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Calarogu Shark Media, Hello, and welcome to Romance Weekly.
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This episode is titled The Forgery, Part four, The Perfect Original.
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Three weeks after Thomas's arrest, I stand in the Thorn Gallery,
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adjusting the neckline of my black gown. Tonight's opening is legitimate.
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My first is the Galley's official authenticator. No forged masterpieces,
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no hidden agendas, just Alex's fingers tracing my spine as
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he comes up behind me. The Vermere authentication papers. Need
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your signature, he murmurs, his breath warming my neck in
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your office code for I can't wait another minute to
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touch you professional distance, mister read. But I lean back
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against his chest, letting him feel how my pulse quickens.
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The board of directors is watching, let them. His hands
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slide to my hips, hidden by a convenient sculpture. I've
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been watching you all evening, The way you move in
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this dress, the way it shows that Mark I left
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this morning. Heat floods my body at the memory, his
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mouth on my breast as sunlight painted our skin, his
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hands mapping every inch of me before we had to
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become professionals again, the papers, I remind him, But I'm
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already moving toward my office. Ten minutes, I only need five.
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My office door barely closes before his hands find the
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zipper of my dress. Each tooth releasing sends electricity down
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my spine. His mouth follows the path of exposed skin.
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Tell me about the vermi. He murmurs, letting silk pool
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at my feet. Which details interest you? I arch as
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his fingers trace the lace edge of my lingerie, The brushwork,
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the provenance, the way I shake when you. My words
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dissolve into a gasp as his hand slides lower. His
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touch is exquisite torture, expert fingers, knowing exactly how to
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build pleasure, like layers of paint, all the details. He
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turns me to face him, lifting me onto my desk,
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show me everything. I work, his tie loose as his
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mouth maps my collar bone. Each kiss marks territory we've
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claimed together. No more masks, no more pretense, just pure sensation.
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The authentication he prompts, voice rough as my fingers find
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his belt, perfect technique. I wrap my legs around his waist,
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flawless execution. Absolutely I lose my train of thought as
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he enters me genuine. His rhythm is masterful, slow strokes
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building intensity, like an artist crafting pleasure. My nails dig
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into his shoulders as pressure builds, each thrust bringing me
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closer to the edge. Look at me, he demands, one
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hand tangling in my hair. Show me what's real. I
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meet his eyes as pleasure spirals higher. His gaze holds mine,
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intense and intimate, watching how I respond to every calculated touch,
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every precise movement perfect. He breathes, changing his angle slightly.
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The new position sends sparks of electricity through my core.
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Like that first night in Paris, My body remembers how
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he'd studied every response, learned every secret, mastered every way
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to make me surrender to sensation. Now his expertise has
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only deepened. Alex, his name falls from my lips as
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pressure builds. My skin burns where he touches me, every nerve,
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ending alive with need. Show me. His thumb finds exactly
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the right spot as his thrust deepens, Let me see
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you come apart. The pleasure crests suddenly intensely. My body
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arches as waves of sensation wash through me. He follows immediately,
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my name a prayer against my throat. After still joined,
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his fingers trace patterns on my sweat dampened skin. Each
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touch reignites small sparks of pleasure. The board meeting starts
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in ten minutes. I murmur against his mouth. Then we
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have time for a proper examine nation. His hands slide
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lower again, of all the evidence. His mouth finds mine again,
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tasting of promise and the champagne from earlier. But before
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his hands can start another masterpiece, my phone buzzes on
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the desk. A text illuminates the darkness. Beautiful performance, but
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the real show is about to begin. Check the evening news.
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Marcus Alex's body tenses against mine. That's impossible. He's in
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federal custody. Was in federal custody. I reach for my dress,
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but his hands stop me. Wait. His fingers trace the
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curve of my breast, as if memorizing every detail. Let
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me look at you, just in case, in case what.
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Instead of answering, he shows me his mouth, replacing his hand,
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drawing out new waves of pleasure. My fingers tangle in
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his hair as sensation builds again. The news can wait,
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The danger can wait. Right now, there's only this, his touch,
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my response, our bodies creating something genuine in a world
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of forgeries. Until my laptop chimes with a breaking news alert.
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The news footage shows Marcus being escorted from prison, not
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in handcuffs, but in a suit, free, all charges dropped.
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I read Alex's hands still tracing patterns on my skin.
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New evidence suggests extensive, frame up, frame up. His mouth
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pauses at my throat. The only thing Marcus knows better
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than art is how to make evidence disappear. I shift
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in his lap, making him groan or appear. Another text,
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the Rembrandt Midnight Wear, the Gold Dress from Rome. Remember Rome, Olivia,
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before Paris, before Alex. My blood runs cold, Rome, where
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everything really began. You never told me about Rome. Alex's
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fingers tighten on my hips. No, I meet his eyes
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because Rome wasn't about art. What was it about murder?
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His hands still on my skin. The authenticator, the one
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Thomas killed in Berlin. Her sister. I pressed closer, needing
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his heat, teaching me everything I'd need to know to infiltrate,
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to seduce, to destroy them from within. Her name was Sophia.
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My fingers trace Alex's jaw as the truth spills out.
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She taught me about more than just art authentication. She
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taught me how to become someone else, How to make
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them trust me, want me like you did with me
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in Paris. But his hands don't leave my skin. No,
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I kiss him soft and real. Paris wasn't part of
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the plan. You weren't part of the plan. What changed everything?
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I roll my hips, making him gasp. The way you
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taught me about light and shadow, The way you saw
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past every forgery to what was real, The way you
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made me feel. His mouth claims mine, deep and demanding.
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When he pulls back, his eyes are dark with need
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and understanding. Show me. He lifts me onto the desk again,
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Show me what's real Now? This time is different, Slower, deeper,
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every touch carrying the weight of revelation. His hands map
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my body like he's discovering truth in every curve. My
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fingers trace his skin, like I'm finally signing my real
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name to a masterpiece, the Rembrandt. He murmurs against my breast.
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It's a trap, of course, it is, I arch as
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His mouth moves lower. But this time we know who's
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really pulling the strings, do we? Instead of answering, I
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show him exactly who's in control now, who's mastered whom,
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who's creating something? No one else can forge. When pleasure
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finally releases us, we stay connected, my legs wrapped around him,
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his forehead pressed to mine. The gold dress wasn't for Marcus,
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I whisper against his mouth. It was for Sophia's sister,
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the night she taught me my final lesson, which was
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the true masterpieces can't be forged. My fingers trace his chest,
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feeling his heart race. Something have to be created from
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blank canvas like us. My phone buzzes again. A photo
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appears Rome eight years ago, Me in that gold dress,
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Sophia's sister teaching me about more than just art, about seduction,
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about power. They documented everything. Alex's hands tightened possessively from
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the beginning. Not everything I slide from the desk, letting
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him watch as I dress, Not what happened after Paris,
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not why I really left, Tell me better. I hand
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him his shirt. Let me show you tonight at the
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Rembrandt exchange. His smile curves against my neck as he
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helps with my zipper. What are we forging this time? Nothing?
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I turn in his arms. That's the point. For the
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first time, we're creating something original and Marcus, we'll see
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exactly what he expects to see. I check my lipstick
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in the mirror. Two lovers caught in his perfect trap,
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until until he realizes he's caught in hours. The gold
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dress hugs every curve as I dress in my private studio.
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Alex watches from my chaise lounge, his tie still undone,
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looking like every fantasy I'd had in Paris. The Rembrandt's
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already in place, he says, eyes following my movements, the
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real one, not the forgery Marcus expects, and Sophia's fire
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hidden where they've always been. He stands, moving behind me
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to help with my zipper. In plain sight, his fingers
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linger on my skin, making concentration difficult. The gallery vault
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the first place they'll look. His mouth finds my shoulder,
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while the actual evidence sits in the restoration room behind
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your favorite de Ga. Clever boy, I turn in his arms.
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Now we just need the final peace, which is Marcus's confession.
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I let him feel the wire beneath my dress, about Rome,
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about Sophia's sister, about everything, and how do we get that?
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I pull him down for a kiss that makes him
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groan by giving him exactly what he wants, the student
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surrendering to the master while your lover watches helplessly. His
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hands slide under silk exactly. I arch into his touch
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until he reveals the truth about Rome, and then then
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we show him what real artists can create. The drive
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to the gallery is charged with anticipation, his hand on
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my thigh as he drives my fingers, tracing patterns up
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his arm. By the time we arrive, we're both burning
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for different reasons. Marcus waits in the private viewing room.
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The Rembrandt glows on the wall behind him. Beautiful. His
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eyes trace my dress, just like Rome, though he circles
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me slowly. You've lost that innocent quality, that vulnerability. We
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all lose something. I let him move closer. Some of
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us lose sisters. His hand stills on my bare shoulder.
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So you finally figured it out. I knew in Berlin.
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I turned to face him when you had Thomas kill
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the other sister loose ends. His smile is sharp, like
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you were supposed to be, until you surprised me, until
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you started creating your own masterpieces like this. I stepped back,
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letting him see Alex emerge from the shadows, letting him
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see the evidence. We've arranged the files the photos, the truth.
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What follows is chaos and beauty and justice. Federal agents
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appearing like figures stepping out of a painting, Marcus's confession
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echoing off marble walls, the truth about Rome, about Sophia's sisters,
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about everything, finally coming to light. Later in my studio,
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Alex's hands peel the gold dress from my skin. No
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more performance, he murmurs, against my throat, No more forgeries,
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I agree, working his tie loose, just us, just us.
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His mouth finds mine as we create something entirely new,
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something real, something that could never be forged or copied
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or stolen. Dawn finds us tangled in sheets that smell
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of paint and passion and possibility. Outside the city awakens
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like a fresh canvas, ready to create something original. He
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traces my spine as I stretch against him with you,
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I smile against his mouth always. The morning light catches
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the ring he slides onto my finger, not diamond, but
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a perfect copy of his mother's antique sapphire. One last forgery.
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I raise an eyebrow. No, he kisses me, deep and sure.
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This one's real. And in a world of perfect fakes
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and flawless forgeries, we finally created the one thing that
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can never be duplicated. The Truth.
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Romance Weekly is a production of Calaroga Shark Media executive
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producers Mark Francis and John McDermott. Portions of this podcast
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may have been created with the assistance of AI
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Calaroga Shark Media