Masterpiece

appreciated the female form. Too long. My ex Joe had the body of a Greek god but the passion of a marble statue, and since him, it's just been other men. I feel a gaze on my back, a prickling awareness that's different from the casual glance of a fellow patron. I turn my head slightly. Standing near the archway to the next gallery is a security guard, a woman. She's tall, with her dark hair pulled back in a severe professional bun that somehow makes the soft curve of her neck

seem incredibly vulnerable. Her uniform is crisp and tablored, but I can't hide the confident swell of her hips or the strength in her posture. She isn't looking at the art. She's looking at me, her eyes a startlingly clear shade of blue. Hold mine. There's no aggression in her stare none of the lazy and title men I'm used to for men. It's a look of pure quiet appraisal, of appreciation. She isn't just looking at the art on the wall. She's looking at me, like a masterpiece she desperately wants

to touch. It had been so long since a woman had looked at me that way, let alone touched me that. In that instance, I decide I bleed her. I walked slowly toward her, my heels quicking softly. I stopped beside her, pretending to admire a nearby bust. It's beautiful. My eyes are fixed on the stone, almost makes you want to reach out and touch it. Her gaze fixed down on my hands and back to my face. A ghost of

a smile plays on her lips. You're not allowed to touch the pieces, but that doesn't mean you can't touch other things. Her voice is a low, smooth contralto. She gives a subtle nod toward a massive, muscular statue of hercules tucked away in a dimly lit alcove. The cameras have a blind spot back there. My heart hammers against my ribs. This is it. I follow her into the shadows, the cool air behind the hulking marble statue, raising goosebumps

on my arms. The moment we're out of sight, she turns, presses me against the wall, her body flush against mine. Her hands are on my waist, Her thumbs drive small, firm circles. I was hoping you'd come over. Her mouth is hovering inches from mine. I was hoping you'd be watching. I close the gate between us, kissing her as a revelation. It's not the demanding crush of a man, but a soft, steering exploration. Her lips are surprisingly full, and she tastes

like coffee and mint. My hands come up to her shoulders, then slide down to her hips, pulling her impossibly closer. I can feel the soft give of her breasts against my own, the solid muscle of her thighs pressed to mind. It's a feeling I'd almost forgotten, and my body sings with the memory of it. Her hands are magic. One slides up my back, pulling me tight, while the other vetch hers south her palm, pressing firmly against the fun

of my dress, right over my mound. I cast into her mouth as a jolt of electricity shoots through me. She grinds her hand against me, and I can feel my own wetness begin to soak the thin fabric. This isn't enough. I need to feel her skin. My hands dyed under the hem of her uniform shirt, finding the warm, soft skin of her stomach. At the same time, her hand is up my dress, her fingers finding the damp lace of my panties. She doesn't hesitate. She slips a

finger underneath the elastic, finding my slick, swollen clod. A choke sob escapes my throat. Her touch is perfect, knowing she knows exactly where to press, hot to circle. I break the kiss, panting, and bury my face in the warm curve of her neck. My hips start to move on their own, a frantic rhythm against her expert hand. By turn, I managed to say, my own hand finding its way under the waistband of her trousers. She's not wearing panties. I find her just as wet and ready

as I am. Her fingers dance a desperate, phantic ballet in the shadows of the museum. I'm grinding against her, She's grinding against me, our hips locked together. I can feel her clit hard and pebbled under my fingertips at the same time she's stroking mine. It's an overload of sensation, the coal marble at my back, the soft press of her breast, her fingers inside me, my fingers inside her,

the muffled sounds of our phantic breathing. I'm so close, the pleasure coiling into an unbearable knot in my stomach. I look into her eyes and I can see the same imminent explosion reflected there are going to come together. Don't stop. Her voice is strained. I push my fingers faster, grinding my hips against hers with everything I have, pressing our hands together inside us, the world narrows to this single,

perfect point of contact. The orgasm hits us both. Her body goes rigid against mine, a sharp cry muffled against my shoulder, and it's all it takes to push me over my own climax rips through me, a silent, body racking spasm of pure bliss. My vision goes white, and the only thing I feel is her. All around me, sharing the same shuddering release. We stay like that for a long moment, clinging to each other in the dark, our body's trembling with the aftershocks. Slowly we pull apart,

a slick mess of shared pleasure. We fix our clothes, our hands, brushing the intimacy still hanging in the air. She gives me one last searing look, a look that says everything, before she melts back into the shadows and resumes her post. I walk out of the museum and into the bright afternoon sun. My leg's unsteady beneath me. I can't hear to look at priceless art. But she's the one who turned my body into a masterpiece.