by Catherine Chernow
Sensual. Seductive. Sculptures so erotic they become a white-hot feast for the eyes.
That’s what New York art promoter Sloan Benton sees the day she discovers the talent of sculptor, Dallen O’Neal. Dallen’s outrageous style gives Sloan a burning desire to learn more about him and the secret medium he’s using. He’s the sexiest, hottest, most dominant man she’s ever met and the best new talent in town, but she realizes too late that he’s also a painful forgotten memory from her past.
Dallen O’Neal wants revenge. Sloan Benton crushed his artistic spirit. He couldn’t sculpt anything for years after her cruelty, but his desire for her never waned. When she accepts the invitation to view his work, then his challenge to strip naked for art’s sake, he discovers Sloan’s submissive side. They share wild sex, including Sloan’s penchant for a spanking. Sloan captures his heart, but he thrusts her aside, intent on vengeance.
Jealousy, sex, submission and a hint of exhibitionism mingle together, making Dallen’s need for Sloan…
Excerpt:
Sloan ran her hands over the mound of cream between the woman’s legs. It felt hard, smooth, looked wickedly real.
“Have you guessed what I used?”
Dallen stood off to the side, watching her. From the corner of her eye, she noticed his dark gaze followed her every move.
She lifted her chin, hoping to quell the racing beat of her heart. Dallen O’Neal was a devastatingly gorgeous man. She longed to feel the sinewy lines of his body, felt captivated by his jet-black hair. His blue eyes shone, setting off the shadow of a beard lining his angular jaw.
Her pussy throbbed. Damn, she wasn’t here for a roll in the sack with a tall, dark, sexy guy, she was here to work and gain a new client.
She wanted Dallen, badly.
Um…as a client.
Yeah, right.
He was dressed in black from head to toe, the severe color emphasizing his height and muscled body. She wasn’t a short woman, but she got the feeling her head would barely reach his shoulder.
He certainly knew how to draw a crowd.
“So, are you going to tell me?”
He moved closer, so close she could smell him. A heady, musky, lemony fragrance drifted by her nose.
“Tell you what?” she managed.
She couldn’t remember the question.
He lifted a corner of his mouth. The tiny smile softened his chiseled face then a lock of his dark hair fell across one of his eyes. She had to stop herself from reaching up and brushing it aside.
She couldn’t think of a single thing to say. Strange, she was usually so glib, so self-assured.
He chuckled. “Cat got your tongue?”
At the mention of the word “tongue”, she imagined how his would feel. She glanced at the sculpture of the woman’s spread legs. How would Dallen’s tongue feel between her thighs? Would he pass the tip across her swollen pussy?
She shuddered pleasurably.
“Cold?” Dallen lifted a brow.
“No.” She shook her head. “I’m not.”
No, damn you, I’m burning up!
“Have you figured out the medium I’m using?”
She lifted a hand, intent on running it over the mound of whipped cream.
He placed his warm palm across the back of her hand. The contact of his skin against hers sent a zing down her back. It snaked its way to the top of her asscheeks, settling in the cleft between them.
How would it feel to have his large, warm palm there?
Fool! Concentrate. Answer his question already.
She shook her head, her fingers caressing the sculpture.
He whispered near her ear. “I usually don’t let anyone touch my sculptures.” He lifted her hand and placed it against the sculpted cunt.
Sloan touched the folds of flesh lining the vagina, her finger sliding across the small, rounded button nestled between those folds.
As if she stroked her own pussy.
“Feels real, doesn’t it?” he asked, his voice low.
Embarrassed that she’d let herself get so lost in his art, she tried to pull her hand away. He held it there.
“I’m not sure what medium you’re using.” She turned to face him, schooling her features, not wanting to let him know how he and his work affected her.
“Stick around and find out.”
He removed his hand, folding his arms across his chest. She missed the feel of his skin on hers, felt bereft at the loss of contact.
“I will.” She lifted her chin, hoping she sounded confident.
Dallen O’Neal was keeping her off balance, doing the unexpected.
Like his art.
He smiled. She wished he wouldn’t, because it did strange things to her pussy. It made it beat in time with her heart. Her clit ached for release. Her breasts felt heavy.
Sloan looked around. “You have a lot of visitors today.”
“You can only hope half will respond to an invitation, and that half of those will attend.”
Sloan saw a man walk through the door. Her eyes widened. “That’s the art critic from the Times.”
“So it is.”
She grabbed Dallen’s hand and tugged. “Let’s go talk to him.”
“I have something else planned right now.” He squeezed her fingers, his grip firm yet gentle, but he didn’t budge.
She lowered her voice. “You don’t snub the art critic from the Times.”
A strange look passed over his face when she said the word “snub”. He appeared lost in thought.
He spoke, his voice giving rise to anger simmering below the surface of his words.
“I have no intention of ignoring anyone, however, I can sell myself and my work. I don’t need him.” He angled his head. “Or you.”
Sloan felt her temper soar. “Then why did you invite me?”
“Perhaps I was curious.” He gave a casual shrug of his powerful shoulders. “I wanted to see if you’d come.”
“Maybe you don’t need me or my services.”
He smiled when she uttered the word “services”.
“But you’d be surprised how much you will need Griffin Thomas’ help.”
His arrogance made her want to stamp her foot in frustration. She lifted it, intent on doing just that.
His eyes met hers. His held challenge. She got the strangest feeling that if she did stomp the floor he’d retaliate. This time, her curiosity as well as her body became aroused at the thought of what he might do.
A tiny part of her wanted to experience the consequence.
She placed her foot on the floor, choosing to keep it there. “Artists are all cut from the same mold.”
“A clever statement, from a very clever woman.” He bowed his head slightly.
She couldn’t tell if he joked with her or if sarcasm was behind his acerbic tone.
“And just how are all we artists the same?” he asked.
“You have huge…” Her eyes swept over his groin. “Egos.”
She swallowed back desire, and something else, a bit of fear. Of what she wasn’t sure.
He didn’t respond right away. Instead, he leaned toward her and whispered in her ear. “So you’ve noticed.”
She didn’t know if she wanted to smack him or reach down and squeeze his “ego”.
He walked away, his swagger confident. Just when she thought he would ignore Griffin, he switched tracks, reaching out to shake the critic’s hand. She couldn’t hear what they said but it seemed as though Griffin was pleased.
She exhaled, her sigh filled with relief.
Why should she care? She glanced around Dallen’s studio, her eyes settling on his sculptures.
He was damn good, that’s why. It was imperative that she care before someone else did. Miles was right, she needed fresh, new talent to pander…
And all the money that came with it.
She’d be damned if she’d touch the trust fund her father had left her. She had done all right these last few years, although the sagging economy made her rethink dipping into her inheritance.
Promoting a client as talented as Dallen O’Neal would enable her to continue to lead her current, comfortable lifestyle.
She heard raised voices coming from the other side of the room.
Dallen focused his attention on a group of young women gathered off to the side, near some nude statues.
It rankled to see him with those other women.
One minute he was paying her so much attention she felt as if she were the only person in his studio and the next, his shitty, cocky attitude made her so angry she wanted to scream.
Damn, her pussy still throbbed.
She should just leave, walk right out the door and never look back, but the sight of the nude figures made her body melt, desire pooling between her thighs. Trying not to be obvious about her arousal, or how much it was fired by not only the art but the artist, her eyes drifted to the sculpted figures again.
Dallen O’Neal was one dangerous man…and so was his art.
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