Calendar Boy

by HELEN HARDT

  She’d described the female orgasm in so many different ways in her writing, and reviewers often praised her for portraying the woman’s sexual experience in such a realistic and sensual way.

  What a crock. If the reviewers only knew… Stacy Summers, “the Queen of the female orgasm,” as one reviewer had called her, was all theory. She might as well be a virgin for all her practical experience.

  She cleared her throat, erasing the sting from the last large gulp of alcohol. “Just Stacy is fine.”

  “Stacy it is, then. Or I may just call you beautiful, if that’s okay.”

  Another crock, but what the heck? Why not live out a fantasy for a few minutes this evening? She could talk to her favorite cover model, share a drink or two. “Do you want to go sit in the bar with our drinks?” she asked.

  “I had something a little more intimate in mind.” Michael’s tone was teasing as his voice caressed her.

  “Intimate?” She willed her voice not to crack. “Like what?”

  “Like my room, maybe?”

  Stacy shook her head. Had she heard him correctly? No way was she was going to Michael Moretti’s room tonight. Granted, he was the hottest thing walking, but he had what must amount to an abundance of sexual experience. He’d expect her, an erotic romance author, to know her way around a man.

  She shook her head again. Michael Moretti wasn’t coming on to her. What would he want with a middle-aged divorcée? He could have his pick of any sweet young thing here, including the female cover models. Surely he couldn’t be suggesting… Of course not.

  “I don’t think your room is the best idea,” she said.

  “Well, the bar’s kind of noisy.”

  “It’s less noisy than the party.”

  He chuckled. “True enough. All right, the bar it is.” He held out his arm. “At your service, Mistress”—he grinned—“er…Stacy.”

  Her nerves jittering, she shyly placed her hand in the crook of his elbow. God, solid muscle… The man couldn’t have a gram of fat on his entire body. Of course not, he stripped for a living. When not modeling for covers, he headlined for the Chicago Playboys, an all male revue that rivaled Chippendales in popularity. She briefly wondered if he took steroids to maintain his physique. She hoped not.

  Luckily, the bar was only a few hundred yards away. Stacy made it without tripping over her high heels, for which she was eternally grateful. The dimly lit bar was not crowded, most likely because the hotel was filled with conference attendees who were all at the Vampire party. Michael found a cozy table for two. He ordered another cosmo for Stacy, who still gripped the one he’d given her in the hallway, and a scotch on the rocks for himself.

  “So,” he said, once the waitress had left, “tell me about Stacy Summers.”

  Nothing like laying it right out on the table. Stacy hated talking about herself. Why would anyone find her interesting? “I’m a writer, but I guess you know that,” she said shakily.

  “I had assumed.” His cocky smile lit up his face. “But that can’t be all there is to know about such a lovely woman as yourself.”

  Oh, he was good. He played his part well. No doubt he earned his payment for the weekend because he certainly knew how to charm the ladies. What could she possibly say to him that he would find remotely interesting? “I’m divorced, a little over a year now.”

  “Yeah, you told me, remember?”

  “I did?”

  He smiled. “While we were dancing.”

  Of course. The familiar pink heat crept over her flesh. God, she was an idiot.

  “How long were you married?” he asked

  “A while.” No way was she going to admit to twenty years in a passionless marriage. That would give away her age.

  “Any kids?”

  “No. David didn’t want kids.”

  “And you?”

  Her? She had longed to be a mother, but in her introverted way, she had agreed to David’s desires. Now, at forty-five, she was too old for motherhood. “I was fine with his decision.” A lie, but why would Michael care to hear how she’d cried over the loss?

  “A shame,” Michael said.

  She widened her eyes. Why would he say such a thing? “What do you mean?”

  He brushed on finger over her forearm. “I mean it’s a shame you never had kids. A shame you didn’t pass those amazing genes on to the next generation.”

  Her skin tingled under his touch. “Amazing genes?”

  “You’re beautiful, Stacy. But I’ve already told you that.”

  Oh, yes, he was good, all right. Warmth flooded her cheeks and neck. She had no idea what to say, what to do.

  Be Johnny Carson.

  Advice from the therapist she’d seen before she and David decided to call it quits. She had complained that she never knew what to say in social situations, that she felt shy, awkward, and conspicuous. The therapist had said, “Be Johnny Carson. Ask the person questions about himself. Everyone likes talking about himself.” The only problem was, what to ask?

  She took a sip of cosmo. “How about you? Have you ever been married?”

  “Nope. Never had the pleasure. I was engaged once. It…didn’t work out.”

  The writer in her sensed a story there, but she couldn’t pry. She wasn’t that brave. Hell, she wasn’t brave at all.

  Why was she here again?

  “Any kids?”

  Shit. Foot in mouth. He’d never been married. How would he have kids?

  He lowered his eyes for a second. Was that sadness? When he looked back at her, the question didn’t seem to faze him. “Nope. No kids for me either.”

  “Sorry. You already told me you hadn’t been married. That was a stupid question.”

  The left side of his mouth curved up into a crooked smile. “You don’t need marriage to have kids, beautiful. A lot of my friends have them and haven’t been married.”

  “Right. Of course. I just meant…” God, shut up, Stacy! She let out a short laugh. “I don’t know what the hell I meant.”

  Michael’s finger traveled farther up her forearm and rested in the ticklish spot inside her elbow. “You have a great laugh.”

  His touch ignited her. “Yeah, and I’m great at saying the wrong thing.”

  “Listen”—he scooted her chair closer to hers—“why don’t you loosen up? Let the real Stacy out? I’d like to get to know her.”

  “Why do you want to get to know me?” She truly wondered. David had been married to her and had never wanted to “get to know her.” “Besides, I’m a lot older than you are.”

  “Do I look like I care? How old are you, anyway?”

  Stacy didn’t believe in lying about her age, even to impress the likes of Michael Moretti. “Forty-five.”

  “Well, you’re beautiful. You don’t look a day over thirty.”

  Right. She looked good for her age, she knew, but thirty? “Right.”

  “I’m not lying, sweetheart. You’re hot, and I really do want to get to know you.

  “Why on earth would you want to get to know me?”

  His hazel gaze penetrated hers. “Because when I first saw you standing there looking at my photograph, I couldn’t wait to get you into bed.”

  Chapter Three

  Goosebumps prickled her flesh. Her heart pounded and her tummy somersaulted. A gush of feminine awareness assaulted her from inside.

  This is what it felt like—the sexual attraction she wrote about. That initial crackle of energy that passed between a man and a woman, so intense it was almost visible. A hunger, deep and carnal, stirred to life between her legs. A hunger that needed—no, demanded—to be sated.

  She downed the rest of her cosmo just as the waitress set the drinks Michael had ordered onto the table. The alcohol scorched her throat, warmed her belly, intensified the raw heat growing in her core. She swallowed.

  What would Starr do?

  Starr Shannon was Stacy’s most popular heroine, the lead character in her best-selling erotic urban fantasy
series. Readers loved Starr’s brashness, her fiery nature. Starr didn’t wait around for life to find her, she took what she wanted. She made things happen. She created her own success. When she was attracted to a man, she let him know it. Starr was a sexual dynamo, a multi-orgasmic superwoman.

  For just one night, Stacy would be Starr.

  “Let’s go then.”

  Michael picked up his scotch and swirled it around a little. The ice clinked against the glass. “Go where?”

  “To bed? Isn’t that what you want?”

  “Uh…”

  Was that a blush creeping into his warm olive skin? Could he get any better looking?

  “What?”

  “Our drinks just got here.”

  “So what? We’ll take them with us.” Stacy’s heart drummed a rhythmic cadence against her sternum. “Are you a man or an amoeba?”

  “Um…a man, I assure you.”

  Had she actually embarrassed him with that stupid line? It was from a movie, but she couldn’t remember which one at the moment. “That’s what I thought.” She stood and grabbed her drink. “To your room then?”

  “I have a roommate. Dino.”

  “But you wanted to go to your room before.”

  “For a drink, yeah. Dino’s busy at the party. But to get busy… We might get interrupted.”

  “So you’d rather not get busy then?”

  “Hell, no! I mean, yes, I want to get busy.”

  He stood up next to her. Lord, he was tall! So tall and handsome and hot. The heat between their two bodies was palpable. “I can’t think of anything else I’d rather do, beautiful.”

  “Good.” She picked up his scotch and handed it him. “My room then.”

  He took her arm and guided her toward the elevators. “You sure about this?”

  Stacy smiled, channeling Starr once again, “I’ve never been so sure about anything, handsome.”

  “God…” He led her into an empty elevator. “Which floor?”

  “Fifteen.”

  Michael pressed the button and then leaned toward her. “I’ve been dying to kiss those ruby red lips of yours.”

  She curved her lips into what she hoped was a coy smile. “Nothing stopping you that I can see.”

  He gently brushed his lips against hers, first in a slow slide and then a tiny nibble across her lower lip. They were both still holding their drinks, and though each had a free hand, only their lips were touching. Very sensual and erotic, even though it was a light teasing kiss. Stacy’s insides quivered.

  She might be next to a novice when it came to sex, but she did know how to kiss. Luckily, she had done lots of making out before David. She loved to kiss, and she was definitely going to make the most out of kissing such a gorgeous male specimen as Michael Moretti.

  When her introverted self threatened to surface, she consciously told herself to bury it. Tonight she was Starr, and Starr would give Michael Moretti a kiss he’d never forget.

  She sensed a hint of tightly harnessed control. At least that’s what Starr would sense. Stacy had written about such control numerous times. So like Starr in the same situation, Stacy decided to unleash Michael’s passion right here in the hotel elevator.

  She pressed her lips to his, exerting more pressure, touched her tongue to his upper lip. Such gorgeous full lips! A true pleasure to kiss. The tickle between legs intensified. She could almost feel her labia swelling, her juices accumulating. Oh, this was going to be a wonderful night. A wonderful, pleasurable night. All she had to do was be Starr.

  A slow burn of lust curled through her. She tasted the tang of his scotch on his tongue as its tip touched hers. His mouth opened against hers, as if asking permission to take more. With a thrust of her tongue, she granted it, and what had been a light and teasing kiss became passionate, raw, and primal.

  Tongues lashed and dueled, lips nipped and ground against each other. Teeth nibbled and bit. She sucked at his lower lip, at his upper, at both together. Her mouth was demanding and greedy, taking all she could with this one kiss.

  His groan reverberated against the back of her throat, exciting her even more. Open-mouthed and wet, the kiss went on and on. Liquid spilled from her martini glass and trickled down her arm, and when the elevator dinged its arrival at her floor, she hardly heard it.

  Michael tore his mouth from hers, breaking the suction with a loud smack. “We’re here.”

  “Where?”

  “Your floor, your room.” He pressed his lips to her cheek. “That was some kiss, sweetheart.” He took her cosmo. “I think we lost some of our drinks.”

  “I have more in my room.”

  “Oh, I don’t think we need any more.” He winked at her. “I want you completely coherent for what I have planned.”

  Right, she didn’t need alcohol. Starr Shannon didn’t drink. Stacy didn’t need to drink tonight either. She was feeling warm but not buzzed. Just as well, as Michael said. If this was going to happen, she wanted to remember every single, solitary detail of making love to the hottest man on the planet.

  “This way,” she said, leading him to room 1543. Quickly, she slid her keycard into the slot and opened the door.

  Michael set their half-empty glasses on a table and grabbed Stacy, forcing her against the wall. His mouth opened against her neck, and he sucked her flesh against his lips.

  The sweet pressure made Stacy crazy. Her pussy pulsed in time with her heartbeat, and her head swam. Michael’s hardness pushed against her belly, and he ground it into her as his lips moved upward. He traced her jawline with tiny kisses and nibbled over the same path.

  Nectar gushed between her legs. Her body was on alert. Every sensation seemed magnified.

  “You’re so amazing, sweetheart. So beautiful.”

  His words were a slow caress, adding to the sensual agitation already flowing through her.

  “I want you so bad, Stacy. So fucking bad.”

  She opened her eyes. Michael had stopped kissing her, had bent his legs to press his cock against her mound. Her clit throbbed inside her panties. Too many clothes, too many barriers. Her tiny black skirt, her thin panties—it was all too much. She wanted to be naked with Michael. Naked and sexy and nasty.

  “I want you too. I want to fuck you. I want to suck your cock. I want you to eat me. Will you eat me, Michael?”

  He groaned, and his handsome face contorted into a sensual grimace. He inhaled. “God, I can already smell you. You smell like sex, Stacy. Like sweet sex. I want to bury my face between your legs. I promise I’ll eat you until you scream.”

  She was ready to scream now. He lifted his shirt and threw it on the ground as she toyed with the snap on his jeans. Lord, he’d gone commando. His erection sprang out as soon as she unzipped, and it was more beautiful than she’d ever imagined. She’d described many a penis in her writing, but Michael’s golden shaft was worthy of a whole page. Long, thick, and perfectly formed, it stood at attention, ready to pleasure her. Ready to be pleasured.

  He fumbled with the edge of her fishnet top, lifting it over her head, stopping to squeeze her full round breasts on the way.

  “Perfect,” he said. “These are so fucking perfect.”

  “I told you they’re real.”

  He unsnapped her black pushup bra and pulled it off her, letting it drop to the floor. Her breasts fell gently against her chest.

  “God, I believe you.” He cupped them, squeezed them. “They’re so soft, so pliable. They’re real all right. When I thought you were married, I swear to God I thought your husband was the luckiest SOB in the free world to get to lick and suck these every night.”

  Her body quaked as she readied to channel her character once more. “Well, tonight is your lucky night, handsome. They’re all yours.”

  He groaned and lowered his head, dropping kisses along her cleavage. “You smell like ripe peaches. He cupped one breast, gently teasing the nipple with his index finger.

  Stacy gasped as the bud drew up tighter and her areol
a became taut and wrinkled. When he dipped his head and touched his tongue to the nub, electricity flashed through her.

  David hadn’t paid much attention to her breasts. And though she’d done her share of making out before David, she’d been a good girl and hadn’t let any man venture underneath her clothing. This was the sizzle she’d written about, the amazing sensation of mouth on nipple.

  This could go on forever and she would die a happy woman!

  She shuddered and whimpered in pleasure. “That feels so good.”

  “I haven’t even begun to make you feel good, Stacy.” He closed his lips around the nipple and tugged.

  “Oh!” She willingly stopped herself from begging and decided to go with her feelings, not her thoughts. For the last time, she thought about Starr, and then she consciously decided just to feel. “Yes, Michael, yes. Suck my nipple, just like that.”

  “Mmm.” His voice vibrated against her sensitive flesh. “You’re so fucking hot.” As he sucked, his fingers crept to her other nipple, and he teased it between two fingers.

  The pressure ignited Stacy. “More, Michael. More.”

  He twisted the hard bud while he nibbled on the other. His cock hung between his legs, hard and inviting, a pearly drop of pre-cum glistening on its head. She reached for it, clasped her hand around its thick girth.

  He winced. “God, Stacy,” he said against her breast. “Not yet.”

  Had she done something wrong? “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. God.” His fingers left her nipple and dived beneath her skirt to rub between her legs. “It’s just…I’m so turned on. And fuck, you’re so wet. Your panties are drenched.”

  From what she knew, that was a good thing. “I’m wet for you, Michael. I want you.”

  “Fuck, I want you too, baby. All of you.” He withdrew his hand from between her legs and pushed her skirt and panties down with one swoop.

  She started to step out of her black strappy sandals, but he stopped her. “Leave them on, baby. They’re so sexy. And right now I want to taste that wet pussy of yours.”