and removing the dome off my plate.
“I don’t know,” she said, stabbing a spear of asparagus. “They are all so beautiful.”
“Surely you have a preference between Degas and Manet?”
“Not really.” She gave me a dreamy smile. “Do you have a favorite?”
“Honestly, I haven’t really looked,” I admitted with a shrug.
“What do you mean? What have you been doing all this time?”
“Watching you take in the art.” I took a bite of my salmon. “I enjoy watching you look at things you admire. I hope one day I can be counted among them.”