Varga's Girl

The Vargas Girl by Kris Eton The Vargas Girl By Kris Eton 2 The Vargas Girl by Kris Eton...

Author: Eton Kris

20 downloads 478 Views 557KB Size Report

This content was uploaded by our users and we assume good faith they have the permission to share this book. If you own the copyright to this book and it is wrongfully on our website, we offer a simple DMCA procedure to remove your content from our site. Start by pressing the button below!
Report copyright / DMCA form

DOWNLOAD PDF

The Vargas Girl by Kris Eton

The Vargas Girl By Kris Eton

2


This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. The Vargas Girl Copyright© 2008 Kris Eton ISBN: 978‐1‐60088‐230‐2 Cover Artist: Sable Grey Editor: Melanie Noto All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews. Cobblestone Press, LLC www.cobblestone‐press.com

3


Chapter One Her long legs were spread; toes, pointed to the ceiling. All she wore was a pair of thigh‐high fishnet stockings. One arm was artfully thrown behind her head, her back was arched, and her red hair fanned out across the pillow. Her naked breasts, with their rosy nipples, were creamy and round. “She’s perfect,” Tyler Jameson said. “She’s for sale.” The gray‐haired man behind the counter in the antique shop grinned. Ty touched a fingertip to the oil painting in front of him and traced the line of the model’s lush body. “Going up for auction tomorrow. Nine o’clock. Here’s the catalog.” He passed Ty a glossy booklet. The Vargas Girl painting was prominently displayed on its cover. “I was already planning on being there.” He flipped to the page where the painting was listed. Original oil by Alberto Vargas, valued at eighteen‐thousand dollars. “A fan of his work, eh?” The older man came out from behind the counter and admired the painting with Ty. “I own a few.” He thought of his living room, where every square inch of wall space was covered with Vargas originals and a few prints. “But I’ve been looking for this one for a long time.” He scanned the details of the painting again. A beautiful redhead, curvaceous and naked, lay

4


sprawled across an antique bed. Her blue‐green eyes were half‐closed and beckoning, and her red bow of a mouth was slightly parted. “She’s a special one. I was lucky to get a hold of her.” “Oh?” Ty pulled his gaze away from the painting. “It came from an estate sale. Had been in the family’s private collection for years.” “So why did they sell?” Ty couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to lose such a special piece of art. An original Vargas oil painting was hard to come by. “Guess the heirs thought it was in poor taste. The subject matter was a little too risqué for their sensibilities.” Ty shook his head at the heirs’ ignorance. Alberto Vargas was well‐respected and admired for his sexy pop art. Collectors of his work paid a pretty penny to buy even half‐finished sketches. The tinkle of a bell told them another customer had entered the shop. “May I help you?” the owner asked, addressing the new arrival. Ty went back to the catalog, reading the details of the painting. “Yes, I wanted to get a look at...oh, there it is.” Ty smelled her before he saw her. He breathed in the subtle scent of jasmine with a hint of something spicy underneath. Then he looked up from the catalog and discovered she looked as good as she smelled. He couldn’t breathe. For standing right in front of him, was a living, breathing Vargas model. Her hair was shorter than the woman’s in the painting, but it was the same shade of fiery red. She had the same bow mouth, the same green‐blue eyes, and the same curvy figure. Rounded breasts, a slender waist, and a wide flare of hips. His dick hardened in a flash. The gorgeous redhead ignored him. “The auction is tomorrow, right?” She addressed the shop owner like Ty didn’t even exist. Or she was just so used to being ogled, he didn’t register on her radar. “That’s right, miss,” said the antique dealer. “Tomorrow, at nine o’clock sharp. Did you want to register for a paddle number? You can do that right now, if you’d like.”

5


“A paddle number?” Her back was now to Ty, giving him a look at the rear view of her body. He leaned an elbow on the counter. Her backside was almost better than the front. She had a perfectly rounded ass. In a flash, he was fantasizing. She lay sprawled across his bed, just like in the picture. He slid his hands up her body, taking time to caress and squeeze those peaches‐and‐cream tits. Then he slid between her legs and thrust himself into her warm, wet pussy, and.... “Excuse me,” the woman addressed him. “Do you mind?” She arched a brow. Ty’s face grew warm. This wasn’t the best place to think about sex. His dick was now as hard as a piece of concrete, and he was miles from his house and a cold shower. Heaven help him if she noticed his hard‐on. He cleared his throat. “What? Um...what do you—?” “The registration book? You’re leaning on it.” She tugged on a red binder stuck under his elbow. The shop owner hid a grin. He knew what Ty was up to. Ty lifted his arm, and she pulled out the binder. “Thank you.” “Just sign your name, address, phone number, and etc., and I’ll assign you a paddle number. You can pick it up tomorrow when the doors open at eight.” The owner directed the beauty to an open slot in the binder. Was it just coincidence that this woman, who happened to look just like the subject of the painting, was bidding on it? That would be too insane. Ty was intrigued to find out more about this beautiful look‐a‐like. “So, you’re interested in the Vargas, too?” he asked, his voice cracking. She filled out the page, keeping her baby blues on the paper in front of her. “That’s right.” “Better watch out. I’m prepared to bid pretty high, if I have to.” “Is that so?” She put down the pen and looked at him. He could barely think straight with her eyes on him. It was like she could see into the very depths of his soul. Like she knew he was one two‐ minute fantasy away from losing control. “Are you a collector?”

6


“Collect this trash?” she asked. “You’ve got to be kidding. If I win the auction tomorrow, I’m burning that painting.” Both Ty’s and the shop owner’s mouths dropped open in shock. “Burn it?” Ty said, disbelief choking off any chance at politeness. “Are you crazy? It’s a work of art. Why would you buy it, if you only want to destroy it?” “I have my reasons.” Her blue eyes smoldered with an icy fire. She turned her back on Ty. “I’ll be here first thing tomorrow to pick up that paddle. Thank you for your help.” The woman, with the figure of a goddess and a face that had filled his fantasies for years, left the store without another word. * * * * * Sasha Rennik flipped open her cell phone and pressed redial. She stood outside the antique shop, a smile on her face. “Hey, Sash.” It was her younger sister, Stephanie. “What’d you find out?” “It’s the right one,” Sasha told her sister. “I’m all set for tomorrow. I think we can pull it off.” “So it’s just like Grandma described?” “Yep, every last detail.” Sasha brushed her hair back from her forehead. Chicago wasn’t known as the Windy City for nothing. “Look, make sure you’ve got the money ready. I have a feeling I might need every penny.” “Why do you say that?” Sasha thought of the man on the other side of the shop door. He was tall and dark, with a roving eye. “I ran into a pretty passionate collector. Sounds like he might put up a fight.” “You didn’t tell him you were going to bid on the painting, did you?” “I might have let it slip.” “Now that he knows you’re interested...are you sure we’re going to have enough?”

7


“Grandma left us enough.” She headed to her car parked down the street. “We’ll be fine.” “Are you sure?” “Trust me. We’ve got it in the bag.” They said their goodbyes, and Sasha snapped her phone shut. Her mind wandered back to the mysterious collector in the antique store. He seemed awfully taken with the painting...and awfully taken with her. If it hadn’t been so dark in the shop, she would have sworn he had a hard‐on. Too bad he liked to collect smutty paintings. He probably liked to collect smutty women, too. Any man who had a collection of naked women on his walls had a serious problem, she was sure. She looked forward to outbidding this guy and anyone else at the auction tomorrow who thought that painting was art. Of course, a man would think a painting of some woman’s tits was art. Disgusting.

8


Chapter Two The auction room was crowded. Filled to capacity. And Ty knew why most of them were there. Renee, 1954. When he’d first arrived and picked up his paddle, he’d scanned for the beautiful look‐a‐like from yesterday. She’d seemed so determined to win that painting, she had to be here somewhere. But he couldn’t find her. No surprise. The room was filled with antique furniture, art of all kinds, statues, china, and every little knick‐knack imaginable. This morning was a special art auction, with Renee being the centerpiece, but later on would be the furniture sale. Ty took a seat in a flowered armchair in the back. He had a good view of the auctioneer’s podium, but was hidden from a majority of the bidders. Just the way he liked it. He had a system, and that system had resulted in many winning bids. The auction began. A few other pieces were offered first, and the bidding was slow. To place a bid, professionals raised an eyebrow or nodded their heads. These slight cues to the auctioneer kept their identity and bidding strategy hidden from their competition. But many were green, shouting out when they were interested in bidding and waving their paddles like flags. The subtleties of the auction were lost on them. Ty started to feel as if this might be one of his easier battles. “Now, lot number 1215. Renee, 1954 by Alberto Vargas,” the auctioneer announced. “Valued at eighteen‐thousand dollars.”

9


A hush fell over the room. Ty tried one last time to find the redheaded bidder, but she was nowhere to be found. “Let’s begin at twelve‐thousand. A bid of twelve‐thousand anyone?” A shout from the back of the room got things going. The price quickly climbed to the eighteen‐thousand dollar valuation. The bidding was fast and furious, full of shouts, nods, and multiple bids at the same price. Ty waited for the bidding to slow down. He’d seen this before, and knew to wait it out. When the price reached twenty‐nine‐thousand dollars, there was a lull, and the auctioneer announced, “Going once, going twice—” “Twenty‐nine, five,” a soft, silky voice over to the right said. It was the redhead. He knew it. She’d just bid twenty‐nine‐ thousand, five‐hundred. Did she think it would be that easy to get that painting? Did she really think she was going to win at that price? “Do I hear thirty?” the auctioneer posed to the bidders. Ty touched the side of his nose, agreeing to the new asking price. “Do I hear thirty‐one?” the auctioneer was now jumping ahead by a thousand, weeding out the insincere bidders. Ty saw a feminine hand stick her paddle in the air. It was her. She was going to be his competition. All right. If she wanted it that way. “Thirty‐two?” Ty touched his nose again. As the price crept closer to forty‐thousand dollars, Ty sensed the crowd’s mood changing. Everyone seemed to be holding their breath. The price was now more than twice the valuation of the painting. How much longer could this woman hold out? Didn’t she know he’d never let someone win who was going to burn it? The painting he’d been aching to own for years now? The one Vargas Ty thought he might never have the chance to see, and now he had it within his grasp? “Thirty‐nine?” Ty touched his nose. The woman gasped. “No!”

10


He figured she’d reached her limit. He was going to take Renee home. “Thirty‐nine going once, going twice—” “Wait, wait...thirty‐nine thousand, two‐hundred and seventy‐ five...no, eight‐five cents.” “Forty thousand,” Ty said. He’d never bid aloud before. He liked his anonymity to some degree. Just being a face in the crowd with his paddle. But there was something about this particular auction...about the woman and her callous misunderstanding of art...that had him riled. He wanted to crush her. She sobbed. He ignored it and stamped out the small amount of pity welling up inside him. He was going to win Renee and have her on his wall. “Forty thousand going once, going twice. Sold to number two‐ ninety‐three.” * * * * * Disbelief rooted Sasha to the floor. She’d thought she had plenty of money to buy the painting. The list price was only eighteen‐thousand dollars, giving her a huge cushion with which to work. But then number two‐ninety‐three, whoever he was, had kept bidding. Couldn’t he see how much she wanted it? How she had to have it? She flipped open her phone. The crowd of bidders swarmed around her. “Steph? Steph, it’s me. I can barely hear you. It’s really loud in here.” “Did you get it? Are you going to bring it home?” The hope in Stephanie’s voice was almost more than she could bear. “No.” Tears pricked Sasha’s eyes. “I didn’t—” “What? How could you have—who would—?” “Someone outbid me. Forty‐thousand, Steph. I just couldn’t manage it. I’m sorry.”

11


“Go track down the bastard. We can find another fifteen‐hundred bucks somewhere. Offer him more than he paid. I can live off pasta for a month. We can do it.” “I don’t know. He seemed pretty intent on winning.” “You can’t give up, Sash. We promised Grandma.” “I know, Steph, but—” “No buts. You have find that guy and ask him to give it to you. Make him. Promise me you’ll try.” Sasha scanned the crowd. It was thinning out, and many of the winners were gathering near the back of the room to pay for their items. Maybe she could find number two‐ninety‐three. She saw a flash of red paddle with those white numbers: two...nine...three.. Yes. “I’ll call you back, Steph.” She pushed her way through a throng of elderly women admiring a tea set on the table next to her. “What? What are you doing, Sasha?” “Later.” Sasha hung up the phone and kept her eye trained on the paddle. Not until she was a few feet away from it did she recognize the owner. “It’s you,” she said. Anger burned inside of her. The tall man with the dark hair and even darker eyes from yesterday turned around and scanned her figure, letting his gaze linger on her breasts, then sliding it up to her eyes. “I was wondering if we’d meet again.” The smile on his face was arrogant. Smug, even. She tugged at her top. Why in the hell had she chosen to wear such a low‐cut sweater? For some reason, this guy made her feel like she was standing naked in front of him. “Why did you do that?” “Do what?” He watched her tugging intently. She stopped the fussing, realizing it was only drawing more attention to her breasts. “Bid on my painting.” “Since when is a painting yours before you bid on it?” He crossed his arms like he was very interested in hearing her answer. “I can offer you more.” “Why didn’t you do that earlier?”

12


“I didn’t have—my sister—” She flailed for words. Usually she had no problem speaking her mind. Why did this man make it so hard? “I’ll give you forty‐one for it,” she finally spat out. He lingered, looking at her like he was examining a piece of ripe fruit to buy. “Very tempting.” His gaze dipped into her cleavage again. “But I have to say no.” He turned away and signed the credit slip for his payment. She grabbed him by the elbow. He glanced at her hand. “You don’t understand. I have to have that painting.” “Oh, I think I do understand. You’re one of those radical types. Like to ruin art for the sake of feminist ideals. Exploiting women, and all that crap. If you think I’m going to let you buy this painting from me—a painting I’ve been wanting to add to my collection for years—just so you can burn it in some ritualistic, political bonfire, you’ve got to be out of your mind. You might be gorgeous, but looks can only get you so far, honey.” He directed his next words to the cashier behind the window. “Deliver it to my home address, will you?” He brushed by Sasha and walked out, leaving her standing in the crowd of bidders. The auctioneer called out the next item from the catalog, and the bidding started again. She couldn’t let him get away. She at least had to find out his name, so she would know where the painting was going. “Excuse me,” she said to the short, balding man handling the payments. “Can you tell me who that man was?” She pointed at the dark, handsome figure of number two‐ninety‐three. “That was Tyler Jameson.” “Tyler Jameson, huh?” She committed his name to memory. “Thanks.”

13


Chapter Three “Perfect.” Tyler admired Renee, 1954, which was now hanging over his stone fireplace. “She sure is a beaut,” Damon said. Tyler’s best friend gave the painting an admiring glance while taking a sip of beer. “I’ve never had a thing for redheads, but yowza. I do now.” “Get your shoes off my table, DJ.” Ty kicked his friend’s feet to the floor. Damon rolled his eyes. “Yes, Mom.” He got up from the couch and strolled around the room. “If I were you, I’d spend a lot of time in here, where I’d have beautiful, naked women all around me. Perfect place to spend some quality time, late at night—” “Ha, ha. I get it. But that’s not why I buy these paintings.” Ty stepped closer to his newest acquisition. “Do you see the incredible detail? The life Vargas brings to his subjects? They’re sexy, but demure at the same time.” “Come on, you haven’t jacked off to one of these babies? Ever?” Damon stood next to his friend staring up at the work of art. “Guess I just prefer the real thing.” Ty’s mind wandered to the real life Renee he saw at the auction the other day. Yes, the real thing would be nice. Even though she’d been angry at him, he couldn’t help but admire her curves in all the right places. He’d wanted to get lost in her cleavage. Those soft tits presented quite a visual feast. Who was she? And why had she been so intent on winning that painting?

14


“There was this woman,” he found himself saying to his friend. “At the action.” “A real woman? Now you’ve got my attention.” Damon sat back down on the couch and drank his beer. “What woman?” “She looked just like this.” He gestured at his newest acquisition. Damon choked on his drink. “And you let her get away?” “She hates me. She thinks I’m a pervert.” “Well, with this little obsession of yours,” he scanned the walls covered in half‐naked women, “I’d have to agree.” “Shut up, DJ. I’m serious. She hates my guts. I outbid her and made her cry.” “Crying over losing an auction? Seems a little extreme, don’t you think?” “I don’t know. At first, I thought she was a whacko. She said something about wanting to burn the painting.” “Burn it? Uh, yeah, I’d say she’s a whacko. Who’d spend that much money on a painting just to burn it?” “Exactly. It doesn’t make sense,” said Ty. “I’ve been thinking about it all week.” “Thinking about it, or thinking about her?” Damon tipped his chin in the direction of the painting. Ty’s fantasies hadn’t stopped with that one day in the antique store. If he could be brutally honest with his friend, he’d tell him he’d awakened nightly with hard‐on after hard‐on, having to take care of things himself. Masturbating in the bathroom at two a.m. wasn’t his idea of a good time. Knowing that his fantasy girl existed in the flesh was more than a man could take. He leaned against the mantel. “I’ve got to find out who she is.” “Okay. Whoa, bud.” Damon straightened the lapels on his jacket. “She might be hot, but she’s a whack job. And hooking up with someone like that usually doesn’t turn out too good. Next thing you know, she’s tailing you on the Dan Ryan Expressway and wondering why you haven’t called her umpteen times a day.” “I know, I know. I’m probably only asking for trouble. But—“

15


Damon nodded in brotherly sympathy. “She’s fucking hot.” “Yes. She is definitely fucking hot,” Ty agreed dismally. “Who am I to get in the way of a bro and his dick? Go where the erection leadeth, my friend.” He held up his beer bottle like it was a lantern guiding his way. “It’s obvious you need to get her out of your system.” “I don’t even know her name.” Ty paced in front of the fireplace. “You’re a smart guy. You’ve got connections, right?” “Not the right kind when it comes to finding a gorgeous redhead.” “Start at the scene of the crime,” said Damon. Ty stopped in his tracks. “The scene of the crime?” “Where’d you first see her?” “At the antique store.” “Ah‐ha. Would someone there know who she is?” “Probably not.” He thought back to that first day in the store. She’d signed the book for an auction paddle. “But it just might give me a place to start.” “See? What’d I tell you?” Damon said in triumph. “The scene of the crime. Works every time.” * * * * * Stephanie was mad, and Sasha didn’t blame her. “You’ve had his name for almost a week now, and you haven’t done anything?” her sister asked. It was a beautiful Saturday morning in downtown Chicago. One of those Indian summer days that tricks everyone into believing the warm weather will last forever. “We’ve got to get that painting. We promised.” “I know what we promised, Steph.” They were seated at an outdoor café near the Art Institute of Chicago, sipping coffee and eating scones. “I just don’t know what else I can tell this guy to convince him to sell the painting to me. He thinks I’m some kind of crazed femi‐nazi or something.”

16


“Give it to me.” Steph put out her hand for the business card Sasha held with Tyler Jameson’s name and address written on the back. “I’ll go see him.” “Not so fast, sister.” Sasha drew the card up against her chest. “This is my fault, and I want to be the one to fix it. Anyway, I’ve got an idea.” “What kind of idea? I don’t like that look on your face.” Her sister tucked a strand of red hair, identical to Sasha’s, behind her ear and scrutinized her face. “Last time you had that look in your eye, I had to bail you out of a pretty compromising position.” “That was a long time ago.” “Yes, but the memory of John Stilton’s naked ass is burned into my brain.” Stephanie shuddered. “You told me you’d never bring that up again, remember?” “Can you imagine if Mom walked in on you two, doing it in their bed?” Steph twirled a coffee stirrer between her fingers. “Hoo, boy, she would have given you a good month’s grounding, at least.” “All right, all right. I get it. I owe you a lot.” Sasha plucked the coffee stirrer from between Stephanie’s fingers. “There, did I stroke your ego enough?” Stephanie shrugged. “Just doing my sisterly duties. So, what’s the plan?” “A good old‐fashioned seduction.” “What, is this a Tennessee Williams play? Do you really think you’re going to wheedle a forty‐thousand dollar painting out of this guy with a little slap‐and‐tickle? I wouldn’t think that was your style, offering sex for—” “Dummy! I’m not going to fuck him. What do you think I am?” Stephanie opened her mouth, a snappy reply most likely at the ready. “Don’t answer that.” Sasha gave her sister a smirk. “I’m going to make him think I’m going to fuck him, and then—” There was a pause. “Well, don’t leave me hanging? Then what?” Steph asked.

17


Sasha let out a breath. “Then, I don’t know. I’m going to sort of wing it from there.” “Wing it? This is your great plan?” Stephanie scowled. “All right, give me his address, I’m going over there. He won’t know what hit him.” “Steph, no. Wait a second.” She put up her hands in protest. “Let me try it my way first. Better to kill him with kindness.” “Just remember—” Steph broke off and indicated the cloudless sky above them. “Grandma’s watching.” “I promise I won’t let her down, sis.” Sasha finished her scone. Her mind should have been on the rest of her plan, but instead, all she could think about were the dark, sexy eyes of the man she’d met in the auction hall. It was like he could see right through her clothes. Her nipples zinged at the memory. “I promise.”

18


Chapter Four Sasha spent most of the afternoon trying to get it right. The right dress, the right hairstyle, the right makeup. She ended up in a sexy halter dress with an obscenely low‐cut back. Its smooth blue silk molded to her figure. She’d never been brave enough to wear it out anywhere. It was a sale item Stephanie had insisted she buy because the price made it a steal, and the fit...? Well, the fit was perfection. She turned to check her ass in the mirror. And thank God she did. The edge of her thong panties were visible above the low back of the dress. “Classy, Rennik.” No underwear, it was. She slipped off the thong and tucked it back into her lingerie drawer. Who would know? She’d wear a coat all the way to Tyler Jameson’s apartment, and at the right moment, she’d slip it off, drive him completely mad with longing, and then, while he was distracted by her ample charms, offer him the money again. Maybe he’d get some crazy notion she’d include a sexual favor with the exchange for the painting, but she wouldn’t let it get that far. She’d just make him think she would go that far. She’d handled men like him before. She was somewhat attractive, and she’d seen men stare, even when she wore business attire. Most of the attention, she’d convinced herself, was from some weird thing men had about redheads. Red hair stood out in a crowd. But red hair on a

19


reasonably attractive woman with a figure? Watch out. She was used to dealing with it. Tyler Jameson would not be a problem. Didn’t matter how dark or tall or sexy he was— Sexy? When did she ever think of him as sexy? He wasn’t bad looking, but he was more irritating than anything else. And vulgar. He liked paintings of naked women, remember? She slipped on her high‐heels, wrapped up in a trench coat, and gave herself one last look in the mirror. “Let’s go, Sash. You can do this.” * * * * * Ty was drunk. Damon had stayed for a few more hours, and they’d both had too many beers. Hard not to drink when reminiscing about all the women the two of them had loved and lost. Well, Damon wasn’t all that upset about the losses—but he was upset about having to find new sex partners every few months. DJ was a playboy with a capital P. Ty didn’t really register the knocking at first. His ears were buzzing, and his mind was a little fuzzy. But the doorbell’s ring broke right through the alcoholic blur. Now who would be at the door on a Saturday afternoon? He looked at his watch. Make that Saturday evening. Where had the time gone? He must have fallen asleep. Did he have some date he’d forgotten about? Shit. His mind was so fuzzy, he couldn’t think straight. The doorbell rang again. “Coming,” he mumbled. He stumbled into the entry hall and tried to fix his hair by patting it down. “Who is it?” he asked as he opened the door. It was his Renee. His vision. His fantasy. He had to be seeing things.

20


“Hey, I hope you don’t mind my stopping by,” the beauty in a form‐fitting bright blue dress said. She had a trench coat draped over her arm. If a man’s eyes could pop out of his head, his must have. Her breasts were molded by the blue dress, and he could see her nipples clearly. The v‐neck was so low cut, if he leaned far enough to one side, he could see the undersides of their rounded silkiness. Exquisite. Perfect. Luscious. “No, um…I don’t mind.” He swung the door open. This had to be a dream. “Why don’t you come inside?” She brushed past him, the softness of her arm like silk on satin. “I got your name from the auction house. I hope that’s okay with you.” Not only was the front of her dress scandalously low, the back dipped so far down, he could have sworn she wasn’t wearing anything underneath it. His dick hardened. She was pantiless, with her nipples jutting out. He let his imagination go. Why not? She was just part of his drunken stupor. He imagined her wet and ripe. He wanted to slide his hand up underneath that dress and find out just how tight and hot her pussy might be. He tried to grab at her, but she was too quick. She strolled into his living room. “I see you are quite the collector. And there she is, Renee, 1954.” “Yes,” he said, sliding his gaze over her. “Here you are. How’d you get here, Renee?” “I told you—” She narrowed her eyes. “Who do you think I am? Have you been drinking?” He sensed a tenseness in her now. No, his fantasy couldn’t be tense. She had been conjured up by his own brain for his pleasure. “Come here.” He grabbed her wrist and pulled her close. She struggled against him. “Mr. Jameson, just what do you think you’re doing?”

21


Ah, she felt so perfect in his arms. Warm. Warmer than he’d expected. And so firm and alive. He squeezed her hip. The slipperiness of the fabric made her feel so much better. Like her whole body was slick and hot. He pressed his erection against her. Renee sucked in her breath. He stared down into her blue‐green eyes. They were beautiful eyes, and he saw the beginning of desire in them. Just like he’d always fantasized. “I’ve been wanting you for so long. Just like this.” “You have?” she breathed. There was an odd quality to her voice. “Yes,” he said, sliding his hand down her hip and over her ass. “You’re so soft.” He kissed her cheek, the side of her mouth, and then her lips. Kissing her, he backed her up against the wall. His body took over. Renee broke off the kiss. “This is...I mean, I came here—and you...and we—” Her pupils dilated. “Yes?” He murmured, pressing her back against the wall. The feel of her breasts, two firm scoops of flesh pressed against his chest, fueled the fire that was already building inside of him. He kissed her again and slid his tongue into her mouth. He struggled with the knot on her halter tie. She again broke the kiss. “I can’t do this. I don’t even know you.” But her words were getting weaker, her protesting half‐hearted. Besides, a fantasy couldn’t protest, could it? He gave up on untying her halter and instead slipped his hand inside her dress and up over one naked tit. She sighed. Her breast was warm and soft; her nipple, aroused to a hard peak. He massaged it and then thrust his tongue back into her mouth. She answered with a thrust of her own, and the game was on. He wanted to see her naked, just like in the picture. With her back arched, her tits up high, her legs spread, and her pussy exposed. Their kissing grew deeper, harder, messier. Like a feast for two starving people. She threaded her hands through his hair, and he moaned into her mouth. His dick was so hard, he thought it would burst out of his pants.

22


For a split second, the sober part of his brain threw out warning signals. How could a fantasy be this real? He’d had dreams before where Renee was the star, but this? This felt too real. Hot, wet, and with body parts sliding against each other. But when Renee untied her own halter and pulled his hand back to her naked tits, he let the questions go. She arched against him, pressing her breasts into him. He had to see her. Had to see everything. He broke his mouth away from hers. They both were breathing hard. She was the picture of perfection. Her red bow lips were kiss‐ bruised and half‐parted, her eyes were dark and half‐lidded, and her breasts—her glorious, naked breasts, were peaches‐and‐cream, just like in the painting, with hard, aroused nipples just begging to be licked and nibbled. She took the opportunity to reach down and unbutton the top button of his jeans. He helped her by pulling off his T‐shirt. She seemed to like that. She purred and walked her hands up his naked chest. When he slid a hand from her knee up under her dress, he discovered he was right. She wasn’t wearing any panties. Delighted, he continued toward her warm, wet center. Her inner thigh was so soft, he almost cried at how real his Renee felt. He didn’t want the fantasy to end. He pushed her knee upward and out, spreading her legs. The slick sound of her wet flesh parting made it hard to keep himself under control. Her pussy was dripping for him. Ready for him. He had to get inside of her. She yanked down his pants. His dick prodded her stomach. He held her knee with one hand and pressed into her. “Wait, wait,” she whispered. “We can’t...we need a condom. I’m not on the Pill, and, well—” A fantasy talking about birth control? She let out a breath. “This is crazy.” She rested her forehead on his shoulder. “What’s happening?”

23


He let go of her knee and tipped up her chin, so she’d look at him. “I want you.” He kissed her and cupped her breast, lightly teasing her nipple. She made a slight, soft, succulent sound. He slipped a finger between her pussy lips and stroked the hot, wet flesh he found there. She sagged against the wall. He continued to kiss her soft lips, and his fingers continued to caress her. He ran the tip of his thumb over the nub of her clit, and she moaned. “Oh, God. What am I doing?” Her head lolled back, her eyes half‐ closed in ecstasy. “Yes‐s‐s‐s. God, don’t stop.” He bent down and captured her tit with his mouth, giving small bites to her nipple. The warmth and wetness of her pussy was almost too much to bear, but this time he decided to please her, to give her what she wanted. To hear his fantasy come under his touch? Well, he could live on that dream for weeks. He lifted her knee again to part her legs, but this time, instead of his dick, he probed her with his fingers. Her juices were slick and silky. He slid one finger deep inside of her, and found her inner walls grasping and tight. He pressed his erection against her. He wanted her so badly. The feel of her warm, dripping pussy under his hand drove him mad with wanting. “Right there. Just like that,” she cooed. Her voice a mix of heaven and hell. He rested his forehead against her shoulder, breathing down onto her breasts. He couldn’t concentrate. His balls were tight and ready. The soft, slick feel of her was just too fucking much. “Harder, harder, harder.” His fingers were working her now. Jabbing deep into her vagina. Growing sloppy with moisture. Her orgasm was long and low. A moan of ecstasy, followed by hiccups of pure satisfaction. He let go of her leg, and her knees trembled. “Oh my God.”

24


He couldn’t stop himself. He grabbed his dick in his hand and stroked himself, one hand still on her naked breast. “Please. Please let me.” It didn’t take long. A shot of ejaculate spurted out. He gave a grunt of relief and let go of her breast. She stared at him. It was then that he knew she was no fantasy. This was no dream. The fuzz of alcohol had worn off. He’d just jacked off in front of the woman from the auction, after finger‐fucking her. What in hell was going on? She must have seen the recognition in his eyes. The clarity. She yanked up her dress and ran to the door. “Wait!” Ty stood there with his pants around his knees when the front door slammed. “I’m sorry.”

25


Chapter Five Sasha was horrified. What had she done? How had she let that happen? She remembered Tyler answering the door, and then he gave her that look. A look of pure desire and worship. Like she was a goddess who had arrived on his doorstep straight out of heaven. And then she was undoing her top and letting him touch her. He’d licked her nipples, for God’s sake. Then he’d made her come with his inventive fingers. She shivered at the memory of it. Her pussy throbbed in response. And part of her wanted more. Part of her wasn’t ready to walk away and let it end. But the other part? The other part was in a state of panic. She leaned her head on the steering wheel. She smelled of sex and come and his aftershave. If she went home right now, Stephanie might show up at her door. And how would she explain herself? She was no closer to that painting now than she had been last week, and now she’d really fucked it up. What could she possibly have to offer this guy now? She’d given him something he obviously had wanted. And without a fight. Without any discussion about the painting, either. God, it wasn’t supposed to happen this way. * * * * * Ty woke up the next morning feeling no better than he had the night before, when his mystery woman had walked out of his apartment.

26


He had called her Renee, but he had no idea what her true name was or why she’d showed up in the first place. Had she mentioned how she found out where he lived? He couldn’t remember. There was a banging on his front door. “Ty! Dude! Open up.” It was DJ. What was he doing here at...? Ty looked at the clock. It was almost noon. Fucking hell. They had made plans to ride by the lake. He rolled out of bed in his boxers. His head pounded. He needed a glass of water. “Are you in there?” Damon called through the door. “Ty?” “Hold on, man, hold on.” Ty padded to the door and opened it. Damon wore biking shorts and a bright yellow jersey, and held his helmet in his hand. “What the hell, man? We were supposed to meet at ten. I waited for half an hour before I just took off. That was so not cool, bro.” Damon’s tense features relaxed. Then he gave Ty a slow, knowing smile. “You got laid.” “Excuse me?” “You got laid last night.” He didn’t know how to answer. Damon punched him in the arm. “You so had some pussy last night. Who was it?” “I need some coffee.” He left his friend in the entry and made his way to the kitchen. Damon followed close behind. “Was she hot? No, wait—where’d you meet her? How’d you manage to find a girl after I left, get her back here, and fuck her? Man, you’re better than I thought.” “Shut up.” Ty banged around in the kitchen. “I don’t want to talk about it.” “Since when haven’t you wanted to talk about it?” “You’re the one who likes to talk about that shit, remember?” Damon set his helmet on the counter and crossed his arms. “Well, you can at least tell me who she was.”

27


“No, I can’t.” He poured some beans into the grinder and turned it on. “Huh?” Damon said over the noise of the grinder. “I said, no I can’t.” Miserable, he dumped the ground coffee into the filter and slammed the machine shut. “I don’t know her name.” “Yeah, man. I told you that was the way to go. No names, no commitments.” Damon sighed. “I’ve spent many a fine evening with nameless hot chicks.” “And then you’re mad because you didn’t get a number, as I recall.” The coffee maker sputtered and steamed, and Ty grabbed a mug out of the cupboard. “She just showed up at my door.” “And what? Said, ‘hey, sailor, wanna fuck?’” Damon took the empty mug Ty handed him and walked into the living room. “It was the redhead.” “The one from the auction? So you did go back to the scene of the crime. Told you it would work.” “No, she showed up here. In this dress—” A bright blue dress that hugged her hips and breasts like a skintight glove. He rubbed his eyes. “She hates me. She so frickin’ hates me.” “Whoa, whoa. Back up. The chick shows up in some hot dress, you fuck her, and she hates you? Um, I think you misunderstood. Not many chicks bang guys they hate.” “This one does.” He plopped down in an armchair. “I just came at her. I thought she was someone else. And then we were kissing, and then she was naked. And I just don’t know. I was drunk. She was there. Fuck, I am so royally screwed.” “You can save this, man.” Damon took his favorite spot on the couch. “You can totally save this.” “How?” “How much do you want this chick?” Ty thought back to last night to the soft sounds the redhead had made when he stroked his finger inside of her. The perfect curves of her breasts. Those tight nipples. Skin like butter. “I’ve got to find her. I can’t stop thinking about her.”

28


“Then give her the painting.” Damon went into the kitchen for the fresh coffee. “What? She wants to burn the thing, remember?” “Well, you want her, don’t you?” “Yes, but—but it’s Renee—” Ty looked up at the painting he’d been obsessing over since he started his collection. The rare Renee, 1954. He’d been saving for years to make sure he could buy it when the time came. He’d researched everything about it. It was considered one of Vargas’ best, from the height of his career. It was priceless. “You’re right.” He couldn’t believe he was saying it. He’d just spent nine years tracking the painting’s ownership, making sure he’d socked away enough of his salary from his brokerage job to have plenty to draw from when the time came. And now he had her. But he could have the real Renee instead. Damon carried the pot of hot coffee over to him and poured him a mug. “If you want the girl, you’ve got to give it up. Chicks cream themselves over stuff like that. Sacrifices for love. Although, didn’t you say she offered to pay you for it?” Ty ignored him. “You’re right, DJ. I have to give it to her.” His day suddenly became much brighter. Every now and then Damon came up with a pretty good idea. Too bad he never seemed to follow his own advice. “Glad to be of help, bro.” Damon took a sip of his steaming hot coffee. “Now, do you know if she’s got a sister? I think you’ve got something here with these redheads.” He stared up at the painting above the fireplace. “Now all I have to do is find her,” Ty said dismally. In a city this big, where would he even begin? “Hmm, how many redheads do you suppose live in Chicago?” Damon eyed the painting a little more closely. “Redheads with a fucking hot body, that is?” His scrutiny was starting to make Ty uncomfortable. How ridiculous was that? It was a painting, and he was starting to see it as her.

29


His redhead. The woman from last night. The one no one else could have. “Stop staring at her, man.” “What? It’s just a painting.” “Well, stare at a different one.” He gestured at the others he had hanging on the walls. “This girl’s already got you pussy‐whipped, doesn’t she? Man, I’ve never seen you so hung up on a girl.” “Shut up, DJ. You have to help me figure out how to find her.” “Are you daft? Remember what I told you yesterday? Go back to the antique store. They’ve got her name and info, right?” If he weren’t as straight as a poker, he would have kissed his best friend. The antique shop. She’d signed up for a paddle. He needed to look at that ledger.

30


Chapter Six “So, tell me what happened yesterday. I’m dying to know.” Stephanie curled up in a chair in Sasha’s sunlit living room. The spate of warm weather was starting to peter out, but the days were still wonderfully sunny and bright. Showered and fresh, Sasha felt like a completely different person than she’d been last night. She sniffed a lock of her damp hair. Just shampoo and conditioner. The spicy scent of Tyler Jameson’s aftershave was gone. For some reason, she felt a tug inside her chest. She was already forgetting what he smelled like. “It wasn’t quite, ah, what I was expecting.” “Did you see the painting?” “Yes.” She was cautious, worried she’d let something slip. “He had it hanging above the fireplace.” “Bastard. He put her on display?” “He was drunk when I got there.” “I’m not surprised,” Steph snorted in disgust. “That’s exactly how I pictured him. A creep.” “No.” Sasha fiddled with the tie on her bathrobe. “He wasn’t a creep.” “Oh, so he was a nice guy.” Steph stared at her. “You asked for Grandma’s painting, and he said, ‘sure, why don’t you let me help you carry it to your car? Oh, and by the way, doesn’t she have nice ta‐tas?’” “Steph!”

31


“Well, you know that’s why he bought it.” “We don’t know—I mean, that is—” “Exactly, what did happen at his apartment last night, Sasha?” Steph eyed her closely. When Sasha didn’t answer, she said, “You didn’t actually let that sleaze ball touch you, did you?” Sasha’s face heated. “He thought I was Renee.” “What? What do you mean? He thought you were Grandma?” “No. Not Grandma! He thought I was the woman in the picture.” “Grandma.” “He thought I was his fantasy woman come to life. A dream.” Sasha flung a throw pillow on the couch and paced the room. “He just came over to me...and he was so worshipful...so caring. And then he kissed me, and I—” “I can’t believe what I’m hearing.” Stephanie put her hands over her ears. “You made out with him? A drunk bastard who has paintings of naked women all over his wall? What’s gotten into you?” Stephanie got up and gathered her things. “I can’t even look at you right now. You’d rather fuck around with some guy—” “That’s not fair.” “—than save Grandma’s painting. It was the one thing she asked us to do for her, and you just stomped all over her grave. I can’t believe you did this. I should have gone over there myself. In fact—” Stephanie scooped up Sasha’s purse and pawed through it. “That’s exactly what I’m going to do.” Sasha tried to grab it. “Don’t, Steph.” “Why not? You’re afraid I might want to fool around with him, too?” “You don’t understand.” “I’m your younger sister, not your dumber sister.” Steph pulled out the man’s business card and flipped it over. Sasha tried to grab it back. “Steph, please don’t. It was a mistake.” “If you can’t get the painting back, I will. I’m going to do it if it kills me. And I’m not going to let some man get in my way.”

32


“I never want to see the guy again. If you go back over there...he’ll know you’re my sister. He’ll find out who I am.” Though they were three years apart, they looked almost identical. Steph wore her hair longer, in long, natural waves, but instead of their grandmother’s blue‐green eyes, Steph’s were brown. Steph paused. Her cheeks were pink with anger. “It was her dying wish, Sash. Her dying wish. Who cares if he finds out who you are? Maybe he should. Maybe he should know why Renee means so much to us.” She gave Sasha a burning look. “To me.” Steph slammed the door, leaving Sasha in tears. She was so humiliated. So ridiculously stupid. When the words came out, it sounded so terrible. So callous. But Stephanie hadn’t been there. She didn’t know. A rush of memories from last night assaulted Sasha. Beneath the shame of what had happened, a small flame burned low, like a pot slowly stewing on the stove. She touched her lips and remembered the feel of Tyler’s mouth on hers. Soft, but demanding. A heavy heat settled between her legs. His fingers had expertly brought her to climax, and her pussy wanted that feeling again. He had such dark eyes. Almost black. Drinking in her breasts. Her body flushed at the memory. Her clit pulsed in rhythm to her breathing. He would know who she was. She imagined him in her living room. His shirt unbuttoned, the ridges of his toned chest hidden beneath it. She freed the knot on her robe, let it hang open, and her breasts, now so sensitive, brushed against the rough terry cloth. He would touch her there. Sasha cupped her breast and squeezed, like he had done. Between her forefinger and thumb, she pinched her nipple, and it hardened into a pink point. She closed her eyes and imagined it was Tyler. She stepped one foot on the coffee table and thought about him and his insistent fingers slipping between her vagina’s pink folds, thrusting his fingers deep inside. She slid her hand down her stomach and between her legs. Her forefinger rubbed the growing hard nub of her clit. She teased it with light touching, and then dipped her finger into her damp hole for moisture. The slippery juices lubricated her pussy. She

33


rubbed her finger in a circle around her clit, increasing the pressure little by little. She threw off her robe, liking the freedom of being completely naked in the middle of her living room, with the windows uncovered. Her fingers worked her pussy harder now. She felt a rush of moisture, ripples of sensation, heat and friction centered at her core. In her mind’s eye, she focused in on Tyler’s dark eyes. Like a panther’s. His warm breath on her shoulder as he stroked her. The slide of his hand across her breast. The feel of his tongue toying with her aroused nipples. She arched her back, and a cry of pure pleasure erupted from her throat. She continued to stroke herself. Her inner walls became drenched in wetness. She rubbed her inner ridges, feeling for the sweet spot. A second orgasmic wave struck her, tearing a scream from her throat. Complete satisfaction settled over her body. Her limbs relaxed. She picked up her robe and slipped it on, not bothering with the ties. She liked the way the rough material rubbed her sensitive parts. But as she made her way to the bedroom to get dressed, she felt hollow inside. Her vagina ached for something harder, longer, stronger. A flash of Tyler’s dick, hard against her stomach, flashed through her mind. How close they had been. She could have known what it was like to ride his cock. She would have known if he stroked hard or soft, short or long. Would he be gentle, or rough and wild? She then thought of something else: her sister, on her way to track Tyler down and confront him. He’d find out who Sasha really was. She wouldn’t be his anonymous fantasy anymore. The thought was like ice in her veins. Her desires were instantly quenched. Having a random sexual encounter with a stranger was one thing, but what if he showed up on her doorstep expecting more? What if he thought she was nothing more than a good lay? Just like her grandmother. She hadn’t even thought how similar their situations were. But her grandmother, Renee, had been a naïve eighteen‐year‐old, new to the big city from a farm in Indiana. She was looking for fame and fortune, and all

34


she’d found was infamy. She’d become an icon of the 1950s. A sex kitten. A male fantasy. And men had showed up on her doorstep in droves. Only a slut would pose for a painting like that, they told her. Only a woman with one thing on her mind. Just like Ty. That’s all he thought Sasha was good for: a hot fuck. Stephanie was right. Sasha had messed it up completely. What had she been thinking? Only slime balls got off on pictures like that. She’d just put Tyler out of her mind, kick him out of her solitary sex play. It wouldn’t do to dream about fucking a man who only saw her as another pretty face.

35


Chapter Seven Ty stood at the counter in the antique shop. He’d been trying for the last half hour to convince Debbie, the only employee available, to let him see the log book. “I can’t give out information about our bidders. Who told you I would do something like that?” the matronly woman looked over Ty’s shoulder like a spy might be waiting for her in the shadows. Ready to pounce on her for divulging personal information about her customers. “I just need a name. Nothing else. No address. No phone number.” Ty poured on the charm and flexed his muscles for all he was worth. “She asked to buy an item I won last week. I turned her down, but now that I’ve had time to reconsider—” The woman behind the counter readjusted her glasses and focused her eyes on Ty’s bicep. Then she raked a fake fingernail underneath one eye and looked up at him. “Do you remember her paddle number?” “No.” Ty tried not to smile. Not often a guy could get away with using his body for information. “But I do remember the day she came in here.” He mentioned the date he had seen “Renee” for the first time. The day before the auction. The woman paged through the book. “Only two women signed the book that day. Muriel Robinson and Sasha Rennik. Muriel’s in here all the time. I have a feeling she’s not the one you’re looking for.” She cleared her throat.

36


Ty decided Muriel must be a little long in the tooth. He cocked his head. “Sasha Rennik was the other name?” “Yep. R‐E‐N‐N‐I‐K.” Sasha. “But don’t tell anyone you got that information from me.” The woman darted her eyes around the room. “Please.” “I promise I will tell no one.” Ty raised his hand like he was being sworn in as a witness. “I appreciate the help.” “Just stop by more often.” She winked at him and snickered. Ty suppressed a smile. He’d never been hit on by a middle‐aged woman before. He now knew Renee’s real name. He could track her down. His heart felt ten times lighter than it did this morning. He could fix this. If he gave Sasha the picture, wouldn’t that be the end of it? He stopped in mid‐step just outside the shop. Cars drove by, trucks spit out exhaust, people passed him on the sidewalk, and Ty thought one thing: If he gave her the painting, it would be over. She would say thanks, take the thing, and burn it. Just because he was nice to her, gave her something she wanted, didn’t mean she would give a rat’s ass about him. It wouldn’t change her mind about what kind of guy he was. He would be no better off. In fact, he would more than likely be in worse shape. No more picture. No more Sasha. She would walk out of his life as if he never existed. That painting was the only thing he had going for him. It was a very fine thread that kept them together. While he had the painting, she would keep coming back. And keep coming back. And maybe, just maybe, he could win her over. Maybe, just maybe, she’d decide he wasn’t just a creep who liked to look at nudie pictures and masturbate all day in his living room. * * * * *

37


The door swung open. A tall guy with long limbs and dark blond hair stood there. In Spandex bike shorts. With a very large package right out front for everyone to see. Stephanie averted her eyes. No wonder her sister was so taken with this guy. Looked like he was quite well‐equipped. He cleared his throat. “Are you the mysterious Renee?” Had the guy been so drunk he couldn’t even remember what Sasha looked like? He was more of a jerk than she’d thought. “I’m here for the painting, and I’m not leaving without it.” She crossed her arms in what she hoped was a defiant gesture. “Well, I’m sorry, love, but I can’t hand it over to you. You’re more than welcome to stay as long as you like, though.” The hot guy in the tight, tight bike shorts held the door open, waiting for her to make a move. “The longer the better,” he said under his breath with a growl. He scanned her slowly from head to toe. What a perv. And this was the guy Sasha had blushed over less than twenty minutes ago? Squaring her shoulders, she boldly walked into the apartment, determined to get the painting back. She had the cashier’s check from the failed auction bid and a month’s rent in cash in her purse. Taking no for an answer was not an option. “I’ll pay you forty‐one, five right now for it.” Steph followed him into the living room, trying not to admire the outline of his tight ass in the even tighter shorts. “Would you like a cup of coffee?” He led her right into the shrine to Vargas, with beautiful women in skimpy‐to‐no clothes plastered all over the walls. “My God. You really are a piece of work. Is this how you get your rocks off?” Steph stepped closer to one particular painting, which featured a woman in an evening gown with a plunging neckline lifting her dress to reveal garters and a peep of panties. And she was the most covered of the bunch. “Hmmm. No, this would not be the way I’d prefer to ‘get my rocks off.’”

38


She jumped, sparks running up and down her skin. He was standing right behind her. Close. Too close. His breath tickled her cheek. He touched her shoulder lightly. Steph swatted his hand and turned to put some space between them. But all she ended up doing was trapping herself between him and the wall. “Excuse me.” She held her purse up in front of her like a shield. “Do you mind?” He braced his arms against the wall on either side of her and looked her squarely in the eye. “So, what’s your proposition?” She ducked under his arm. This guy wouldn’t let up. “I’m here for the painting.” “I hear that’s what you came for last night, too.” He stalked her across the room. “And yet you left with something a little different, didn’t you?” “You heard that? What do you mean? You were there, weren’t you?” She put the couch between them. “You should know what went on between you and my sister.” “Your sister? I thought you were Renee.” He seemed confounded. “The picture, and that red hair—” he pointed at the painting above the fireplace. “That’s you, right? Or rather, you look like her. I mean—” She wanted to laugh. He had gone from raging sex machine to flustered and cute in a split second. “That’s my grandmother.” She stepped closer to the artwork. “And we promised her we’d get it back. She was beautiful, wasn’t she?” Steph had never seen the picture before. She’d just heard about it from her grandmother, who’d really been quite something back in the day. In fact, now having seen it, she didn’t see what all the fuss was about. It was tastefully done. In fact, all of the art in the room was a lot less sleazy than she had imagined. And it was all grouped together in one room, the way a museum would treat fine art. With care. Not like some creep‐o in the dark ogling porn or something. “This was your grandmother?” He joined her in front of the fireplace. It seemed all thoughts of seducing her were forgotten. “Yeah. She was pretty smoking back in the day, huh?”

39


“Yes, she was.” That’s when she felt his eyes on her. Gray‐blue, and too damn focused on her mouth. “All right, lover boy, this whole vibe you have going on? It ends. Now. You really messed with my sister’s head last night...and that was so not cool.” “Me?” He laughed. “You think I was the one who—well, you know. Last night? That wasn’t me. It was Tyler. He’s the one who bought the painting, and he’s the one who—” “Then who are you?” She stepped away from him and his too tight biker shorts. Scandalously tight shorts. “And why are you here acting like you own the place? And…how did you know about Renee?” “I’m Damon. Damon Bouchard.” He flashed a brilliant white smile and held out his hand. She ignored it. “So, Damon, what was your little role in all of this?” He must have seen the look of ire on her face. “I didn’t have any role. I’m just the supportive, yet extremely sexy, friend. You know. A beer drinking buddy. That kind of thing. This is all Tyler.” He gestured at the collection of pictures. Steph ignored most of what he said. “So where is this mysterious Tyler, and why are you in his apartment?” “He was going to give her the painting.” “What?” Damon mumbled under his breath, “He’s probably going to kill me for this.” He sat in a recliner chair and put up his feet. “He thinks he’s in love with your sister—Sasha, you said her name was?” Stephanie nodded. This Tyler guy was in love with her sister? She was stupefied. “Yes, he was most smitten with her last night. Poor bastard. I told him to let it drop, to move on to greener pastures. But he wanted to find her and give her the painting. Show her how much he cared about her, and all that crap. She must have been one hot lay for him to have—” Steph threw him a warning look. As far as she was concerned, last night her sister had made out with this guy and that was it. “Let’s get one thing straight. My sister is not some ho bag, okay?”

40


He seemed a bit afraid of her growing anger. “Okay.” “All she came here for was the painting. Nothing else. And since she’s too embarrassed to come back here herself, I came in her place to kindly ask your friend if he might be willing to sell us the painting.” Stephanie cleared her throat, “My sister doesn’t need payment for her...well, you know. What happened between them was just a mistake. She wouldn’t take any gifts from him. Since he’s not here, will you please let me know where I might find him or when would be a better time to stop by?” “You’re leaving?” He seemed truly upset by the idea. “What would be the point in my staying?” “Well.” Damon sat up in the recliner, snapping the footrest shut. “I can think of a few things—” “I don’t think so, lover boy.” She tipped him back into his chair with her foot. “If you’re not going to give me a straight answer, I’ll just stop by another time.” “Tonight.” He barked out. “T‐tonight, he’ll be back. He went out...for a bit...to, uh, run that errand, and then we’re going out.” “Out?” “To dinner. At MacDougal’s. Seven o’clock. Want to meet us there?” He looked so darn hopeful and sexy and...but he was a dirt bag. A dirt bag who had hit on her the minute she’d walked through the door. “MacDougal’s.” “Yes. Nice place. Good food, good wine. Fantastic company.” “Stop while you’re ahead, Damon. I’ll see what I can do.” She thought for a second. “Maybe we’ll just show for dinner and accidentally run into you and your friend.” “Well, wouldn’t that be just awful?” He gave her a wicked smile. “Yes, terrible.” Steph had grown a little too comfortable around Mr. Tight Pants, so she turned on her heel. “I really must go. Next time you hit on a girl, you might think about wearing something a little less revealing.” She smiled to herself. His physical attraction for her was

41


painfully obvious. Obvious, to her. Painful for him. She tried hard not to cackle. It was so quiet behind her, she could have heard a pin drop.

42


Chapter Eight When Tyler walked through the door, his best friend practically pounced on him. “We’re going out to dinner in...” Damon glanced down at his very expensive watch, “five hours. MacDougal’s. Wear something better.” “Better than what?” Ty looked down at his black jeans and T‐shirt. “What the hell? You’re the one who looks like he’s channeling Lance Armstrong. Why are you still in my apartment? And why are we going out to dinner?” He went into the kitchen for a beer. “If you don’t go to MacDougal’s tonight, the awesome sex you are supposed to be having with Miss Renee, 1954 definitely won’t happen.” “I know who she is,” Ty said. “What?” “My Renee. From last night. Her name’s Sasha.” “Rennik,” Damon finished for him. “I know, big boy. I beat you to the punch. I met her sister.” “You what?” Ty choked on his beer. “Her sister stopped by here an hour ago. Told me the whole story. Did I mention she’s drop dead gorgeous?” Damon opened the fridge and helped himself to a beer. “When I explained that you’re going to give Sasha the painting—well, she was over the moon. Instant adoration. I would have taken advantage of said adoration, but...well, things happened so quickly, and we decided to meet tonight at MacDougal’s.”

43


“Her sister? You told her what?” He took a swig of his beer, and then another. “No, no, no. I can’t give the painting to her.” Damon was ruining everything. “No, it’s cool. She explained it to me.” Damon walked into the living room and stared up at the new acquisition. “That’s their grandmother. She’s Renee.” He gestured at the painting. “They swore to her on her deathbed that they would get it back for her.” Ty shook his head. “I can’t do it.” “Are you friggin’ crazy, man?” Damon spun around. “Have you seen this woman? Have you seen her sister? Of course you’re going to give her the painting, just like we decided earlier.” “We didn’t decide anything.” “You are going to let them do whatever they want with it,” Damon continued. “Burn it, bury it, toss it in Lake Michigan. Then we are pretty much guaranteed to be able to do whatever we like to them. See how it works? You give them something, and they give us something. Something we both want. You aren’t going to screw this up for me, are you, man?” “If I give her that painting, I’ll never see her again.” “You’ll never see her again after mind‐blowing thank you sex.” Damon gave him a grin. “Shut up, DJ.” He wanted to punch his friend in the mouth. DJ could be such an idiot sometimes. “You just don’t get it. It’s not about the sex.” “It’s not?” Damon seemed shocked. “Everything’s about sex, man.” “Not this time. It’s about her.” He paced the room. “I went all the way over to that antique shop, got her name, and then I realized that if I give her the painting, she’ll still think I’m some kinky freak. Yeah, she might think I’m a nice guy for a couple of hours, but then I’ll be so far out of her head, she won’t give a damn about me. That painting is the only thing I have that keeps her coming back.” “No, man. No, no, no. This is not what I want you to be telling me.” Damon did a half‐faint onto the couch in mock despair. “We have to

44


go to MacDougal’s, meet up with these chicks, and give them that painting.” “No.” “Fuck you, man.” He kicked the leg of the coffee table. “Ruin it for yourself, but why ruin it for me, too?” “Because you need to grow up, DJ.” Ty glared at him. “Life is not about fucking as many girls as possible.” “It’s not? Then give me a ticket off this planet. I want to go somewhere else.” “God, don’t you ever get sick of your bullshit?” “What?” Damon sat up. “Pretending you like to sleep around. Pretending that every girl you end up in bed with was the best fuck you ever had. You can’t tell me that you haven’t woken up one morning, completely hung over, in some strange woman’s bed, and wished things were different.” A thoughtful look passed over Damon’s face. “No, I can’t say that I have.” “Liar,” Ty snapped. “What the hell is your problem, man? I give you your fantasy girl on a platter. Yeah, you might lose a frickin’ painting and a heck of a lot of money. But if you’re so nuts about this girl, I’d think you’d be dying to go get her. Don’t start turning this around on me. I like my life. I don’t want to settle down. I’ve been down that road, and it’s not for me.” “Kelly was psycho.” And that was no lie. “Shut up.” Damon’s voice dropped an octave. “I told you to never mention that bitch’s name again.” “She was a nut.” “God, can’t you just for once do something I tell you to do? Look, I’m going to that restaurant tonight, and I’m meeting with them. If you change your mind, I’ll be there.” There was no way Ty was going to screw up his chances so that Damon could get laid. “I’m not going, DJ.” “Can’t you just try to live a little, Ty? Can’t you just loosen that tight‐as‐an‐untried‐pussy collar of yours for one lousy night?” Damon

45


banged his empty beer bottle down on the coffee table. “Sometimes you don’t get the girl. At least this way, you can have her for a little while.” A little while. Those words echoed in Ty’s head for a long time after Damon left. Yes, he probably could give up the painting and all the money he’d invested in it for just one night with Sasha, but it wasn’t enough. How would he convince her he wanted her and not some idealized model in an old oil painting? He sat on his couch and stared up at the framed piece of art, and decided that maybe trying to talk to her at dinner that evening might be his one chance to show her what kind of guy he really was. To let her see him away from all the paintings, in a neutral environment. Two people meeting in a restaurant. Like a date. He had to find a way to convince her not to walk out of his life once the painting was in her hands. He flipped open his cell phone. “DJ, this is Ty. Looks like I can make it for dinner after all.”

46


Chapter Nine “So explain to me again why we had to come all the way across town to some dive for dinner?” Sasha asked. Annoyance washed over her. She had work tomorrow. Early tomorrow. Working as a student counselor for the school district meant early mornings. Usually on Sunday evenings, she was wrapped up in her robe by now drinking a glass of wine and watching TV. “It’s not a dive,” Steph said, as she scanned the outside of MacDougal’s, where a dirty, sagging awning stretched over one dingy window. “It has character.” But she said it like she didn’t really believe it. “I’m going to kill Damon,” she muttered to herself. “Damon?” Sasha opened the door and hesitated entering. “Who’s he?” “Oh, just a friend.” Although Stephanie seemed even more disgusted than she by the interior of the restaurant, she confidently plunged inside. “He recommended this place.” “Some friend,” said Sasha. There, in the corner under the dim lighting, she spotted a face she had never wanted to see again. Tyler Jameson. She froze just inside the door. “What is he doing here?” “Let’s sit down, shall we?” Stephanie grabbed her arm. “You two need to talk.” “Are you crazy?” Sasha dug in her heels. “I’m not sitting at the same table with him.”

47


“Why not? I’m here. You’re safe. He won’t do anything to you with me around. He wanted to meet us to discuss the painting.” Tyler stood up from his chair, trying to be the gentleman. It was almost laughable. There was another man with him. Tall and thin. Not bad looking, actually. And he seemed to have his gaze fastened on her sister. Steph took a seat across from the tall guy, which left Sasha to take the chair across from Tyler. Reluctantly, she sat down. “I’m glad you decided to come,” Ty said. His dark eyes were hypnotizing. They made her want to do all kinds of wild things. “I wouldn’t have come if I’d known you were going to be here. My sister tricked me into this.” She picked up a menu and buried her nose in it. If she had to eat dinner across from this man, she didn’t have to be nice to him. She didn’t even have to acknowledge his presence. Tyler scooted forward in his chair. “They make good burgers.” His knee touched hers. A chill of desire ran up her body. As much as she wanted to dislike this man, it was obvious her body didn’t care if he was a jerk or a scumbag. She tried to keep her mind off her fantasy play from earlier in the day. Masturbating to the memory of his touch on her body. Her face warmed. “I’m trying to cut back on red meat.” He cleared his throat. She didn’t have the courage to look at him, so she kept her eyes on her menu. “So let’s clear the air, why don’t we?” asked the tall guy, “I’m Damon, and I thought it would be a good idea for the two of you to get together. To talk things over.” “There’s nothing to discuss. We want to buy the painting. He doesn’t want to sell. End of story,” Sasha said, still scanning the menu. A waiter came by with four glasses and a bottle of wine. “You mean, you want to buy the painting,” said Stephanie. Sasha’s stomach dropped. Hands trembling, she closed the menu. “This morning, you seemed pretty determined to get it back yourself. When did you change your mind? And when were you going to share

48


that with me?” As soon as the waiter poured her wine, she grabbed the glass and took a drink. “That was before I saw it.” “You saw the painting of our grandmother—naked—and you changed your mind?” Her voice rose. A few of the diners turned their heads at the word naked. “How could you, Steph?” “I don’t want to sell the painting,” Ty interjected. His voice was quiet and low. Sexy. “I want to—” His hand touched her knee. His hand. As if he were trying to still her trembling. But it only made her angrier. “Screw me?” The words flew out of her mouth before she could think. His face turned ashen. “Last night was mistake, Sasha, I’m sorry. I never meant to...you surprised me. And then I just wanted you. I couldn’t help myself.” “Listen to him, Sash,” Stephanie urged. But she was too far gone. “What a fucking joke. Why in hell am I here with you and Lurch?” She tipped her head in Damon’s direction, and then brushed off Ty’s hand. “You don’t want to sell the painting, so now what? Am I supposed to suck you off for it? The silence in the small restaurant was stifling. “Sasha!” Stephanie stared at her with wide eyes. Damon tossed his napkin on his plate. “Lurch? You sure picked a winner, Ty.” He narrowed his gray‐blue eyes at Sasha. She shook her head. “I don’t want to hear anymore of this. I never would have come if I knew you were going to be here. If you aren’t willing to sell me the painting, then there’s no point in talking to you. I just want to forget last night. You were right, it was a mistake.” She pushed her chair away from the table. “Are you coming, Steph?” Tears pricked her eyes. One more minute, and she wouldn’t be able to hold them back any longer. Stephanie looked from her sister to Damon. She bit her lip, and then said to Damon, “I’m sorry.”

49


At that, Sasha stormed out of the restaurant. Her own sister was on that man’s side. She couldn’t believe it. Stephanie came outside moments later. “I don’t want to talk to you. I don’t want to see you. Get out of my face,” said Sasha. Her tears flowed easily now. “Grow up, Sash.” Her sister’s words were cold. “What?” She had expected an apology, not this. “It’s just a painting. It’s not like it’s out on the street corner for everyone to see. And besides, the guy’s a collector. He adores Grandma’s painting. He thinks it’s a masterpiece. If Grandma knew, I don’t think she would—” “If Grandma knew her picture was hanging in some gigolo’s apartment, she’d be horrified.” “He’s not a gigolo. He’s a broker.” “I can’t believe you, Steph.” Anger burned inside Sasha again. “You lied to me. And then you sprang this on me. When did you change your mind? Did that scarecrow in there fuck you senseless or something?” “Scarecrow?” Steph spat out. “I lied to you because I knew you wouldn’t come if you knew Tyler would be here. No matter what the guy was offering, I knew you were too scared to see him again. Too embarrassed. Whatever you want to call it. You’re not sixteen, Sasha. You’re a grown woman. So you kissed the guy, and he saw body parts you didn’t intend for him to see. So what? Grow up. Move on.” “You don’t understand.” Sasha wiped away her tears. She couldn’t stop them from falling. Steph took a deep breath, “What don’t I understand?” “I think I like this guy.” She couldn’t believe she’d said it. But last night was amazing. Incredible. And this morning, she couldn’t get her mind off of Ty Jameson and his eyes. Her sister was quiet for a moment. She rubbed Sasha’s back. “What’s so terrible about liking the guy?” “I don’t know. I just feel so stupid. I’ve never been so out‐of‐ control before. It scared me.” There, her feelings were out in the open.

50


“Let’s go back inside, sit down, and talk to him. Maybe we can work something out.” “I can’t, Steph. I just can’t. I’d feel so stupid. He probably thinks I’m insane or hate his guts.” “He’s smitten with you.” Stephanie took her by the shoulders. “DJ told me.” “DJ?” “Damon.” Stephanie paused. “Lurch.” “I don’t know. I think he just was drunk. Out of it. He called me Renee.” “Come on. Let’s go back inside and talk to him. See what he wants.” Sasha knew what he wanted. A sex kitten. A fantasy, like Renee. That’s what he thought he’d found last night. What would he do when he found out she was just ordinary, everyday Sasha? “I can’t, Steph. I just can’t.” Stephanie linked her arm with her sister’s, and led her down the street to the El. “I’ll talk to him for you, if you want. You don’t have to see him. Not if it makes you that uncomfortable.” “You will?” Her heart ached. As much as she wanted to see Ty again, she knew it wouldn’t be real. He wouldn’t be talking to her; he’d be talking to Renee. “Whatever he offers, take it. We don’t have a leg to stand on.” “All right,” Stephanie said quietly. They started down the stairs toward the station to wait for a train home.

51


Chapter Ten Ty lowered his head into his hands. “She hates me.” “She doesn’t hate you, man.” DJ munched on his linguini in clam sauce. “You didn’t even get a chance to tell her that you were going to give her the painting.” “She won’t take anything from me. She made that pretty clear.” “Although it sounds like she might consider giving you something.” Ty glared at his friend. Damon held up his hands, “Just a joke, man. Just a joke.” “This is serious. She wouldn’t even let me explain.” It was hard to believe that after years of searching for that one piece, he was willing to give it up for a woman. He’d never thought anyone or anything would be more important to him than that painting. But one hour with Sasha was all it had taken to change his mind. She’d been so soft and pliant under his hands. And so wet. So, so wet. He gritted his teeth. “I have to fix this, DJ.” Damon took another bite of his linguini. “You have to make her understand how important that painting is to you. Why you wanted it in the first place. If she thinks you’re a creep, you’ll have to prove to her that you’re not.” It was like a light had turned on. Tyler felt a lightness in his chest. “You’re fucking brilliant, DJ.” He punched his friend in the arm. “Fucking brilliant.”

52


“I am?” Damon said with a mouthful of pasta. “Think you can convince Stephanie of that?” “I’ll convince her you’re the king of Sweden, if that’s what you want.” How was it that his friend, who seemed to base most of his decisions on the hardness of his dick, could come up with all the answers? “Well, you can just tell her I’m not all that bad. That I do actually have a heart buried in here somewhere.” He thumped his chest. “And that I think she’s drop dead gorgeous...maybe that’ll help.” “Whatever you say, DJ.” He dived into his untouched steak. “If this helps me win over Sasha, I’ll move heaven and earth to help you.” Tyler thought of Sasha. The flush of her pale skin as he worked his hands down over her body. Her firm, yet soft, breasts beneath his fingers. And her quiet sigh as she let him stroke her pussy. His balls tightened at the memory. He would win her back. He had to win her back. If he didn’t, he would be lost. * * * * * A few days had passed since the restaurant fiasco. Sasha tried to focus on her work, but her mind kept wandering back to Ty. His hot mouth pressing against hers, the sure stroke of his fingers between her legs. The warm breath on her shoulder as he came. She wished she could simply close her office door, slip off her panties, and pleasure herself to get some relief. Her office phone rang. Nerves on edge, she picked it up. “Hello?” “Hello, Sasha.” Ty’s deep, sexy voice resonated from the other end. Goosebumps pricked her arms. “How’d you get this number?” “From your sister.” “I’m going to disown her.” The heat of a blush fanned across Sasha’s cheeks. A throaty laugh filled her ear. “I hope not. At least she’s giving me a chance. I hope you’ll do the same.”

53


“Why should I?” Her whole body tightened. Her nipples puckered in anticipation. She brushed a hand down her breasts, hoping to settle her raging desires. She cleared her throat. “I want to take you out tonight. A date. A real date. Just you and me. No expectations.” “Dinner, a movie, that kind of thing?” She thought of the dark stadium seats in a movie theater. How he could reach over, slip his hand inside her shirt, and no one would know. She bit her lip to regain some control. “What makes you think I want to go out on a date with you?” “Nothing. I was just hoping I could explain myself. Let you get to know me.” “What else do you think I need to know?” “Let me pick you up and find out.” “What time?” She could barely believe the words had come out of her mouth. He paused. “Meet me at the Buckingham Fountain at eight o’clock.” “The fountain?” The Buckingham Fountain was a Chicago landmark, modeled after the beautiful plaza fountains in Europe. It was a visual spectacle when lit up at night. “Why there?” “Just meet me.” * * * * * Sasha walked down the path toward Buckingham Fountain. This part of the city was dark and empty. The crashing of the water in the fountain soon drowned out the minimal amount of traffic noise. She still had no idea why Tyler wanted to meet her here for their date. Why was she giving him a second chance, anyway? What was the point? You want him, Sash. As she got closer to the fountain, she noticed there was an easel standing there. No, several easels, positioned all the way around the fountain. Some kind of art show must have been held here earlier in the

54


day. It was a beautiful sight at night. All lit up, with the water shooting high into the air. A dark figure hung back in the shadows. She heard his voice first. “There’s a special showing tonight.” It was Tyler. She’d recognize that low, rumbling, sexy voice anywhere. Her body flushed hot and cold. “What kind of showing?” For a moment, her mind flashed to the gutter. She thought of his hard, aroused dick. Her heart beat erratically in her chest. Her breathing grew shallow. She couldn’t tell if she was turned on or frightened. Tyler stepped out of the darkness. His broad shoulders and sculpted chest beneath his T‐shirt were the first things she noticed. And then his eyes. She couldn’t turn away from those dark, almost black eyes. “Come with me. Let me show you.” He reached for her hand. A jolt of electricity ran up her arm. His palm was warm and rough. She remembered the feel of his fingers on her breasts, inside of her. A rush of wetness and heat filled her pussy. She followed him, and they approached the closest easel. A drawing rested on it. “This is one of Vargas’ earliest works,” Tyler said. “A pencil sketch. He had a fascination with the human form. A woman’s body, especially. The simple curve of her hip, her thigh, her breast.” The words came out of his mouth like warm caramel. A thrum of desire spread through Sasha’s body. He traced a finger lightly along the sketch—a naked woman in repose. She imagined that finger tracing down her body. Over her collarbone, across her breast, over her nipple, and then down, down, down. She shivered. He cocked a half smile at her, but it quickly disappeared. Like he was nervous or unsure. She took a deep breath, trying to gain control of her body. She wasn’t sure what to think of Tyler Jameson. Was he interested in seeing her just for sex? Why would he have gone to all this trouble for a roll in the hay?

55


When she said nothing, he led her to the next easel a few feet away. “This is something a little bit later in his career. He started to experiment with color, stylized design, and form. Notice the detail in her face.” In this one, the woman was clothed, but barely, the folds of her tunic soft and natural, just like her womanly curves. It was a beautiful picture. Tastefully done. Perhaps a bit risqué for Vargas’ time, but tasteful nonetheless. Ty continued to lead her around the fountain, each time pointing out how Vargas’ skills had improved, how his techniques became more precise, and how he always showed his love of the female form. She noticed the art behind the pictures. To the untrained eye, it might seem lewd, but seeing a progression of skill from Vargas’s early career to his later works made her see the artistry in each painting. The simple beauty of women in careful brush strokes. “And lastly, we have Renee, 1954. Your grandmother.” They stood together in front of the painting, hand in hand. “She was beautiful, wasn’t she? Didn’t Vargas really capture her? The life in her eyes...it’s like she’s looking right back at me.” Sasha watched him. His appreciation for the painting was plain on his face. He wasn’t ogling her naked breasts or staring at her well‐ rounded thighs. He was appreciating the artist’s skill and the beauty of the subject. “Yes, she was beautiful,” she whispered, suddenly overcome with emotion. The painting had caused her grandmother so much pain, so much hurt over the years. “I wish Grandma could have seen the painting the way you see it, Ty.” He turned to her. His dark eyes searched her face. “I wanted to be able to show you why I collect these paintings, Sasha.” To hear him say her name was like a warm wave caressing her. “I didn’t know...I didn’t understand.” How could she explain how wrong she’d been? Her judgments had been clouded with her grandmother’s memory, her grandmother’s hurts about her past. “It would be crime to destroy it, wouldn’t it?”

56


She looked at the painting again, and saw her grandmother in the prime of her life. Before time had turned her into a gray‐haired woman with a past she wanted to forget. “I want to give it to you, Sasha.” “You do?” She thought of all the money he’d paid for this painting—and now he was willing to just give it away to a virtual stranger? “Yes, but I have one caveat.” Here it comes. “What is it?” “I want your forgiveness. I want to start fresh. I’m so sorry for what happened the other night. I never meant...if I had known it was really you and not some dream—” He floundered for words. She put her index finger against his lips to quiet him. “It’s okay. I wouldn’t have done any of those things if I didn’t want to.” Her nipples tightened at the memory of what he had done to her body. How gentle he had been. “Forgiveness isn’t necessary.” She stretched up on her tiptoes and kissed him. His lips were hot. He teased open her mouth with the tip of his tongue and deepened the kiss. She clutched at him, and he drew her close, sliding his hands underneath her shirt. The feel of his hands on her bare back caused her pussy to throb. She pressed closer to him, and her breasts rubbed his hard chest. He moaned into her mouth and rubbed her back. She wanted his hands all over her. On her tits, her ass, her hips. Everywhere. The lights from the fountain were bright, too bright. She pulled away from him, breaking their kiss. “Come back here.” She led him across the brick plaza and to the grass that surrounded the fountain where it was dark. She unbuttoned her blouse, the night air cool on her bare skin. The idea of being undressed in a public place was such a turn on. “Have you ever fucked in a park before?” She slipped off her shirt and tossed it on the grass. She hadn’t, but suddenly the idea sounded like a heck of a lot of fun.

57


His gaze went from her face to her chest. Her breasts were cupped by delicate satin. “Here? Now?” “Yes, here. Now.” She kicked off her shoes and unzipped her pants. She wanted to know what it felt like to have his cock inside of her. “You do have a condom on you, right?” “Yes. But there’s traffic right over there. And the lights—?” Unable to pull his eyes away from her, he licked his lips. “Come down here, and no one will see.” She knelt on the grass in her bra and panties. “It’s dark.” He hesitated. But when she unhooked her bra and her breasts sprang free, he groaned. “You are so beautiful, Sasha. Oh my God.” He fell to his knees only inches away from her semi‐nude body. “You can touch me. I won’t break.” She grabbed his hand and cupped it under her breast. His thumb brushed her nipple, and she sighed. This was right. His hand on her breast. The other night she’d been shocked by her reaction, shocked by how easy it was to fall under Ty’s spell. But now she knew why it had been so easy. Her body had been calling for his. Wanting this from the moment she’d stepped into his apartment. She pressed his hand harder against her tit and kissed him. He pushed her gently to the grass. The blades were cool and soft against her naked back. “Come down here.” She beckoned him, her fingers curling around his biceps. “Wait.” Breathless, he pulled a condom out of his pocket, ripped open the package, and unzipped his pants. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.” “Here,” she said, “let me.” She plucked the condom from his fingers and stroked his erection, rubbing her thumb across the tip. He closed his eyes and groaned, “Jesus.” She unrolled the condom over his hard length. Then she slid her hand from its root to its tip. “God, you are so hard.” He opened those dark, dark eyes, desire dilating his pupils. “It’s you. You make me that way.” He caressed her breasts, his fingers shaping

58


and reshaping her soft flesh. Then he leaned down and sucked one of her erect nipples into his mouth, teasing it with his tongue. She bucked beneath him, her body on auto‐drive. His mouth on her was driving her mad. She needed him inside of her. Wetness dampened her panties. She struggled to take them off. Ty held her with one solid arm. With his free hand, he ripped the bit of lace and satin from her. Her pussy ached. She spread her legs and willed him to touch her. Losing strength, he fell on top of her, his chest pressing her into the grass. His hand found her wetness. The hot, damp folds of her pussy. The sensitive nub of her clit. His hand felt so good there. So, so good. He dipped the tip of his finger inside her vagina for more of her cream. She arched her hips upward and met his slight thrust. He smiled against her nipple. “Eager, aren’t we?” He stroked his finger across her pussy lips and licked her aroused nipple once more. “Fuck me, Ty. Fuck me.” She couldn’t stand it. Her clit was so sensitive now, anymore contact would send her over the edge. She wanted to come with his dick inside her. He lifted his mouth from her breast and ran a finger down her chest, between her naked breasts, over her stomach. Her back arched at the slight touch. He played her like a fine instrument. “I love looking at you like this. Every inch of you is perfect.” He kissed her down the imaginary line he had drawn. His finger poised above her clit. She was desperate for release, writhing under him. Waiting for him to make her come. “Please,” she whispered. “Please, do it now.” He stopped with a kiss on her bellybutton. “I want to taste you.” She groaned at the thought. His mouth on her pussy? She couldn’t stand it. Not one more second. “I can’t...” “Let’s see how long you can take it.” He smiled wickedly up at her, spread her folds with his fingers, and looked at her labia. “You’re so wet, Sasha. Dripping. I need to lick you clean.”

59


He raked his tongue from her creamy hole to her clit. “You taste so good, Sasha.” He licked her again, then pressed his mouth into her pussy and hummed. The vibration from his humming exploded across her skin. He licked and tasted her, her clit throbbing. He positioned his mouth on top of her clit and hummed again, waiting for her to lose control. A second later, her orgasm hit her like a lightning bolt. She arched her back and screamed, “Oh, my God!” His mouth pressed harder into her pussy. He shoved a finger deep inside her vagina, and a second wave of pleasure filled her. “Ty. Oh, Ty!” At those words, he pulled away and thrust his cock inside of her. Her sensitive inner walls welcomed his hardness. He pumped into her, full force, grabbed her ass with one hand, and pushed into her as hard as he could. She let him ride her, still coming down off the ecstasy of her double orgasm. After a few more thrusts, he let out a wild cry of release and collapsed on top of her. He rolled to one side, caught her eye, and said, “Where have you been all my life?” She smiled.

60


Chapter Eleven “A little more to the right, Ty,” Sasha said. Tyler stood on a chair in her living room, with Renee, 1954 in his hands. “Are you sure you want it right here?” “Yes.” Ty hung the painting in the center of the room, with the sofa facing it. He stepped down and slid an arm around her. “She sure was beautiful.” “She was.” Sasha leaned her head against his shoulder. “Do you think she was ever proud of it?” “I think so.” He kissed her on the top of her red hair. “You know, you look just like her.” “Really?” Sasha squinted up at the picture. “I never noticed it before. I mean, we both have red hair, obviously. But she doesn’t have my mole.” “What mole?” “You never noticed?” She pulled away from him and gave him a sly smile. “In that spot, remember?” She backed up toward her bedroom and slipped off her shirt. He followed her. “I think I’ll need to do a thorough exam and make a note of this mole.” “How thorough?” She dropped her shirt on the floor and unhooked her bra.

61


He unbuckled his belt. “Very thorough, my dear.”

62


Author Bio For six years, Kris worked as a technical writer. Then she and her husband chucked it all to run a bed‐and‐breakfast. For the last two years, between cleaning rooms and making gourmet breakfasts, she has been writing fiction. To keep up with her latest releases or to read her blog, make sure to visit Kris’s website: http://www.freewebs.com/kriseton.

63

Varga's Girl

Vargas Llosa among the Postmodernists

Isolina De Vargas

Las Cartas Oe - Vargas Llosa

El oro de Tomas Vargas

Las Cartas Oe - Vargas Llosa

Vargas Llosa and Latin American Politics

Girl

Girl

Girl

Mountain Girl, River Girl

Girl

Black Girl White Girl

Black Girl White Girl

Black Girl White Girl

Black Girl White Girl

Silly Girl

Party Girl

Hill girl

Third Girl

Third Girl

Earth Girl

Jealous Girl

Demon Girl

Clown Girl

Northern Girl

Hill girl

Glass Girl

Demon Girl

Golden Girl

Varga's Girl

Vargas Llosa among the Postmodernists

Isolina De Vargas

Las Cartas Oe - Vargas Llosa

El oro de Tomas Vargas

Las Cartas Oe - Vargas Llosa

Vargas Llosa and Latin American Politics

Girl

Girl

Girl

Mountain Girl, River Girl

Girl

Black Girl White Girl

Black Girl White Girl

Black Girl White Girl

Black Girl White Girl

Silly Girl

Party Girl

Hill girl

Third Girl

Third Girl

Earth Girl

Jealous Girl

Demon Girl

Clown Girl

Northern Girl

Hill girl

Glass Girl

Demon Girl

Golden Girl

Recommend Documents