Chapter 182 Stepsister 1

Chapter 182 Stepsister 1
The air in the gallery tasted of champagne, money, and barely concealed hunger. White walls glowed under pinpoint spotlights that carved every curve and shadow from Victor Kane’s photographs into something almost obscene. Critics circled like elegant vultures, murmuring approval at the technical mastery while their eyes betrayed the real reason they had come: to drink in the nakedness blown up to life-size, to pretend they were above it.
Elena Voss moved among them in a backless black dress that clung to her like a second skin, the slit climbing high enough to promise scandal with every step. At thirty-eight, she had curated shows that made careers and broken others. Tonight was hers. Victor Kane was the most notorious erotic photographer alive, and she had lured him to her gallery with a single phone call and the kind of smile that made men sign away their souls.
She felt him before she saw him: Victor, leaning against the far wall, arms folded, watching the room the way a wolf watches a pen of lambs. Tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in charcoal that looked slept-in and perfect. His gaze slid over the crowd and settled on her. Elena lifted her chin, met it, held it. The corner of his mouth curved, slow and filthy.
Then she saw the girl.
Liana stood beneath the largest print in the show, a ten-foot-tall image of herself sprawled across white silk, thighs open, fingers buried between them, head thrown back in a silent scream of release. In the photograph her eyes were half-lidded, lips parted, skin flushed rose and gold. In the flesh she wore a slip of silver fabric that barely qualified as a dress, nipples dark against the thin material, legs endless. She was staring at the image of herself the way someone might stare at a lover caught in the act: possessive, angry, aroused.
Elena’s pulse kicked hard. She crossed the room, heels silent on the polished concrete.
“You’re late,” she said to Liana, though the girl had been here for hours.
Liana turned. Up close she was younger than the photographs suggested, maybe twenty-five, with a mouth painted slick crimson and eyes the color of winter sea. “Traffic,” she lied, voice low, a little rough, like she’d been screaming or smoking or both.
“You look good up there,” Elena continued, tilting her head toward the wall. “Almost better than in person.”
Liana’s smile was sharp enough to cut. “Almost?”
Guests drifted closer, drawn by the electricity crackling between them. Elena ignored them. She reached out, brushed an invisible speck from Liana’s bare shoulder. The girl’s skin was fever-hot.
“Victor says you’re difficult,” Elena murmured.
“Victor says a lot of things.” Liana’s gaze dropped to Elena’s mouth. “Most of them while he’s inside me.”
A soft gasp from someone nearby. Elena didn’t flinch. She leaned in until her lips almost touched Liana’s ear. “Careful, darling. Some of us bite harder than he does.”
The lights dimmed for the speech Elena was supposed to give. She left Liana standing there, flushed and furious, and took the small dais. Words flowed: provocation, the male gaze subverted, the sanctity of desire. Polite applause. She didn’t hear any of it. She was watching Liana watch her, watching Victor watch them both.
An hour later the last guest was gone. The catering staff vanished with their crates. Silence rushed in like floodwater.
Elena found Liana in the back storage room, running one fingertip along the edge of a canvas still wet with crimson oil. Victor’s overflow work, too explicit even for this show.
“You shouldn’t touch,” Elena said from the doorway.
Liana didn’t turn. “Why not? Everything else in here has been touched. Fucked. Photographed until it forgets its own name.”
Elena stepped inside and closed the door. The click of the lock sounded enormous.
“Jealous of a painting?” she asked.
Liana faced her. “I’m jealous of every lens that’s ever looked at me the way you’re looking at me right now.”
The distance between them disappeared in three strides. Elena grabbed a fistful of that silver dress and yanked Liana forward, crashing their mouths together. No gentleness, no hesitation. Teeth clashed, tongues fought for dominance. Liana tasted like gin and salt and something darker.
Elena spun her, slammed her back against the wet canvas. Paint smeared across silver fabric, across skin. Liana laughed into the kiss, wild and breathless, then bit Elena’s lower lip hard enough to draw blood. Elena growled and shoved a thigh between Liana’s legs, forcing them apart. The girl was already soaked; Elena felt it through the thin barrier of her own dress.
“Thought you were the ice queen curator,” Liana taunted, voice ragged.
“I am,” Elena said, and ripped the front of the silver dress open with one brutal tug. Buttons pinged across the floor. Liana’s breasts spilled free, small and high, nipples tight. Elena pinched one viciously, rolled it between fingers until Liana cried out. “Ice queens still fuck.”
She pushed Liana down onto the tarp-covered floor amid half-finished canvases and broken stretcher bars. Paint pots toppled, indigo and scarlet splashing across bare skin. Elena straddled her, pinning both wrists above her head with one hand. With the other she dragged her nails down Liana’s throat, between her breasts, over the trembling plane of her stomach to the ruined scrap of dress still clinging to her hips.
Liana arched, trying to grind against Elena’s thigh. “Please.”
“Please what?” Elena leaned down, licked a stripe up Liana’s neck, tasting sweat and oil paint. “Use your words, little muse.”
“Finger me. Fuck me. Make me come so hard I forget every camera that’s ever owned me.”
Elena’s smile was slow and cruel. She released Liana’s wrists only to shove the remains of the dress up to her waist. No underwear. Of course. Liana was shaved bare, slick and swollen, clit peeking from its hood like it was begging. Elena traced one finger through the wetness, barely grazing, watching Liana’s hips chase her hand.
“Greedy,” she whispered.
She plunged two fingers deep without warning. Liana’s back bowed off the floor, a strangled moan tearing free. Elena curled her fingers, found the spot that made Liana’s eyes roll back, and worked it mercilessly. Her thumb pressed hard circles over Liana’s clit. The sounds were obscene: wet, rhythmic, desperate.
“More,” Liana gasped. “God, please, more.”
Elena added a third finger, stretching her, fucking her so hard the tarp bunched beneath them. Paint smeared everywhere, crimson handprints on Liana’s thighs, indigo streaks across Elena’s arms. She leaned down and sucked a nipple into her mouth, teeth scraping, tongue flicking, until Liana was sobbing with need.
From the shadowed corner came the soft click of a camera shutter.
They both froze.
Victor stood in the doorway, silhouetted, lens already trained on them. He didn’t speak. Just watched, one hand adjusting himself through his trousers.
Elena met his eyes over Liana’s trembling body and smiled like a demon. She crooked one paint-smeared finger at him. Come closer.
He didn’t. Not yet.
Instead Elena redoubled her assault, fingers slamming deep, thumb grinding Liana’s clit until the girl shattered. Liana came with a scream that echoed off concrete walls, pussy clenching around Elena’s fingers in violent pulses, juices flooding Elena’s hand, the tarp, everything. Her body shook so hard Elena had to hold her down to keep her from bucking away.
When it passed, Liana lay wrecked and panting, eyes glazed, lips swollen. Elena pulled her fingers free slowly, deliberately, then brought them to her own mouth and licked them clean while staring at Victor.
He took one step into the light, then another, camera still in hand.
Elena rose to her knees, dress ruined, skin streaked with paint and sweat and Liana’s release. She looked down at the girl sprawled beneath her, chest heaving, thighs trembling.
“Get up,” she said softly.
Liana obeyed on shaky legs. Elena turned her, pressed her front against the wet canvas once more, this time facing it. She kicked Liana’s feet wider, then looked over her shoulder at Victor.
“Your muse is still hungry,” Elena said. “And I’m just getting started.”
Victor lowered the camera. His smile matched hers, dark and ravenous.
Outside, the city kept moving, oblivious. Inside the locked gallery, the night was only beginning.