I kept her pinned to my lap, my hands moving to the single knot at her waist. I didn't rush. I wanted her to feel the weight of the moment—the silence of the penthouse, the hum of the city outside, and the cold, judgmental eyes of the man in the gold-framed portrait watching us from the wall.
"You said he likes to watch, Lana," I whispered against her skin as I slowly pulled the silk cord. "Let's give Michael a masterpiece to look at."
The emerald wrap fell open, pooling around her hips on the velvet sofa. Lana let out a shaky breath, her head falling back as I exposed her to the room—and to the painting. Her skin was flawless, her body a testament to the highest standards of the industry, but right now, she wasn't a legend. She was a woman shivering under my touch.
