After a tragedy, Amila Johnson abandons her life in New York and retreats back to her birthplace of Houston. She tries to start anew but she can't get far with the skills of being an almost classically trained ballerina.
Deciding to take up her fri...
Dominic had chemistry with everyone and anyone. He was one of those people who brightened up your day whenever he graced you with his presence. Amila saw it on the faces of the people he came in contact with once the plane touched down in London. The driver greeted him like they were old childhood friends, the doorman at the hotel they checked into beamed like a boy on Christmas when he saw Dominic exit the luxury sedan, and now the art dealer he was talking to gave him her undivided attention and her body language suggested she wanted him to part something of hers.
Amila didn't stick around to see more of the flirtatious exchange and business dealing. Nor was she jealous. In some way, she and the woman were the same; using what they had to get what they needed. Only Nora, who sang her name once they entered the corner gallery that smelled like nothing but filled one with mystery as they wondered what masterful piece of art they'd find on the walls after the images in the windows drew them in like an ant to a trail of honey, wasn't going just as far as she was. Nora arched her back and pushed up her full breast, which was probably a cup size bigger than Amila's but she wasn't going to screw him in the back to make a deal. Amila was doing that.
Trading sex for a comfortable life. Amila tucked her hands in the pockets of her new fitted leather motorcycle jacket, the tall block of her over-the-knee boots clacked against the lacquered concrete floor as she sauntered down the halls admitting to a truth she hadn't admitted to anyone aloud. She didn't feel bad for doing what she was doing or rather about to do. She wanted to have sex with someone and she wanted that someone to be Dominic.
She knew that during their first date and the hours after their date. Their date lasted until midnight, it would've been later but she had to squeeze in one more practice before her performance. After she completed her routine her instructor told her she embodied passion with her every move; Amila knew it was because Dominic was on her mind throughout the entire performance.
She would fuck him for money. She'd fuck him for free. She'd fuck him during the day. She'd fuck him at night. She'd fuck him in any room, anywhere, in any way.
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A smirk rose up her glossed lips as she stopped in front of the portrait of a woman with the same deep brown complexion as a wave crashed into her body. The woman seemed at peace, ejected from the world and the rules that society placed on her or the pains that life could bring. She was content in her moment of solitude, with the vastness of the ocean admiring its power without relinquishing her own. Amila wanted to be that strong and peering at the portrait gave her inspiration that it was possible. She could be that powerful one day.
"How do you do it?" Dominic's deep voice was smooth as molasses gliding over her skin and seeping into her heart morphing her smirk to a gentle smile.
She leaned back into his body and his arms wrapped around her waist as if they were made to be there. "Do what?"
He lowered his mouth to her ear and whispered. "Make looking for art sexy."
"Thou protest too much." She grinned before lifting her head to gaze up at him.
