“As opposed to rain stopping in midair? Try me.”
The last thing Eliza expected was for her captor to strip off his black T-shirt. “Dude, there’s no need for that!” Surely he wasn’t going to accost her? He shook his head subtly, as if he read her thought and wanted to ease her mind. “Look at me.”
“I’m looking.” She couldn’t take her eyes off him if she tried. Like an artist had wrapped a masterpiece of sculpture with velvety skin and breathed life into it, Kasdeya was exquisite. He moved his arm to point at the band of golden script that circled one bicep, and his stomach rippled, down to the ridges of muscles framing his slender hips.
“When was the last time you saw a man without a shirt, Eliza? I’m pointing to my arm. Look at it.” She glanced at his face instead. His smirk of satisfaction annoyed her.
“Oh, so big deal, you’re gorgeous. Get over yourself. All right, let me see your damned arm. I noticed that in pharaoh land. Skip the mumbo jumbo and tell me what it says and why I should care.”
“I don’t know what it says. You’re supposed to tell me. You’re my Keeper.”
“What the hell does that mean anyway? Like a zookeeper? When’s your feeding time? Damn, my head is killing me again.”
“You’re probably hungry. Come, let us dine and we can discuss things casually.”
“Oh, lovely, yes, let’s have a nice little chat over dinner. A night out on the town? Perhaps drinks first?”
“That sarcasm does not suit you. You will want to freshen up of course.”
She agreed to everything but sex. She hadn’t counted on his monstrous creativity…
My Fair Monster
© 2008 Lila Dubois
Monsters in Hollywood, Book Two.
Since the day three incredibly hot men in disguise walk into her office and proved Monsters are real, intrepid screenwriter Jane Darby is obsessed with one task: to give the creatures a mythical makeover by writing a revolutionary, blockbuster screenplay. Now if only she can get over her own fear—and get the closed-mouth Michael to talk about his people.
Michael is fascinated by the demur and docile Jane, whose efforts to hold him at arm’s length hide an untapped sexual passion—a beast within her waiting to be set free. There’s only one way to get under her lovely skin: strike a bargain.
For one week, she agrees to let him do anything, anything, he wants. But Jane’s got conditions. First, no actual sex. Second, she has to enjoy it.
Jane’s not really worried. What can happen if he sticks to the bargain? After all, she’s not really turned on by the idea of Michael tying her down. Or bending her over his knee. Or…
Gulp.
Enjoy the following excerpt for My Fair Monster:
“Oh my God you set me up on a blind date. Was there a roofie in that shot?”
“No, but that’s a good idea for next time.”
“Lena!”
“Oh calm down! I’m joking, besides, who needs GHB when there’s a good DJ?”
“Quit distracting me. What’d you do?”
“Nothing.”
“Fine, then I’m going to go dance with that guy.”
Lena hesitated long enough for Jane’s friends-with-stupid-plan detector to shoot into red, before Lena said, “Dance with him if you want. I just think you could do better.”
Jane pulled her friend’s face close until they were nose-to-nose. “I know where you sleep.”
With that ominously vague threat, Jane left the bar, heading for the dance floor. She stopped on the edge, intending to search for coat guy, but a new song started up. It was rich, with a pulsing back beat. The dancers stopped their wild solo gyrations and came together, the music demanding skin-to-skin contact.
The tingling was back in her fingers, the music pressing into her skin, demanding her recognition, her service. Jane stepped onto the dance floor, and started to move.
Lifting her arms above her head, Jane slide one hand along the fabric casing her limb, wishing it were bare so she could feel the contact. She whirled, planting her feet on the downbeat and throwing her head back.
Something brushed against her back, breaking the rhythm of her dance, but when Jane opened her eyes there was no one close enough to touch her. Like her, the others on the dance floor were lost in the song, touched by music as well crafted as a symphony.
Jane halfheartedly glanced around for coat guy, but gave up when the next hard beat sounded. She bumped her hip to the side and slid her hands over her own breasts, down her belly, to the bare skin of her thighs. She bent, waiting, poised, for the beat to give her a signal. When the music spoke to her Jane snapped up.
Her back slapped into something. Someone.
Hands covered hers, urging her to retrace the path over her breasts to her belly, then hips. He pulled, forcing her ass back against him.
Then they moved as one. Rather than a crude thrusting back and forth—a pale imitation of missionary sex—their duel dancing was rhythmic and subtle, hips moving to the beat. Jane freed her hands from beneath his, needing more. Her fingertips brushed a face, and then his hands captured hers, fingers tight around her wrists, pulling her arms up and back, until they were trapped behind his neck. He held both her wrists in one large hand.
Jane gasped as the position stretched her up, until she danced on her toes. Her breasts lifted, and her partner took full advantage, cupping one breast through her dress. He touched her, fondled her, controlled her.
Jane shuddered and moaned. She turned to look at him, but her arms acted like blinders. She tired to speak but her mouth was dry.
“Just dance.”
She barely heard the words over the music and the rush of blood in her ears. Had she even heard it? Or was the baritone command a figment of her imagination?
His hand left her breast, which both relieved and disappointed her, until it dropped to her bare thigh and headed north, slipping beneath her short skirt to curl around her hip, fingertips brushing the fabric of her thong.
His touch made her aware of her own wetness, and in that moment she wanted nothing more than for him, whoever he was, to touch her, right now. She wanted his finger inside her, long and hard and thick, in one powerful thrust.
The music stopped.
Sound had not stopped pumping from the speakers, no DJ was that stupid, but the song had changed. This new offering was frenzied, with a screaming singer, and too much techno overlay.
Jane snapped from her dance-induced lust-haze. She jerked her arms free of his hold and the man’s hot, rough hand slid away from her thong.
“I knew you loved to…dance.” The voice was low, rich and…familiar.
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Angelic Surrender: The Kavanaugh Foundation, Book 2 Page 13
