The grand hall of the Whitmore Gallery shimmered with chandeliers, their golden light scattering across the polished marble floors and turning the guests into glittering phantoms. Alina Rivers tried not to fidget as she clutched her invitation, the thin card slightly damp in her hand from the anxious heat of her palm.
This was supposed to be a night of opportunity — a prestigious art charity gala in the heart of Manhattan, with critics, collectors, and wealthy patrons all swirling about in a cloud of vintage perfume and soft classical music. Her heart should have been racing with hope. Instead, it quivered with apprehension.
She was nobody here. A photographer with a few local exhibits under her belt, some magazine covers, and a slowly dwindling savings account. Most of her pieces tonight were tucked away in a modest side hall, displayed beside the works of artists with names that already dripped from society's lips like fine wine.
Alina adjusted the delicate strap of her black satin gown, the fabric hugging her curves just right — a last-minute splurge she couldn't really afford. Her hair was pinned loosely, a few stubborn strands brushing her neck, and her lips were painted in a shade of deep rose that made her look braver than she felt.
"Smile," she muttered to herself, then forced her lips upward.
She drifted from painting to painting, champagne in hand, nodding politely when strangers offered clipped greetings. When she finally reached the small alcove where her photographs hung — moody studies of abandoned buildings and the stories their decaying walls told — her throat tightened.
No one stood there. Not a single soul lingered to examine the fine lines of sunlight on crumbling brick or the sorrow she'd captured in the hollow windows. Her chest deflated.
"You look like you're about to murder someone," came a voice, low and amused, from somewhere behind her.
Alina stiffened. Turning, she found herself staring up into eyes the color of burnished steel — cool, assessing, almost predatory. They belonged to a man who seemed to command the very space around him. His tailored midnight suit fit his broad shoulders and lean frame with sinful precision, the open collar of his crisp white shirt revealing a hint of tanned skin and a tantalizing edge of tattoo ink that disappeared beneath the fabric.
Her mouth went dry. He was devastatingly handsome, but there was something else — a dangerous magnetism that pulled at the air itself.
"I… I'm sorry?" she managed, swallowing.
He arched a dark brow, a smirk playing at the corner of his lips. "Your face. It's an artist's study in despair. Are these yours?" He gestured lazily to her photographs.
"Yes." She straightened, trying not to fidget. "I'm Alina Rivers."
The stranger studied her, his gaze sliding over her throat, the line of her collarbone, down to the subtle rise of her breasts before returning to her face without an ounce of shame. The air felt suddenly hot, too thick to breathe properly.
"Damian Thorne," he said finally, extending a hand. His grip was firm, his skin warm. When his thumb brushed lightly over the back of her hand, she shivered.
Oh God. Why did that simple touch feel so… charged?
"Mr. Thorne," she said, forcing herself to exhale. "Thank you for—"
"Damian," he corrected smoothly. "Or I'll start calling you Ms. Rivers, and that seems far too cold for someone whose art pulses with such desperate, aching need."
Alina blinked. "That's… quite an interpretation."
"It's an honest one," Damian said, his voice lowering. "Your photographs are starving. They're lonely. Or perhaps you are."
The words struck deeper than she'd ever admit. Her lips parted, but no protest came.
Damian's eyes glinted. "Tell me, Alina. When was the last time someone looked at you the way you wish to be seen?"
Her heart stuttered. "I—I don't know what you mean."
He stepped closer. Not touching her, but invading her space so thoroughly that her pulse danced. She could smell him — expensive cologne, leather, something darker underneath.
"Yes, you do." His tone was pure, velvety command. "You want someone to see you. All of you. To strip away the polite smiles and pretty dresses and see the raw, trembling core. Isn't that what your art screams for?"
Alina's breath quickened. Her knees threatened to give. This was insane — they'd just met, and yet he was speaking to the part of her that hid in shadows, the part that dreamed of hands holding her down, of whispers that weren't sweet but sinful.
"You're very sure of yourself," she managed, voice husky.
"Always," Damian said. His mouth curved in a dark promise. "And I'm rarely wrong."
For a breathless moment, neither of them moved. Then a polite cough intruded, snapping the thread between them. An older woman in glittering emeralds drifted past, eyeing Alina with mild distaste before greeting Damian with a sugary squeal.
"Mr. Thorne! So glad to see you! Are you still collecting those dreadful surrealists?"
He turned to her smoothly, but his hand slid to Alina's lower back in a subtle possessive claim. The touch burned through the satin.
"Always broadening my tastes," Damian said, his voice polite but distant. "If you'll excuse us, Ms. Blackwell, I was just about to discuss a private commission with Ms. Rivers."
Alina's head snapped up. What?
"Oh—of course," the woman tittered, eyes narrowing before she drifted away.
When they were alone again, Alina tried to step back. Damian's hand tightened slightly on her back, keeping her close.
"A private commission?" she echoed.
"It sounded better than telling her I wanted to monopolize you for the rest of the evening."
Her throat dried up. She swallowed. "Why?"
"Because you fascinate me," Damian said simply. His gaze dropped to her mouth. "And I always indulge my curiosities."
Before she could muster a reply, a uniformed waiter appeared with a discreet nod. "Mr. Thorne, your car is ready."
"Perfect." Damian's hand finally dropped, leaving her strangely bereft. "Walk with me."
She hesitated. "I—Damian, I can't just—"
"You can." His smile was slow, almost cruel in its confidence. "And you will."
God help her, she did. Her legs carried her alongside him through the hushed gallery, out into the cool night air where a sleek black limousine waited at the curb. The driver opened the door, and Damian gestured for her to enter first.
Alina's heart thundered. This was madness. She should say no, call a cab, run back to her tiny apartment and forget this ever happened.
Instead, she stepped inside.
---
The interior was lush leather, faintly scented with sandalwood. Damian slid in beside her, shutting the door with a soft finality. For a moment, they just looked at each other in the dim light.
"Where are we going?" she asked, voice barely above a whisper.
"Just for a drive." His hand reached out, fingers brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. The touch made her shiver. "Relax, little photographer. I won't do anything you don't want."
The way he said it promised he'd do everything she didn't know she wanted yet.
The car pulled smoothly into traffic. City lights smeared across the tinted windows, turning Damian's face into a shifting canvas of shadows and gold. His hand found hers on the seat, fingers lacing through hers with deliberate, unhurried force. Each stroke of his thumb was a promise and a threat.
"You should know something about me, Alina," he said quietly. "I'm not a man who dabbles. When I find something — or someone — that captures my attention, I pursue it without apology. I don't believe in half-measures."
Her breath caught. "That sounds… intense."
"It is." His eyes locked onto hers, unblinking. "And I think you crave intensity more than you admit. Don't you?"
The honest answer trembled on her lips. Yes. God, yes. But she couldn't voice it — not yet. Instead, she looked away, her pulse hammering.
Damian's hand tightened, then released. He sat back, watching her with an unreadable expression. Minutes stretched in silence, broken only by the soft hum of the engine and the occasional distant wail of a siren.
Finally, the car slowed. Damian leaned forward and murmured something to the driver. Then he turned back to her, eyes warm now, the sharp edge of his dominance tucked away like a knife she knew he could draw at any moment.
"I'll have my assistant send you details for a meeting tomorrow," he said. "I'd like to discuss purchasing some of your work. Perhaps even commissioning something… unique."
Alina's throat worked. "All right."
"Good girl."
The praise struck her low in her belly, a hot twist of pleasure that made her thighs press together.
Damian's smile was faint but satisfied. The car eased to a stop outside her modest apartment building. The driver opened the door, and Damian helped her out, his hand lingering on her waist.
"Sleep well, Alina," he murmured, bending close so his lips nearly brushed her ear. "Dream of me."
Then he was gone, slipping back into the limo. She stood on the sidewalk, dazed, watching the taillights vanish into the city night.
When she finally climbed the steps to her tiny apartment and shut the door behind her, Alina leaned against it, her pulse racing. She touched her lips, as if to convince herself he hadn't kissed her — not yet. But she could still feel the ghost of his breath on her skin.
And she already knew tomorrow couldn't come fast enough.