"I can't stop thinking about you."
Aria looked up from the Degas she'd been examining. Marcus stood in the doorway of the gallery.
"You're supposed to be working," she said.
"So are you." He walked toward her. "But I keep finding excuses to check on your progress."
"Is that what you're calling it?" She asked.
"I came in here because I wanted to see you. I've been sitting in meetings thinking about you instead of listening to reports. I could still smell your perfume long after you were gone."
Her pulse rose. She'd changed perfumes this morning. Something darker, more expensive. The kind of scent that lingered.
"I thought you said the last one was distracting." She said.
"I said, don't wear the other one." His eyes moved over her slowly. "I didn't say stop being distracting altogether. That would be impossible."
Aria set down the documentation she'd been holding. "Marcus…"
"Have dinner with me tonight." He said suddenly.
"We work together, remember?" She said.
"I'm aware." He moved closer. "Have dinner with me anyway."
She should say no. Should maintain professional distance. But standing this close to him, feeling the pull between them, all her careful planning felt like it was dissolving.
"Where?" she asked.
"My place. I'll cook." He said.
"You cook?" Aria asked
"I could surprise you," he said. His hand came up, fingers brushing along her jawline. "Say yes, Elena."
The way he said her name did something to her insides. She found herself nodding before she could think better of it.
"Yes."
He smiled. "Eight o'clock. Don't be late."
He left her standing in the gallery with her heart racing and her skin still tingling where he'd touched her.
—---------------------------
Aria changed outfits more than three times before settling on a black dress that hugged her curves without being obvious about it. Simple. Elegant. Easy to remove.
She shoved that last thought away and focused on her breathing. This was just dinner. A chance to get closer to him, to build trust. Exactly what she was supposed to be doing.
The fact that her hands were shaking had nothing to do with nerves. Or want. Or the way her body had responded when he'd touched her face.
Marcus answered the door in jeans and a black Henley. He was casual and devastatingly handsome. His eyes moved over her dress, and his expression heated up.
"You're early." He said with a welcoming smile.
"You said don't be late," Aria said.
"I also said wear something I could take off easily." He stepped back to let her in. "That dress is going to make it very difficult to keep my hands to myself through dinner."
Heat flooded through her. "Maybe that's the point."
His eyes darkened. "Careful. I'm trying to be a gentleman."
"What if I don't want you to be?" she asked.
The words were out before she could stop them. Marcus went very still, his gaze locked on hers.
"Elena." He said the name roughly. "If you keep looking at me like that, we're not going to make it to dinner."
"Then maybe we should eat first." She said.
He laughed, the sound surprising them both. "You're going to kill me."
But he led her to the kitchen instead of the bedroom. The kitchen, where he'd apparently actually cooked, because something smelled incredible and the counters held evidence of real preparation.
"You weren't kidding about cooking," she said.
"I told you. I'm full of surprises." He poured her a glass of wine, his fingers brushing hers as he handed it over. "Sit down and talk to me while I finish."
She sat at the counter and watched him move around the kitchen with confidence. It was ridiculously attractive.
"Tell me something real," he said without looking at her.
"What?" she asked.
"Something real. Not the polished resume version. Not what you think I want to hear." He glanced up. "Something true."
Aria took a sip of wine, buying time. "Like what?"
"Like, why did you really leave the museum circuit? The real reason."
She could give him the cover story. But something about the way he was looking at her made her want to give him the truth instead. Or at least a version of it.
"I got tired of politics and people who cared more about the prestige of owning art than actually appreciating it." She took a sip of her drink. "My mother was an art historian. She taught me that every piece tells a story. That you have to listen to it, not just look at it. Most collectors don't care about that."
"And you think I do?" He asked seriously.
"I saw you with that Rothko. The one Catherine loved." She met his eyes. "You weren't looking at an investment. You were looking at a memory."
Something changed in his expression. He set down the knife and came around the counter, stopping in front of her. "You pay attention."
"It's my job," she said.
"No. Your job is cataloging art." He reached out and tucked that piece of hair back, a gesture she was starting to recognize. "Seeing people is something else entirely."
His hand lingered, fingers trailing down her neck. Aria's breath caught. He was close enough that she could see the gold colors in his eyes and close enough to feel his breath on her skin.
"Marcus." His name came out breathless.
"Tell me to stop." He whispered.
She should. This was moving too fast. But instead she said, "Don't."
He kissed her. Slow and deep, nothing like the desperate kisses she'd learned to fake. His hand slid into her hair, angling her head exactly where he wanted it, and Aria melted into him without thinking.
This was supposed to be a technique. Performance. But her hands were gripping his shirt, her body pressing against his, and nothing about this felt like acting.
Marcus pulled back slightly, his forehead resting against hers. "Fuck the dinner."
"What?"
"I've been thinking about doing this since you walked through my door." His hand moved down her spine, pressing her closer. "Since before that. Since you froze in the gallery, and I realized you wanted this as much as I did."
"Marcus…"
He kissed her again, harder this time. Aria's back hit the counter, and his body followed, pressing her against the marble. His hands slid down to her thighs, lifting her onto the counter like she weighed nothing.
"Tell me if this is too fast." His mouth moved to her throat. "Tell me if you want me to slow down."
She should. She absolutely should. But her legs had wrapped around his waist, and her hands were in his hair, and all she could think was 'more.'
"Don't slow down."
He made a low sound in his throat, something between a groan and a growl. His hands moved up her thighs, pushing the dress higher, and Aria's head fell back against the cabinets.
"You have no idea how many times I've thought about this." His teeth grazed her collarbone. "About having you exactly like this. In my space. in my hands."
His fingers found the edge of her underwear, and Aria's breath stuttered. This was real. This was happening. And every carefully constructed plan was dissolving under his touch.
"Tell me what you want," he murmured against her skin.
"You." The word came out without thought. "I want you."
His eyes met hers, dark and hungry. "Then you can have me."
He kissed her again, and this time he was not gentle. His hands moved with purpose, knowing exactly where to touch and exactly how much pressure to use. Aria heard herself making sounds she didn't recognize, her body responding to him in ways that had nothing to do with training.
The timer on the stove went off.
Marcus ignored it. His mouth moved lower, his hands sliding the dress straps off her shoulders.
The timer kept beeping.
"Marcus." She forced the word out. "Your dinner."
"I don't give a fuck about dinner right now," he said.
But he pulled back, his breathing ragged, his pupils wide. He looked at her sitting on his counter with her dress half off and her lips swollen and made a sound of pure frustration.
"You're going to be the death of me, Elena."
He went to turn off the timer, adjusting himself as he walked. Aria stayed on the counter, trying to remember how to breathe normally. Her whole body was burning, every nerve ending alive and desperate for more.
Marcus came back and stood between her legs, his hands resting on her thighs.
"We're going to eat dinner," he said. "Because I promised you dinner. And then I'm going to take you to my bedroom and spend the rest of the night making you forget your own name."
Heat shot through her at the words. At the promise in his voice.
"That's quite an offer."
"It's not an offer." His thumb traced circles on her inner thigh. "It's a statement of fact."
Aria pulled him closer, her legs tightening around his waist. "Then we should probably eat quickly."
His laugh was low and dangerous. "Fuck eating quickly. I plan to take my time with you."
The way he said it made her stomach flip. This was supposed to be about control. About seduction. About making him vulnerable.
But sitting on his counter with his hands on her thighs and his eyes promising things that made her pulse race, Aria couldn't remember who was seducing whom anymore.
And she didn't care.