White-Hot and Hard

by Catherine Chernow

  White-Hot and Hard

  Catherine Chernow

  Sensual. Seductive. Sculptures so erotic they become a white-hot feast for the eyes.

  That’s what New York art promoter Sloan Benton sees the day she discovers the talent of sculptor Dallen O’Neal. Dallen’s outrageous style gives Sloan a burning desire to learn more about him and the secret medium he’s using. He’s the sexiest, hottest, most dominant man she’s ever met and the best new talent in town, but she realizes too late that he’s also a painful, forgotten memory from her past.

  Dallen O’Neal wants revenge. Sloan Benton crushed his artistic spirit. He couldn’t sculpt anything for years after her cruelty, but his desire for her never waned. When she accepts the invitation to view his work, then his challenge to strip naked for art’s sake, he discovers Sloan’s submissive side. They share wild sex and explore Sloan’s penchant for spankings. Sloan captures his heart, but he thrusts her aside, intent on vengeance.

  Jealousy, sex, submission and a hint of exhibitionism mingle together, making Dallen’s need for Sloan…

  White-hot and hard.

  An Ellora’s Cave Romantica Publication

  www.ellorascave.com

  White-Hot and Hard

  ISBN 9781419928253

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  White-Hot and Hard Copyright © 2010 Catherine Chernow

  Edited by Jillian Bell

  Cover art by Syneca

  Electronic book publication August 2010

  The terms Romantica® and Quickies® are registered trademarks of Ellora’s Cave Publishing.

  With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the publisher, Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Inc.® 1056 Home Avenue, Akron OH 44310-3502.

  Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded or distributed via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the publisher’s permission. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000. (http://www.fbi.gov/ipr/). Please purchase only authorized electronic or print editions and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted material. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

  White-Hot and Hard

  Catherine Chernow

  Chapter One

  “Seductive.”

  Sloan Benton’s voice echoed through her office.

  She leaned closer to her computer screen, examining the photos that artist Dallen O’Neal had emailed. It had been a long time since she’d seen such wonderful sculptures. They were different, unusual…

  “Sensual.”

  The word slipped from her lips. Sloan’s eyes focused on a bucket filled with soapsuds. They looked so real she wanted to reach into the picture and touch their frothy whiteness.

  She viewed the next photo. Her eyes widened and her pulse raced, while a zing of pure sexual pleasure made its way down her spine.

  “Erotic,” she whispered. “Simply, beautifully, wonderfully…erotic.”

  The picture showed a sculpture of a woman lying on her back, her legs spread wide with her pussy on display. A mound of whipped cream lay between her thighs, the can dispensing the sweet treat held by a hand suspended above her body. The cream looked so authentic, Sloan could practically taste it, the woman’s body was sculpted to perfection.

  “A white-hot feast for the eyes.”

  She said the words aloud, wishing it were her body in that photograph.

  Maybe that hand suspended above the woman’s legs would stroke her pussy. She wondered if the hand was fashioned in the image of the artist’s hand. She could see its long fingers, the play of muscle, tendons and veins beneath smooth white skin.

  Dallen O’Neal’s sculptures prompted a burning desire to learn more about him. She couldn’t remember the last time she was so intrigued. His art evoked earthiness and eroticism, two qualities that would make people stand up and take notice.

  It would also mean money in his pocket, and hers.

  If he agreed to be her client. She tapped her pencil on her keyboard of her computer, wondering how Dallen O’Neal looked.

  She scrolled down his email, hoping to see of picture of him. His correspondence was all about his work, a small bio about his career, the location of his studio, but no photograph of him.

  He left something to her imagination, which only fascinated her more.

  “I wonder what medium he used?”

  She turned abruptly, careening into her assistant, Miles.

  “Why did you sneak up on me?” She rolled her chair back under the computer table, but her eyes connected with the picture of the woman’s spread legs.

  She felt her temperature rise, her cunt grow wet and slick.

  “I’ve been standing here the entire time, looking over your shoulder.” Miles walked to the side of her chair and rubbed a hand beneath his chin, studying the photographs. “Everything looks so real. The bucket, the soapsuds…” He pointed at the screen and smiled. “That cream between her legs, why, it looks good enough to eat.” Miles’ grin stretched from one ear to the other. “And so does she.”

  “You like that?” She looked up at Miles and frowned.

  “Didn’t you know? We gay people appreciate wonderful art. That’s what we know best—decorating and art.”

  “Sarcasm doesn’t suit you, Miles.” She rolled her eyes.

  He ignored her comment. “This Dallen O’Neal is good. You should check him out.”

  “Maybe I will.”

  “There’s no maybe about it. I heard he’s a fantastic artist. Handsome too.” Miles grinned again.

  She leaned back in her chair. “What’s the matter? Tired of your current lover?”

  “Dallen O’Neal is not my type.”

  “I suppose he’s mine?”

  Miles didn’t reply.

  Heat crept into her face.

  “You need fresh talent. A new client worthy of your skills. You’re the best art promoter on the East Coast, Sloan.”

  She nodded. “Why, thank you, Miles.”

  “And you need a good fuck.”

  “Don’t start that again.” She shooed him away with a flick of her hand. “If you do, I just may fire you.”

  “That would make the third time in three months.”

  Her lips thinned. “You’re treading on thin ice.”

  “And you work too hard.”

  “I’m supposed to. My clients expect it.”

  “There’s more to life than art. And your personal life is in the toilet. Whatever happened to those two men you were seeing? That photographer and his sidekick, what’s his name…”

  “James and Lee,” she snapped. “Why can’t you ever remember their names?”

  He shrugged. “Maybe it’s because they were so unmemorable. I don’t think the two of them together were man enough for you.”

  She hated when Miles was right.

  “So, what do you want me to do?” She snickered. “Go seek out this handsome artist and ask him to fu—”

  Her cheeks burned when she thought about what she wanted to do.

  Miles glanced at her face. A corner of his mouth lifted in a wry, knowing grin.

  Oh, the hell with it. This was Miles. He knew her better than she knew herself. She couldn’t hide her feel
ings from him, ever.

  “Dallen O’Neal resembles George Clooney and Rock Hudson rolled into one.”

  “Rock was gay.”

  “Word is that Dallen O’Neal isn’t.”

  “I’m just supposed to march up to him and demand that he screw me?”

  He grinned. “No, silly. You’re supposed to accept his email invitation to visit his studio in Chelsea and view his work.” Miles shrugged, the movement casual, giving him the appearance of all innocence. “What happens after that is strictly up to you and…him.”

  “I don’t sleep with my clients.”

  “That’s a pity.” He shook his head. “Maybe you should. It might put you in a better frame of mind. You wouldn’t be snapping at me all the time.”

  “Oh, be serious, will you?”

  “I am being serious. About his work and about you.”

  She pressed some keys on her computer then hit the Send button.

  Miles clapped. “Wonderful. You accepted his invite. I have a feeling you and Dallen O’Neal are going to hit it off big-time.”

  * * * * *

  The bitch was back.

  That one thought drifted through Dallen O’Neal’s mind when Sloan entered his studio a week later. A tall, cool blonde with an excellent chest. But it wasn’t her breasts that made his dick stand at attention.

  She turned slightly to speak to someone. That’s when he got a good look at her ass. While her bottom was not tight and round like those of the young beauties who usually modeled for him, it was wide and generous, giving Sloan the look he craved. He despised rail-thin women. They had no form except one. A straight line. There wasn’t a curve or rounded dimple in sight to give their bodies, or his art, interest.

  He could get lost in Sloan’s body. He would draw her first and then sculpt her. He glanced at Sloan’s lush hips and ass, imagining how her backside would feel. His cock responded, swelling so that his pants stretched tightly across his groin.

  She moved closer. Her beautiful visage contained only the barest hint of wrinkles.

  The passing years had been kind to Sloan Benton.

  Or maybe she’d had a ton of body-altering surgery, but only he knew that no amount of cutting could excise Sloan Benton’s cold, hard heart.

  Your work is mediocre at best…

  He remembered how she’d tossed his sketches at him as if they were yesterday’s trash. How many other artists had she done that to over the years? Art and life were to be enjoyed and appreciated. So much talent went unnoticed because of Sloan Benton.

  Someone needed to teach her a lesson in humility.

  He vowed that this time he wouldn’t allow her callous words to tear the fabric of his creative drive. Never again. He’d suck it up and take whatever she dished out and throw it right back, then go on creating his sculptures because they gave him pleasure.

  She slipped her dark glasses down her nose, revealing a pair of sea-green eyes. He still felt he could get lost in their depths, see into her soul, black as ever.

  But he couldn’t deny the way she made his body feel. White-hot and hard, his dick rose to the occasion while he watched her walk across the room.

  “Are you Dallen O’Neal?”

  Not a flicker of recognition sparked in her eyes.

  She examined him as if he were an insect held captive in a glass jar. It was the same way she’d viewed his work all those years ago.

  He chose to answer simply, masking the eagerness in his voice lest she see how happy he was that his plan to get her to his studio had worked. “I am.”

  She stuck out her right hand. He shook it briefly, getting a glimpse of her long, thin fingers and the diamonds surrounding them. She raised her left hand briefly, brushing aside a lock of her hair.

  A woman with her looks probably had a score of husbands or lovers. Still, a small part of him was glad she wore no wedding band. It would make the rest of his plan easier.

  “Sloan Benton,” she said by way of introduction. “You emailed me pictures of your work.” She looked around the studio and frowned. Then a corner of her mouth lifted. “Ah, I see it now.”

  “What?” His heart hammered. Strange. He didn’t think it would, but it still mattered, damn it.

  He still cared what she thought.

  She nodded toward the bucket of soapsuds. “You emailed me a picture of that.” A flush crept up her neck, coloring her face, making her cheeks pink. “And that.” She pointed to his latest creation, a sculpture of a woman’s spread legs.

  Sloan angled her head, studying his work. Then her eyes met his.

  “I’ve heard good things about you.”

  He let go of the breath he didn’t even realize he was holding. Seeing her here in his studio brought back memories of his unending desire for her despite her calloused heart. His dick stiffened again, his body burning in response to Sloan’s.

  Her gaze traveled down between his legs. Her gaze lingered there for a few seconds then met his squarely. “I meant I’ve heard good things about your work. The word is you’re one of the hottest new sculptors in New York.” She focused on the figure of the woman’s spread legs. “What medium are you using, Mr. O’Neal?”

  Mr. O’Neal. It sounded haughty and arrogant.

  “Why don’t you see for yourself?” He nodded toward his latest pieces.

  “I believe I will.”

  She turned on her heel without another word.

  He remembered that dismissive tone. And the way she carried herself. She walked away, tall, cool and confident.

  Dallen enjoyed the view, admiring the sway of her hips and ass.

  Fuck.

  Oh yeah, I want to. Very much.

  His thoughts drifted in time. He was twenty-five, fresh out of Pratt, one of the most prestigious art schools in New York. He was a skinny, starving artist, barely making ends meet.

  Sloan was well on her way to being the biggest and best art promoter in New York City, while his life was about to be plunged into the proverbial toilet.

  Maybe you should consider some other field of employment, Mr. O’Neal. Your work is terrible. I can’t help you. No one is going to buy anything you make.

  The bitch was definitely back.

  Now it was up to him to make her stay…

  Right where he wanted her.

  * * * * *

  Sloan ran her hands over the mound of cream between the woman’s legs. It felt hard, smooth, looked wickedly real.

  “Have you guessed what I used?”

  Dallen stood off to the side, watching her. From the corner of her eye, she noticed that his dark gaze followed her every move.

  She lifted her chin, hoping to quell the racing beat of her heart. Dallen O’Neal was a devastatingly gorgeous man. She longed to feel the sinewy lines of his body, felt captivated by his jet-black hair. His blue eyes shone, setting off the shadow of a beard lining his angular jaw.

  Her pussy throbbed. Damn, she wasn’t here for a roll in the sack with a tall, dark, sexy guy. She was here to work and gain a new client.

  She wanted Dallen badly.

  Um…as a client.

  Yeah, right.

  He was dressed in black from head to toe, the severe color emphasizing his height and muscled body. She wasn’t a short woman, but she got the feeling her head would barely reach his shoulder.

  He certainly knew how to draw a crowd.

  “So, are you going to tell me?”

  He moved closer, so close she could smell him. A heady, musky, lemony fragrance drifted by her nose.

  “Tell you what?” she managed.

  She couldn’t remember the question.

  He lifted a corner of his mouth. The tiny smile softened his chiseled face, then a lock of his dark hair fell across one of his eyes. She had to stop herself from reaching up and brushing it aside.

  She couldn’t think of a single thing to say. Strange, she was usually so glib, so self-assured.

  He chuckled. “Cat got your tongue?”

  A
t the mention of the word “tongue”, she imagined how his would feel. She glanced at the sculpture of the woman’s spread legs. How would Dallen’s tongue feel between her thighs? Would he pass the tip across her swollen pussy?

  She shuddered pleasurably.

  “Cold?” Dallen lifted a brow.

  “No.” She shook her head. “I’m not.”

  No, damn you, I’m burning up!

  “Have you figured out the medium I’m using?”

  She lifted a hand, intent on running it over the mound of whipped cream.

  He placed his warm palm across the back of her hand. The contact of his skin against hers sent a zing down her back, which snaked its way to the top of her asscheeks, settling in the cleft between them.

  How would it feel to have his large, warm palm there?

  Fool! Concentrate. Answer his question already.

  She shook her head, her fingers caressing the sculpture.

  He whispered near her ear. “I usually don’t let anyone touch my sculptures.” He lifted her hand and placed it against the sculpted cunt.

  Sloan touched the folds of flesh lining the vagina, sliding her finger across the small, rounded button nestled between those folds.

  As if she stroked her own pussy.

  “Feels real, doesn’t it?” he asked, his voice low.

  Embarrassed that she’d let herself get so lost in his art, she tried to pull her hand away. He held it there.

  “I’m not sure what medium you’re using.” She turned to face him, schooling her features, not wanting to let him know how he and his work affected her.

  “Stick around and find out.”

  He removed his hand, folding his arms across his chest. She missed the feel of his skin on hers, felt bereft at the loss of contact.

  “I will.” She lifted her chin, hoping she sounded confident.

  Dallen O’Neal was keeping her off balance, doing the unexpected.

  Like his art.

  He smiled. She wished he wouldn’t, because it did strange things to her pussy. It made it beat in time with her heart. Her clit ached for release. Her breasts felt heavy.