Free Nightbloom by Juliette Cross

was forced and tight.
    “And your final project was a form of this art?”
    Another nod. No smile. Heart pounding right out of my chest.
    “Ella. Please relax. You already have the job. I’m just curious about you as an artist.”
    I still couldn’t speak. My art was personal. I had only shown it in college when I was forced to, when there was no other way out or ahead.
    “I would love to read this thesis sometime.”
    “You can.” Clearing my throat, I tried to hide the nervous thread twanging my voice. “It was published in Illumination Magazine this past December.”
    He eyed me carefully, certainly taking note of my stiff posture. Putting the resume on the desk, he folded his hands.
    “Okay. The position available is as co-curator with Elsibeta over this gallery. We’re considering expansion, so you’ll need to work every other weekend to scout for new and upcoming artists for exhibition. We have a steady clientele of local artists, mostly Morgon, but I’d like to expand to include more human artwork, which is the reason I’m specifically looking for a human curator. Elsibeta can acquaint you with the style we tend to feature and exhibit, however, I have no doubt with your credentials that you’re more than qualified for the position. You’d also alternate opening exhibits with Elsibeta. I’ve been leaning too heavily on her with the workload. I need another curator, especially with a new gallery looming in the near future.”
    During this stream of information, which was music to my ears, my heart soaring at the prospect of working with art every single day, he kept his business-face fixed and his words steady.
    “Would you like time to consider, Ms. Barrow, or will you accept this position?”
    Ms. Barrow? I beamed. “I accept.”
    “Good.” A tight nod. He stood and came around the desk, then lifted me to my feet. “Now that business is adjourned—”
    He planted a steaming, mind-blowing kiss on my lips, one hand wrapping my nape, the other wandering low on my back, pulling me closer. After thoroughly loosening my body of nerves, he pulled back a fraction, dark hair falling over his forehead, partly obstructing his eyes.
    “Paxon…that’s not very professional.”
    “That was nothing. This isn’t very professional.”
    His hands slid to my bottom and pulled me firmly against him. I whimpered at the intimate sensation of his hard body—all of him—pressed so deliciously against mine. His mouth slanted at the perfect angle to coax my lips wider. He showed me how a woman was supposed to be kissed—not sloppy and overeager like Clayton, but slow and tender and glorious. The only way Paxon could.
    He lifted me onto the desk, then trailed his fingers up the backs of my calves and hiked up my skirt where his fingers lightly gripped the backs of my knees. I skimmed my hands over his chest and up to his shoulders, hard muscle tight beneath his starched shirt. Sealing his mouth over mine, tasting, devouring me, his hands eased under my skirt and up my legs to my thighs, his thumbs rubbing along the inside.
    Every time a guy had tried this sort of thing before, my impulse was to close my legs, my body growing cold under his touch. With Paxon’s hands on me, my body longed to open. Some primal instinct gripped me hard, forcing me to acknowledge that he was meant to touch me, that his lips were meant for my skin, that he was born to give and take pleasure from me alone.
    He nipped the line of my jaw to my neck, dragging his teeth, sensitizing my skin to his touch. One hand rose higher on my thigh, pushing the skirt as he went.
    A nagging notion warned me this was the only reason a Morgon man would want me. It sounded distinctly like my mother’s voice. I fought to push the thought aside.
    “You’re like a drug to me. I want more of you.” His words sent my mind reeling. He sucked hard just beneath my ear, definitely leaving a mark, before trailing back to my mouth. “I want more.” He pressed a