The gallery was a cathedral of shadows after hours, its high ceilings swallowing the last echoes of the day’s visitors. Dim amber lights cast golden pools over polished floors, illuminating the edges of gilded frames and the faint, musky scent of oil paint mingled with the stale perfume of old money. Honey stood near the entrance, her clipboard clutched like a shield, her sharp hazel eyes scanning the checklist of closing tasks. Her auburn hair was pulled into a tight bun, a few rebellious strands curling at the nape of her neck, and her sensible black blazer did little to hide the tension in her posture. She was the curator, the keeper of this sacred space, and she liked her nights quiet—until the creak of the back door shattered that illusion.
“Seriously?” she muttered under her breath, her voice a low hiss as she spun on her heel. Her flats clicked sharply against the floor as she marched toward the sound, her irritation a living thing. “If that’s a raccoon again, I swear I’m setting traps.”
But it wasn’t a raccoon. Leaning casually against the frame of the back entrance, one hand in the pocket of his paint-splattered jeans, was Mariun. The artist. The bane of her meticulously ordered existence. His dark hair fell in a messy wave over one eye, and his smirk was a weapon, sharp and deliberate, as if he’d been waiting just to see her reaction. His latest piece, a provocative nude in bold, sensual strokes, hung in the main hall—a constant reminder of his infuriating talent and even more infuriating ego.
“Evening, Honey,” he drawled, his voice a low, velvety tease as he pushed off the doorframe and sauntered inside like he owned the place. “Miss me?”
Honey stopped short, crossing her arms over her chest, her clipboard now a makeshift barrier. “Oh, look, it’s the gallery’s resident nuisance. What are you doing here, Mariun? We’re closed. As in, go-home-and-stop-bothering-me closed.”
He chuckled, the sound rich and unhurried, as he closed the distance between them with a predator’s ease. “Just checking on my baby,” he said, gesturing vaguely toward the main hall where his painting hung. “You know, making sure she’s still stealing the show. Thought I’d pop in for a late-night critique.”
Her eyes narrowed, lips twitching into a sardonic smile. “Your ‘baby’ is fine. She’s been ogled by enough pretentious wine-sippers today to last a lifetime. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have actual work to do. You can admire your own genius on your way out.”
Mariun didn’t budge. Instead, he tilted his head, studying her with an intensity that made her skin prickle. “You’re adorable when you’re bossy, you know that? All sharp tongue and icy glares. Bet it hides a real sweetheart underneath.”
Honey snorted, rolling her eyes so hard she nearly strained something. “Flattery won’t get you anywhere, Picasso. I’m immune to your charm, which, by the way, is about as subtle as a sledgehammer. Out. Now.”
But Mariun was already moving, not toward the door, but deeper into the gallery, his boots scuffing softly against the floor. “Come on, Honey. Humor me. Walk me through the hall one last time. I promise I’ll behave.” His grin said otherwise, all teeth and mischief, and she hated how it sent a flutter through her chest.
“Behave?” she echoed, trailing after him with a huff, her clipboard slapping against her thigh. “You wouldn’t know the meaning of the word if it bit you on your overrated ass. Fine. Five minutes. Then you’re gone, or I’m calling security. And by security, I mean my pepper spray.”
He laughed again, the sound bouncing off the walls as they entered the main hall. His painting loomed ahead, a woman’s form rendered in crimson and gold, her gaze both vulnerable and commanding. Honey had to admit—grudgingly—that it was mesmerizing. But she wasn’t about to stroke his ego any further.
“See? She’s perfect,” Mariun said, stopping in front of the canvas, his voice softer now, almost reverent. “But I think she’s missing something. A little fire. A little… you.”
Honey blinked, caught off guard, her snark momentarily faltering. “What’s that supposed to mean? I’m not some muse for your weird artistic fantasies, Mariun.”
He turned to face her, and before she could react, he’d stepped closer, backing her toward the wall beside the painting. Her breath hitched as her shoulders brushed against the cool plaster, the scent of his cologne—something dark and spicy—mixing with the gallery’s familiar musk. Mariun braced one hand against the wall beside her head, his body not touching hers but close enough that she could feel the heat radiating off him.
“Oh, but you are,” he murmured, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper, his eyes locking with hers. “All that spitfire energy, Honey. It’s electric. You’re a walking contradiction—sharp enough to cut, soft enough to crave. I can see it. And I bet you feel it too, don’t you? This… pull between us.”
Her heart slammed against her ribs, her cheeks flaming despite her best efforts to keep her cool. “Y-you’re delusional,” she stammered, cursing the waver in her voice. “I feel nothing. Except maybe the urge to knee you somewhere unpleasant if you don’t back off.”
Mariun’s smirk widened, undeterred, as he leaned in just a fraction more, his breath warm against her ear. “Go ahead, sweetheart. Fight it. But we both know you’re not half as immune as you pretend. Tell me I’m wrong. Tell me you don’t feel this heat.”
Honey swallowed hard, her hands clenching into fists at her sides, torn between shoving him away and the traitorous part of her that wanted to lean into his words. “You’re insufferable,” she snapped, but her voice lacked its usual bite, trembling with something she refused to name. “And you’re way too close. Personal space, ever heard of it?”
“Only when it’s not this fun to invade,” he teased, his lips curling into a wicked smile. Then, before she could muster another retort, he dipped his head, his mouth brushing the sensitive skin just below her ear, not quite a kiss but a promise of one. A shiver raced down her spine, her breath catching audibly, and she hated how her body betrayed her, leaning into the sensation for just a split second before she jerked back.
“Mariun!” she yelped, her voice a mix of outrage and something embarrassingly close to a whine. Her face was a furnace now, her hands shoving at his chest—though not nearly as hard as she meant to. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
He pulled back just enough to meet her gaze, his eyes dark and molten, a satisfied glint in them. “Just testing a theory,” he said, his tone all velvet and sin. “And I’d say it’s confirmed. You’re not as cold as you play, Honey. Not by a long shot.”
She glared at him, her chest heaving, caught between the urge to slap that smug look off his face and the electric hum still buzzing through her veins. “Get out,” she managed, her voice low and unsteady. “Before I forget I’m a professional and do something I regret.”
Mariun stepped back, hands raised in mock surrender, but the grin never left his face. “As you wish, boss lady. But this isn’t over. Not by a long shot.” With a final, lingering look that felt like a caress, he turned and sauntered toward the exit, leaving her leaning against the wall, her clipboard forgotten on the floor, her pulse a wild drum in her ears.
Honey pressed a hand to her neck where his lips had grazed, her skin still tingling, and muttered a curse under her breath. “Damn him,” she whispered, half to herself, half to the empty gallery. But as she straightened her blazer and tried to reclaim her composure, she couldn’t shake the feeling that Mariun was right—this was far from over.
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