Tamed
Page 33
Riding back into the city, we’re stopped at a red light. I know Delores enjoyed herself tonight, and I’m almost certain she has no problem spending the rest of it at my place.
But . . . I want to hear her say the words.
Women liked to be chased, want to be shown that they’re desired, needed—valued. And guys like me revel in the chasing—but only if catching is a possibility. I want Delores to admit—to acknowledge—that she’s caught. That she’s in this with me. That she wants it just as bad as I do.
I turn in my seat so I can see her face. “Do you want to call it . . . or are you gonna stay with me?”
My words are heavy with double meaning. And when her brows furrow with deliberation, I know she understands what I’m asking.
“Tell me this is you,” she demands softly. “Tell me this is . . . real.”
“This is as real as it gets, Dee.”
She mutters to herself. “What the hell . . .” Then she holds on to me tighter. “I want to stay with you.”
I grin—with relief and delight. Then I rev the engine and take us home.
Chapter 12
On Friday night, there’s an art show at one of my favorite galleries downtown—the Agora. For the upper crust of New York, art appreciation is like a girl going out for the cheerleading squad in high school. Often, it’s got very little to do with a love of the “sport,” and a whole lot to do with the status symbol.
But I actually enjoy art—beautiful paintings, interesting sculptures. Although I could do without performance and certain modern pieces—pissing in a jar and calling it art is not my idea of f**king talent.
I swing by Dee’s at seven, but I leave my bike at home. Delores told me she’s wearing a dress, so she’ll definitely prefer taking a cab to the gallery.
And what a dress it is. When she opens her apartment door, all I can do is stare. My mouth hangs open—drooling is definitely possible.
It’s sleeveless and short—accentuating her long, toned limbs. Bright blue and green geometric-dotted fabric covers her ample br**sts and the lower half of the dress. But the stomach and chest area are cut away, covered by a thin, sheer black material. I’ve never seen a dress like it—the definition of sexy.
Finally closing my mouth, I hold up the large bouquet of red roses I bought for her.
’Cause, yeah, I’m smooth like that.
Dee’s extremely grateful. Holding the roses in one hand, she trails the other down the lapel of my charcoal gray suit, over my stomach, and cups my junk in her hand.
It’s unexpected, but always a pleasant surprise.
“They’re beautiful. Thank you,” she whispers while stroking my dick, before pressing her strawberry-flavored lips to mine.
After she pulls back, I murmur, “The priceless art doesn’t seem so interesting anymore. Maybe we should just stay in?”
“Oh no, this is a dress that needs to be seen. And . . . you look way too hot in that suit to stay home.”
Can’t really argue with that.
Unlike the exhibitions at major museums like the Met, private gallery shows are smaller, more intimate affairs. Although it’s open to the public, typically only serious buyers attend, and the wine and hors d’oeuvres served by the white-gloved attendants are chosen specifically to cater to the expensive tastes of those patrons.
Both of us enjoy a glass of white wine as we peruse the photographs and paintings on the walls. The floors of the gallery are natural wood—the walls, stark white, with dramatic overhead lighting accenting each piece. Guests are scattered around the maze-like rooms, voicing their opinions of the works in hushed, pretentious tones. Delores and I are alone in one partitioned area, whose walls are dotted with vibrantly colored and variously sized canvases depicting a wide range of subjects.
“Which one’s your favorite?” I ask.
“Why? Are you going to buy one?”
The prices aren’t displayed, but I know from experience that any of these pieces will easily go for tens of thousands of dollars.
“Thinking about it.”
But that’s not why I asked.
Art preference is very personal, almost subconscious. It’s the same as learning if a guy prefers boxers, briefs, or going commando—art teaches a boatload about the kind of person you are.
Dee strolls the perimeter of the room, stopping in front of a painting of a white farmhouse on top of a hill, with a fiery red-and-orange sky on the horizon.
“Katie would like this one.”
“How come?”
She tilts her head. “It’s very neat—cozy and safe. But the sky . . . there’s kind of a wild side to it too.”
I point to a piece on the opposite wall. “Drew would go for that one.”
She glances at it. “Because it’s a picture of a naked woman?”
I chuckle. “Yes. And . . . because it doesn’t try to be something it’s not. It’s not a picture of a flower that’s really a vagina—like it or hate it, it is what it is. Drew’s a big fan of the direct approach.”
“Which one do you like best?” she asks.
Immediately I point to a Jackson Pollock that’s not for sale. It’s busy with splashes and swirls of every color against a black background. Dee approaches it, looking closer, as I tell her, “Looking at it never gets old—I see something new every time.” I glance back at Dee. “Which brings me back to my original question: Which one is your favorite?”
But . . . I want to hear her say the words.
Women liked to be chased, want to be shown that they’re desired, needed—valued. And guys like me revel in the chasing—but only if catching is a possibility. I want Delores to admit—to acknowledge—that she’s caught. That she’s in this with me. That she wants it just as bad as I do.
I turn in my seat so I can see her face. “Do you want to call it . . . or are you gonna stay with me?”
My words are heavy with double meaning. And when her brows furrow with deliberation, I know she understands what I’m asking.
“Tell me this is you,” she demands softly. “Tell me this is . . . real.”
“This is as real as it gets, Dee.”
She mutters to herself. “What the hell . . .” Then she holds on to me tighter. “I want to stay with you.”
I grin—with relief and delight. Then I rev the engine and take us home.
Chapter 12
On Friday night, there’s an art show at one of my favorite galleries downtown—the Agora. For the upper crust of New York, art appreciation is like a girl going out for the cheerleading squad in high school. Often, it’s got very little to do with a love of the “sport,” and a whole lot to do with the status symbol.
But I actually enjoy art—beautiful paintings, interesting sculptures. Although I could do without performance and certain modern pieces—pissing in a jar and calling it art is not my idea of f**king talent.
I swing by Dee’s at seven, but I leave my bike at home. Delores told me she’s wearing a dress, so she’ll definitely prefer taking a cab to the gallery.
And what a dress it is. When she opens her apartment door, all I can do is stare. My mouth hangs open—drooling is definitely possible.
It’s sleeveless and short—accentuating her long, toned limbs. Bright blue and green geometric-dotted fabric covers her ample br**sts and the lower half of the dress. But the stomach and chest area are cut away, covered by a thin, sheer black material. I’ve never seen a dress like it—the definition of sexy.
Finally closing my mouth, I hold up the large bouquet of red roses I bought for her.
’Cause, yeah, I’m smooth like that.
Dee’s extremely grateful. Holding the roses in one hand, she trails the other down the lapel of my charcoal gray suit, over my stomach, and cups my junk in her hand.
It’s unexpected, but always a pleasant surprise.
“They’re beautiful. Thank you,” she whispers while stroking my dick, before pressing her strawberry-flavored lips to mine.
After she pulls back, I murmur, “The priceless art doesn’t seem so interesting anymore. Maybe we should just stay in?”
“Oh no, this is a dress that needs to be seen. And . . . you look way too hot in that suit to stay home.”
Can’t really argue with that.
Unlike the exhibitions at major museums like the Met, private gallery shows are smaller, more intimate affairs. Although it’s open to the public, typically only serious buyers attend, and the wine and hors d’oeuvres served by the white-gloved attendants are chosen specifically to cater to the expensive tastes of those patrons.
Both of us enjoy a glass of white wine as we peruse the photographs and paintings on the walls. The floors of the gallery are natural wood—the walls, stark white, with dramatic overhead lighting accenting each piece. Guests are scattered around the maze-like rooms, voicing their opinions of the works in hushed, pretentious tones. Delores and I are alone in one partitioned area, whose walls are dotted with vibrantly colored and variously sized canvases depicting a wide range of subjects.
“Which one’s your favorite?” I ask.
“Why? Are you going to buy one?”
The prices aren’t displayed, but I know from experience that any of these pieces will easily go for tens of thousands of dollars.
“Thinking about it.”
But that’s not why I asked.
Art preference is very personal, almost subconscious. It’s the same as learning if a guy prefers boxers, briefs, or going commando—art teaches a boatload about the kind of person you are.
Dee strolls the perimeter of the room, stopping in front of a painting of a white farmhouse on top of a hill, with a fiery red-and-orange sky on the horizon.
“Katie would like this one.”
“How come?”
She tilts her head. “It’s very neat—cozy and safe. But the sky . . . there’s kind of a wild side to it too.”
I point to a piece on the opposite wall. “Drew would go for that one.”
She glances at it. “Because it’s a picture of a naked woman?”
I chuckle. “Yes. And . . . because it doesn’t try to be something it’s not. It’s not a picture of a flower that’s really a vagina—like it or hate it, it is what it is. Drew’s a big fan of the direct approach.”
“Which one do you like best?” she asks.
Immediately I point to a Jackson Pollock that’s not for sale. It’s busy with splashes and swirls of every color against a black background. Dee approaches it, looking closer, as I tell her, “Looking at it never gets old—I see something new every time.” I glance back at Dee. “Which brings me back to my original question: Which one is your favorite?”
