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Caloroga Shark Media.
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Hello and Welcome to Romance Weekly. This episode is titled
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The Forgery, Part two. The Master's Touch.
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Every brushstroke tells a story, the pressure of the artist's hand,
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the hesitation, the surrender to passion. Right now, in the
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private restoration room of the Thorn Gallery, Alex's hands are
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telling a story I haven't heard in ten years. The
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light has to fall just so, he murmurs. Standing behind
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me as we examine the dagga. His chest brushes my
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back with each breath, his hands ghosting over mine. As
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I hold the ultraviolet light. See how the pigments react.
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But I'm reacting more than the paint. Every point of
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contact sends electricity through my skin. The heat of his body,
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the brush of his fingers, the way his breath stirs
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the hair at my nape. It's Paris all over again.
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Show me, I say, letting myself lean back slightly, professional necessary,
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a student learning from a master. His hands slide down
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my arms, adjusting my grip on the light. Here his
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mouth is at my ear now where the dancer's dress
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meets shadow. The technique is familiar. The double meaning hangs
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between us like expensive perfume. Another forgery, another trap, another
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excuse for his hands to map my body under the
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guise of investigation. Familiar. How I turn my head slightly,
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letting my lips brush his jaw like Paris, familiar, like you,
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your work, familiar. His fingers trace patterns on my silk sleeve.
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No one else blends light and shadow quite like you, Olivia.
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His words send a shiver down my spine that has
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nothing to do with the galley's climate control. My body
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remembers this, the careful dance of professional and personal, The
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way his touch could shift from instructive to intimate in
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a heartbeat. No one else had your teaching methods, I murmur,
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arching back as his hand slide to my waist. The
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thin silk of my blouse does nothing to dull the
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heat of his fingers. Is that what you call it?
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His mouth finds that spot below my ear that makes
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my knees weak. Teaching. The memory floods back, hot as
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oil paint in summer Paris ten years ago. The secret,
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he'd whispered, guiding my hands on the canvas is to
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let your body feel the movement, like dance, like desire.
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I'd been aware of everything. The heat of his chest
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against my back, the way his fingers interlaced with mine
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on the brush, The subtle cologne that mixed with turpentine
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and passion. Like this, I'd turned my head, letting my
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lips graze his throat, the brush forgotten as his hands
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found my hips perfect, his voice had roughened. Now show
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me what else you've learned. What followed was our first masterpiece.
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Not the painting, but the way he'd laid me back
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on that paint splattered drop cloth, The way his hands
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had mapped every inch of my skin, learning my body
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like he'd learned the masters. The way I'd arched into
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every touch, every kiss, every moment of exquisite torture. Present day,
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you're thinking about Paris. His voice pulls me back, his
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hands sliding higher under my blouse, about that first night
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in the studio. You can't know that, but my body
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betrays me, pressing back against him. I know how you
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feel when you remember his teeth graze my ear lobe,
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how your breath catches, how your pulse races, how your
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skin flushes. Just hear his fingers trace the blush spreading
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across my chest, dipping beneath black lace. Alex warning or invitation.
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I'm not sure. Show me what else you remember? He
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turns me to face him, lifting me onto the restoration table.
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Show me what else I taught you. His kiss tastes
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like memory and danger. My legs wrap around his waist
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as his hands make quick work of my blouse buttons.
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Each touch awakens nerve, endings I thought I'd forgotten, like
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paint bringing a canvas to life. Tell me about the dagga,
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he demands between kisses, which one? I gasp as his
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mouth finds my collarbone, the fake on the wall or
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the real one hidden in the vault. His hands still
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on my skin, You know where it is. I know.
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I lose my train of thought as his fingers trace
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the edge of my bra I know the technique, the artist,
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the oh God. Tell me. His touch grows, demanding professional fingers,
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knowing exactly how to make me talk, how to make
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me arch, how to make me surrender private collector. My
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nails dig into his shoulders as pleasure builds. Waiting to
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make the switch. During tonight's showing, give me a Name,
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He unzips my skirt, hands sliding higher, make me. What
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follows is pure artistry. His mouth painting desire across my skin,
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my body his willing canvas. He takes me apart, stroke
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by stroke, touch by touch, until I'm gasping His name
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like a prayer, The name Olivia, his voice rough against
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my throat as he moves inside me. Give me the
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name Isabella. Truth spills like expensive wine. Isabella Thorn. She
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commissioned both forgeries Paris, and now his rhythm falters. She's
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behind all of this, not alone. I pull him deeper,
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needing more. She's working with the restoration room. Door clicks,
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footsteps in the gallery beyond. Don't stop. I breathe against
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his mouth, even as the footsteps grow closer. The danger
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only heightens every sensation, his hands on my skin, his
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body moving with mine, the way pleasure builds like paint
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layers toward a masterpiece. They'll hear us, but his thrust deepens,
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his control slipping. Let them. I bite his shoulder to
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keep from crying out. Let them see what a real
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masterpiece looks like. He takes me harder then, one hand
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covering my mouth as I come apart beneath him. My
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body arches like a dancer in a daga, every nerve
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ending on fire, every touch electric. The footsteps pause outside
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our door. A shadow crosses the frosted glass Isabella. A
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man's voice one I recognize the switch happens at midnight,
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make sure they're both there. Alex's body tenses against mine,
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inside mine, we both recognize that voice. Marcus Blackwood, the
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collector who'd introduced us in Paris, who first suggested I
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learn the art of forgery, who disappeared the night everything
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fell apart. The shadow moves away in the aftermath of
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pleasure and revelation. Alex's hands cut my face. You knew
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he was involved, suspected. I kiss him, tasting truth and
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danger since I saw the money, his style, his preferred artists,
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his obsession with you, his fingers tightened possessively on my
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hips with us. I meet his eyes with what we
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created together, the paintings, the perfect partnership. I slide off
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the table, letting my body drag against his art and authenticity,
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creation and security, light and shadow. Midnight. I smooth my
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skirt as Alex rebuttons his shirt. His eyes follow my
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movements in the restoration room's mirrors. That gives us six hours,
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six hours to figure out where they're keeping the real dagga.
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His hands find my waist from behind, helping with my
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blouse buttons. And why Marcus is really here? I know
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where the painting is. I lean back against his chest,
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watching our reflection, the same place he kept the real
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money in Paris, his private vault at the hotel. No.
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I turn in his arms in the gallery behind the renoir,
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in his private viewing room. His fingers trace my colar bone,
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straightening my pearls. Professional intimate. You're sure I designed the
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hiding spot. I let my hands slide up his chest.
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Back when he was teaching us both about alternative art acquisition.
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You mean, when he was grooming us to be his
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perfect forgers, his perfect team. I correct him, remembering you
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with your security expertise, me with my eye for detail,
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both of us young, talented, hungry, beautiful. His mouth finds
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my throat, the way you looked in that Paris studio
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covered in paint and moonlight, The way you looked teaching
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me about light and shadow. My fingers find his tie,
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straightening it. We were his masterpiece until we fell in love.
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The words hang between us, dangerous as wet paint, His
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hands still on my skin. That wasn't part of his plan.
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I whisper against his mouth. We were supposed to be
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his instruments, not each other's muses, his instruments. Alex's laugh
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is dark against my skin, his perfect forgery team, until
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we started creating something he couldn't control, our own masterpieces.
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I arch as his hands slide lower, our own passion.
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Is that why you ran his fingers find bare skin
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under silk that last morning in Paris? I ran because
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he threatened you. The truth spills out between kisses, said
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he'd expose your role in the forgeries, destroy your career
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unless you disappeared. His grip tightens with the money, with
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the evidence of what we'd done. I pull back enough
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to meet his eyes what he'd made us do, And
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now now he's putting his masterpiece back together. I press closer,
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feeling him respond instantly, using Isabella, using the gallery, using us.
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The question is why his mouth traces fire down my throat?
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Why now before I can answer my phone buzzes a
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text from Isabella private viewing of the Dagga midnight Wear,
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the red dress from Paris. You remember the one, don't you, Olivia,
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The one with the paint stains that never quite came out.
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Attached is a photo Paris that last night, Me in
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the red dress, stretched on the chaise lounge, Alex teaching
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me about light and form, both of us unaware we
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were being watched. They documented everything. Alex's voice roughens every lesson,
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every touch, every moment we thought was just ours, and
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now they're recreating it. I show him the next text.
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Time to complete the masterpiece, both of you. Tonight or
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every gallery in Europe learns exactly how you perfected your techniques.
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Let them expose us. His hands frame my face, Let
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them try. No, I kiss him deep and sure, let's
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give them what they want, one last performance, the students
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becoming the masters. My smile is sharp against his mouth exactly.
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But first, first, I push him back against the restoration table. First,
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let's practice our technique. His laugh turns to a groan
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as my hands find his belt. After all, every masterpiece
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needs proper preparation, and this time we're creating something entirely new.
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My hands make quick work of his belt as his
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fingers tangle in my hair. This time is different, slower,
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more deliberate, like adding layers to a painting, Each touch
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building on the last, tell me the plan he demands,
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as I sink to my knees. Isabella opens the private
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viewing room at eleven. I look up at him through
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my lashes, fingers working his zipper. Marcus arrives at eleven thirty,
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and his breath catches as my mouth find skin, and
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they'll expect us to play our parts. I trace my
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tongue along sensitive flesh, the students, the lovers, the perfect forgers,
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like Paris. His hands tighten in my hair better than Paris.
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I take him deeper, feeling his control slip. This time,
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we know we're being watched, my mouth and hands creating
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pleasure like brushstrokes on canvas. His body responds to every touch,
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every tease, every moment of exquisite torture. The dress he
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manages between ragged breaths, the red one. Hmm. I pull
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back just enough to speak, what about it? Wear it tonight?
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His voice is strained as I resume my attention. But underneath, yes, underneath,
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wear what you wore in Paris. He pulls me up, suddenly,
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spinning us so I'm pressed against the table nothing. His
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kiss tastes like desire and danger as his hands push
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up my skirt. Your turn to tell me the rest
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of the place, the rest of the plan. I gasp
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as his fingers trace the edge of my stockings or
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the rest of me both. His mouth follows the path
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of his hands, making my head fall back. Tell me
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what happens at midnight? Marcus will I lose my train
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of thought as his tongue finds sensitive flesh. Marcus will
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open the vault behind the renoirs, and then his fingers
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slide higher as his mouth works magic. Then we my
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hands grip the table edge as pleasure builds. We play
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our parts. Let them think they're controlling us. Let them think,
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oh God, think what. He increases his pace, demanding answers
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with each stroke of his tongue. Think they've won. The
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words tumble out between moans. Think we're still their perfect creation,
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their masterpiece of manipulation. Until until we My body arches
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as I get close, until we show them what real
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artists can do. He takes me over the edge with
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expert precision, my cry of pleasure echoing in the small room.
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Before I can recover, he's standing, lifting me onto the table.
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Show me now, he enters me in one smooth stroke,
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Show me what real artists do. What follows is our
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finest work yet, bodies moving together like brush on canvas,
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creating something beautiful and dangerous and real. Each thrust draws
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out more of the plan, more of the truth, more
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of us, the FBI team, he demands. Driving deeper in
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position at eleven, I match his rhythm, waiting for my signal,
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which is me removing my mask. I clench around him
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at exactly midnight and me you'll know. I pull him
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down for a kiss that tastes like victory. Trust me.
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His laugh vibrates through both our bodies, like I trusted
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you in Paris. Better. I flip us, suddenly taking control
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this time. I'm not leaving without you. We come apart
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together like paint and canvas, surrendering to flame. His hands
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grip my hips hard enough to leave marks as my
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body arches, pleasure crashing through me in waves. After still
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tangle together on the restoration table, reality begins to seep
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back in. You never told me, he says, tracing patterns
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on my bare back. What really happened that last morning
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in Paris? You mean, after Marcus showed me the photos.
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I pressed closer, kneading his heat, after he explained exactly
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how he'd destroy you if I didn't disappear. After you
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left me sleeping in that paint splattered studio, I went
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to his hotel first. I kissed the scar on his chest,
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the one from a gallery robbery gone wrong two years ago,
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planted evidence linking him to three major forgery rings, the
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same evidence that forced him underground, the same evidence he
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thinks I still have. I prop myself up to look
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at him, the real reason for tonight's little performance. His
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hands slide into my hair, and do you have it better?
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I smile against his mouth. I have proof he's been
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running his operation from inside private galleries, using authenticators like me,