Page 10 of His Untouchable Heart

We took turns with the scanner, each sweep over the canvas drawing us closer. Our hands occasionally brushed, sparking an urgency neither of us could ignore.

“It’s a beautiful piece,” I remarked, my voice barely above a whisper.

Anthony’s eyes reflected the painting’s vivid colors and something more—an unspoken promise. “I’m glad we’re doing this together, Gabrielle,” he whispered, his voice raspy with desire. Reviewing the data solidified a bond that was electric. Anthony laughed lightly, “Should we call it? Looks like it’s the real deal.”

I exhaled, relief and excitement mingling in the air, “Looks like we did it,” I said.

But then, in a heartbeat, the tension snapped. The thrill of discovery, the closeness, the shared excitement—all of it fused into an undeniable urgency. Our eyes met, the air thick with anticipation, and in an instant, we were in each other’s arms, the world outside forgotten.

His mouth found mine, hesitant at first, then consuming as he drew me closer, the laptop, the scanner, everything forgotten. It was a reckless dive into the inevitable, a rush that blurred the lines of where we stood. His hands were warm on my back, and my red dress—the bold statement I’d hoped for—became the perfect conspirator as he pulled me in.

I barely recognized my own voice when I murmured, “Anthony,” into the kiss. It felt both forbidden and perfectly right.

He paused, forehead resting against mine, his breath uneven. “You’ve been driving me crazy,” he admitted, words tangled with disbelief and longing. The admission hung in the air, suspended like a delicate thread.

I touched his cheek and felt the roughness of his stubble beneath my fingertips. “Me too,” I confessed.

In the heart of the gallery, our passion ignited with a fierce urgency that defied the sterile white walls and glass windows that exposed our every movement to the prying eyes of the world outside.

I could feel the heat of his desire pulsing against me as he pulled me close, his hands tracing the curves of my hips and the swell of my breasts. With deliberate intent, he reached down and, with one swift, electrifying motion, lifted the skirt of my dress upward—exposing the delicate lace of my panties that clung provocatively to my skin. The act sent a shiver coursing through me and a silent promise of what was to come.

I could see our reflection in the gallery’s expansive windows, watching our passion unfold as if I were an intrigued observer of our impulsive desire. In that charged moment, neither of us cared if an outsider's eyes might catch a glimpse—our singular thought was to quench the roaring desire that had been simmering between us for days.

As I trembled in anticipation, his fingers slipped lower, igniting forbidden sparks through every nerve. The sensation was intoxicating—a blend of daring exposure and raw intimacy stripping away the remnants of hesitation.

His kiss deepened, a melding of hunger and tenderness that unleashed every pent-up craving. Between passionate kisses, he murmured softly, “I’ve wanted this since the first time we met.”

I replied breathlessly, “Show me how much...”

As he guided his hand along the curve of my inner thigh, every touch became a firm declaration of possession and every caress a silent promise of our shared indulgence. The gallery's air grew heavy with the electrifying energy of our unexpected rendezvous—a sense of discovery mingled with the thrill of defiance, even in such a public space.

With a slow, deliberate gesture, he unzipped his pants—a signal that the raw desire blooming between us was finally ready to be unveiled. In that split second, time compressed into the narrow corridor of our yearning; every glance, every touch, every heated breath testified to the wild abandon overtaking us. His eyes, dark with longing and mischief, locked onto mine, and in a husky whisper, he urged, “Let go, feel me.”

“I’m ready,” I eagerly responded as he pushed his pulsing cock inside me.

The gallery, usually a haven for quiet contemplation and scientific inquiry, had transformed into an arena of unruly lust and irreverent passion. The pristine white walls, which once showcased tranquil artworks, now seemed to pulse with the rhythm of our bodies colliding. The polished wooden floors, usually echoing the quiet footsteps of art enthusiasts, reverberated with the thrusts and moans of our entwined forms.

Our shared secret—a vibrant collision of art, desire, and unapologetic vulnerability—broke the bonds of conventional propriety. At that moment, with his hands ardently exploring the contours of my exposed flesh, his lips trailing urgent kisses down my neck, and our bodies locked in a rhythm of primal urgency, nothing else mattered. The world outside faded into insignificance, leaving only the echo of our quickened breaths and the electric tension that crackled between us.

We were utterly immersed in our exquisite dance of desire—a dance where our intoxicating pleasure was far removed from the expectations of the waking world. Each thrust was a brushstroke on the canvas of our fervor; each gasps a note in the symphony of our joining. Time itself seemed to pause, holding its breath as we surrendered to the moment, lost in the art of our own creation.

Then, the haze of pleasure faded as reality rushed in like a cold draft. My heartbeat thundered while I slowly lowered my trembling hands from his shoulders, the brief intimacy vanishing into the space between us. For a split second, neither of us moved; only the low hum of the security system filled the room, a stark reminder of the boundary we had just crossed.

Anthony’s eyes took in the disheveled state of my dress, and his hands reluctantly let go. “We should—” he started, swallowing hard before exhaling sharply. “We should get back to work.”

Anthony finished resetting the scanner, his fingers moving with practiced precision, though the air between us still buzzed with unspoken tension. I focused on steadying my breath, smoothing the fabric of my dress as if that could erase the way his hands had just traced over it.

I cleared my throat, keeping my voice soft. “Should we—” I hesitated, then met his gaze. “Could we look atA Lady and Gentleman in Blacknext?”

His hand hovered over the scanner for a beat too long before his expression hardened. “It’s not scheduled yet,” he said flatly. “The MM&W Foundation has strict procedures for verification. It takes much more than just one scan to verify a painting.”

I bit the inside of my cheek, willing myself not to react. I had worn the red dress for this exact moment, hoping to weaken his resolve just enough to make an exception. My sister and I believed that the painting belonged to our family. We had been waiting for this chance, and I had thought—no, I hadhoped—that if I could hold his attention and keep him close, I might be able to tilt his decision in my favor.

But Anthony was disciplined.

Licking my lips, I glanced away, heat rising to my cheeks—not from desire this time, but from shame. I had allowed my sister's persuasive ways and my own yearning to convince me that seduction could be the key to achieving our goal. But now, with my dress still askew and my breath uneven, all I had gained was the bitter taste of regret.

A sharp rap against the gallery’s front door shattered the silence, making me flinch. Anthony’s head snapped up, his gaze flickering toward the sound before settling back on me. My pulse stumbled, and the lingering tension between us was now laced with something else—dread.

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