“That would be above and beyond the call of duty.”
“Consider it done, Kat.” Then he said my name again as if it were a strange object he’d never seen. “Kat. What’s the story with Kat? Your parents didn’t actually name you Kat, did they?”
“Like that’s so implausible?”
“It’s like a writer’s name. A made-up name. It has to be short for something.”
“Didn’t my brother ever tell you?”
“Never.”
“Never ever?”
“I swear.”
“So guess then.”
“Ah, so it is short for something.”
I nodded.
“Here’s what I think. I think people guess first that it’s short for Katherine, or Kathleen. Or even Kathy.”
“They do.”
“And then, they guess Katie, or Kaitlin or even Katalina.”
“Those are next.”
“And then the slightly more adventuresome guess Katrina or Katya.”
“Katya? You do your homework.”
The gold flecks in his forest green eyes shimmered with playfulness. “But, I don’t think any of those are right.”
“They’re not.”
He leaned his shoulder closer to me. “You’re Katerina.”
He pulled away to gauge my reaction. My eyes were big and wide and sparkling. They said everything.
He pumped his fist in victory. “Damn. I impress myself.”
“You should be since I’ve never told anyone the name and haven’t used it.”
“Why not?”
“My mom always wanted me to be Kat. My dad said I needed a real name, so they named me Katerina. But no one ever called me that. So I’ve always been Kat. Funny, because now my mom calls me Katerina.”
“Kat is a perfect name for you. But so is Katerina. Did you ever think about using it?”
I shrugged my shoulders. “I got used to Kat. Once you’ve had a weird name, you just don’t give it up when you’re older. It becomes a badge of honor. Like you made it through life with people saying ‘Here, kitty, kitty’ or ‘Cat got your tongue?’”
Bryan laughed once. “Tongue.”
“Tongue?”
He leaned closer without touching. “So many things I want to do with my tongue.”
I smiled knowingly at him. “Like what?”
He downshifted his volume. “Like taste you.”
I lowered my eyes, as if that small act would hide the way sparks flew inside me.
“Right here? At the museum?”
“Here. There. Anywhere. I think about tasting you all the time.”
“You do?” The sparks became fireworks, crackling and zinging.
“Sometimes when I’m in a meeting I have to force myself to focus because I’m thinking about burying my face between your legs.”
“I guess our minds are never really on the meetings.”
“I’ll sometimes imagine everyone else is gone, and I’m in a conference room just with you, and you’re in a chair. Maybe even the power chair. And you spin around. You’re wearing a tight white blouse and a short skirt and you call me over, and all you do is point to the edge of your skirt.”
“And what do you do then?”
“I get down on my knees and push up your skirt and go down on you.”
“I bet that makes it really hard to focus at meetings.”
“Incredibly hard.” I raised an eyebrow and followed his gaze to his pants. I wanted to press a hand against him.
“What if I put my computer bag on your lap right now as a shield? Would you touch yourself?”
“Right here? On the bench in the middle of the Impressionist Gallery?”
He nodded, and lifted his computer bag, holding it above my legs.
“Are you serious?”
“If you want me to be serious.”
I nodded my assent, and he laid his bag gently across my thighs. I glanced around. Museumgoers were preoccupied with still lifes and landscapes. I overheard snippets of conversations, but they were all static noise to me. All I could process were Bryan’s words, as he moved his mouth perilously close to my ear. “Pretend you’re reaching inside the bag, and instead slide your hand up your skirt.”
I’d like to say I was nervous or cautious, but the truth was I was a live wire and I craved only one thing right now — touch. So I followed his order.
“Are you touching yourself?”
I nodded. I was afraid if I spoke I’d cry out.
“Are you wet for me?”
Another nod.
“How much?”
“On a scale of one to ten?”
“Yes.”
“One hundred.”
He breathed out hard. “God, I want to taste you right now.”
I flipped through my mental rolodex of bathroom locations in the Met. “Basement level. There’s a two-stall bathroom off in a far corner.”
“Let’s go.”
I adjusted my skirt as he stood up. I handed him his computer bag and he positioned it strategically as we walked quickly past seascapes and portraits, then Egyptian relics and stone horses, until we reached the white marble stairwell at one end of the wing. I turned down the steps to the basement level, and he followed, and soon I found the quiet bathroom. I opened the door first, and peered around. It was empty.
“Coast is clear.” I pulled him inside, then into a stall. I shut the door and as I was sliding the lock in place, Bryan’s hands were in my hair, and his mouth was on my neck.