by Tracy Wolff
Seven days, seven nights...
One week of passion.
One week of submission.
One week where anything (and everything) goes.
Hope Stiles needs.
She needs inspiration. She needs tuition money. She needs a mentor who will teach her how to turn iron into art.
Enter Deacon Vick, world-famous sculptor and recluse extraordinaire.
When Hope answers his ad for an artist’s model, she gets more than just a job. She gets the answer to her every fantasy...including the ones she didn’t even know she had.
From the minute Hope opens her gorgeous mouth, Deacon knows neither his art nor his life will ever be the same. He plans to use every second of their week together to push Hope to her limits—for art and for pleasure.
This book is approximately 30,000 words
The Dirty Bits from Carina Press give you what you want, when you want it. Designed to be read in an hour or two, these sex-filled microromances are guaranteed to pack a punch and deliver a happily-ever-after.
One-click with confidence. This title is part of the Carina Press Romance Promise: all the romance you’re looking for with an HEA/HFN. It’s a promise!
For Shellee Roberts, because I adore you!
Contents
Monday: Deacon
Tuesday: Hope
Wednesday: Deacon
Thursday: Hope
Friday: Deacon
Saturday: Hope
Sunday: Deacon
Acknowledgments
Also by Tracy Wolff
About the Author
Monday: Deacon
The moment she walks into my shop, I know she’s the one.
She looks like a wet dream with her long red curls, alabaster skin, and those goddess-like tits. Moves like one, too, luscious curves undulating to a beat only she can hear.
Fuck, yeah, she’s the one. Already my fingers are itching to touch. To mold.
“You’re late,” I tell her, not because I give a shit, but because I want to know what she’s going to say. How she’s going to handle herself. What pretty little lie this pretty little thing is going to spin to take the heat off.
You can tell a lot about a person by what lie she chooses—and how she delivers it. This one looks like the blushing type, looks like she’ll throw out a stutter or two as she tries to get through her story.
That’s fine by me. I like the shy type, every once in a while.
Whatever it is, however she does it, it won’t work. Not when my gut—and my dick—tell me that together we’ll generate enough heat for the frying pan and the fire.
I’d be the one lying if I said I wasn’t looking forward to the burn.
She surprises me, though, by holding up hands smudged with charcoal. “I’m sorry. Class ran over and I didn’t notice because I was drawing.” There’s a rueful apology in the tone, but no shyness. And definitely no groveling as she looks me straight in the eyes. There’s even a note of truth in there that I didn’t expect.
I like it.
Almost as much as I like the fact that she was so caught up in her art that she lost track of time. I don’t have to have anything in common with the women I stick my dick in...but it doesn’t hurt. Same with the women I sculpt.
I look her over again. No, it sure as shit doesn’t hurt.
“You a charcoal girl?” I ask, because I’m curious. And because I want to hear her talk about her art. It’s a first for me. Usually I can’t wait for the babbling, genuflecting art students to just shut the fuck up. All that adulation is exhausting.
Then again, this one isn’t babbling or genuflecting. Only the hot pink creeping across her cheekbones shows she’s affected by my scrutiny at all.
“Actually, I’m an iron girl.” Her voice is husky as she says it, and her cheeks may be pink but her big brown eyes are just a little wicked as they check me out, lingering on all the important spots.
It’s what I just did to her and the insolence of it all takes my dick from interested to Hard. As. Fuck. in three seconds flat.
“Are you now?” I widen my stance, deliberately shoving my hands in the back pockets of my ripped jeans, just to see if she’ll look.
She does. And then she licks her lips.
Fuck, yeah. She’s the one. And I’m not just talking about the art. But she’s perfect for that, too.
“What’s your name?” Desire’s riding me full on now and the words come out harsher than I intend.
She doesn’t flinch away, though. Instead she’s all brazen audacity as she answers, “Shouldn’t you know that already? We do have an appointment.”
“An appointment you were late for.”
“I already apologized for that.”
“You shouldn’t have.”
“No?” She raises a questioning brow.
“Never apologize.”
Now both brows go up. “Is that my first piece of advice from the great Deacon Vick?”
“You’re here to take your clothes off, not to get advice.”
“There’s nothing that says I can’t do both.” As if to prove her words, she grabs on to the bottom of her black tank top, carelessly pulls it over her head.
She’s wearing a bra, but it’s an itty-bitty thing that shows more than it covers.
Hallelujah.
I was right about the goddess-like tits. Round, firm, high, with pale pink nipples that are already diamond hard. And since it’s about ninety degrees in here, I’m under no illusions that it’s the cold that made them that way.
The knowledge makes me want to reach out and pinch, just to see how hard she likes it. My gut says as hard as I do.
Still, control is a thing and the last I checked, I still had some.
“I say you can’t do both.” I steer my attention away from her body and back to our conversation. I don’t do advice, haven’t for a long time.
She reaches for the button on her low-slung jeans and I turn my back, partly to remind her I’m the one in charge and partly because I want to see what’s under her clothes just a little too much. Then, to prove to myself as much as her that I don’t give a shit about the rustle of her jeans as they slide down her long, long, loooooong legs, I very deliberately walk toward the back of my studio.
I don’t stop until I’m a good fifty feet away from her—and then only because I haven’t yet mastered the art of walking through walls.
There’s a little voice inside of me—the same one that keeps telling me she’s the one—that’s now urging me to get as far from here, from her, as I possibly can. But I don’t run and I don’t back down. Little Miss Whatever Her Name Is will learn that soon enough.
“How do you want me?” she asks as I reach for my sketchbook—and my own charcoal pencils.
It’s a loaded question and I’m tempted to answer in kind, tempted to tell her exactly how I want her—starting with naked and spread-eagle on the St. Andrew’s Cross I made several years ago. I keep it in my storage and materials room for easy access. And because it turns me on. It would only take me a second to wheel it out here and less than a minute to strap her to it.
A minute after that I could be buried balls deep inside of her, sucking on those pretty tits of hers and fucking her straight into a string of mind melting orgasms.
The idea appeals—fuck, does it appeal—but my need to sketch her prevails. At least for now. And while sketching her on the St. Andrew’s Cross is definitely in my near future, it’s not where I want to start. From the moment she walked in here, I’ve had a vision of how I want to draw her. How I want to sculpt her. It’s only been ten minutes bu
t already the itch has become an ache, one I have every intention of satisfying before this day is up.
“The pay’s twenty dollars an hour. I want you six to ten hours a day, every day. I know you’ve got classes and we’ll work around them. But if you aren’t at the Art Institute, you’re here—at least for the next two weeks. Got it?”
Her eyes go wide and wild at the acknowledgement that she got the job, but that’s the only reaction she shows. Good. Maybe she’s smarter than most third year art students. Time will tell.
“Got it,” she answers.
“Good.” I point to the corner of my studio where I usually do my sketching. “See that drop cloth over there?”
She nods.
“Finish taking off your clothes then go stand on it.”
She does as I ask without saying a word—which I like. A lot. Partly because nothing annoys me more than art students who think they know it all and want to prove that knowledge to me. And partly because I like that she follows my orders. It will make everything easier, in bed and out of it.
Because that’s where this is going to end up. I know it, and from the gleam deep in her big brown eyes, she knows it too. Whether it’s because she wants to fuck me or because she wants to fuck “the great Deacon Vick” remains to be seen.
It doesn’t matter, anyway, I remind myself. As long as I get what I want.
She’s naked by the time she gets to the drop cloth and the rest of her is as fucking gorgeous as her tits. I can’t tear my eyes off her plump, heart-shaped ass, the long, slender column of her spine, the legs that go on forever. Not that any of that’s a surprise...
What is a surprise is the long, sinuous muscles in her arms and legs, muscles that say she’s a lot stronger than I originally thought. Maybe she wasn’t blowing smoke up my ass with her comments about working in iron.
The idea excites me. Not because I give a shit about meeting another iron sculptor, though it might be interesting to see what she makes or what formula she uses. No, what excites me is the knowledge of what kind of strength it takes to work iron. What kind of stamina. And how that strength and stamina translate in bed.
She’s on the drop cloth now, shoulders straight and hands on hips as she waits for my instructions.
“Spread your legs,” I tell her, voice low and raw.
She twists to face me, eyebrows raised. I wait, expression blank, to see what she’s going to do. To see if she’s going to balk or if she’s going to listen.
In the end, she does exactly what I asked without question, her head held high even as she spreads her feet about two feet apart. And fuck, if that mixture of strength and submission doesn’t get me too.
I take a few steps toward her, my own hands clenched into fists as the vision I’ve had since she walked into this place suddenly coalesces in my head. “The other way,” I say.
“What?” she asks, confusion ripe in her tone.
Instead of answering her, I move even closer, until I’m all up in her space. There’s a part of me that expects her to back away—at six foot five, I tend to be pretty intimidating up close—but her sudden intake of breath is the only sign that my nearness is affecting her at all.
“This way,” I answer. Then I’m leaning forward, wrapping a hand around her silky smooth thigh as I urge her to step forward with her right leg.
Her whole body goes taut at my touch, but she doesn’t fight me. Instead she leans into me, lets me take some of her weight as I move her leg forward, forward, forward.
“Okay, now plant your foot and bend your front knee a little.”
She does as I instruct, wobbling a little as she finds her balance. Her right heel is now a good two feet in front of the toes on her left foot. It’s a powerful stance, one that activates a lot of muscles—another reason I’m glad she’s so strong.
“I didn’t know this job was going to involve yoga,” she teases, but she’s a little breathless now. I get it—my own heart is pounding fast and hard at being this close to her, my dick all but screaming for relief.
“I’m pretty sure this job is going to involve a lot you didn’t expect.” A lot I didn’t expect either.
Her laugh grabs me by the throat, all low and dark and sexy. So. Fucking. Sexy. Then again, everything about her rings my bell. No surprise that her laugh does too.
“Raise your arms,” I tell her. “Put your hands above your head.”
She does as I ask, lifting them straight up and leaning into her front leg in what looks an awful lot like warrior pose.
“Ease up a little.”
“What do you mean?”
I could explain, but it’s easier to show her. I straddle her back leg then wrap my hands around her waist as I press closer. My fingers are splayed across her bare belly as I urge her up and back a little, so she is less warrior and more joyful exuberance.
“A little more,” I instruct, and she complies, leaning back until her ass brushes against the front of my jeans.
She gasps at the contact, but doesn’t move away. So I don’t either. Instead, I stand right where I am, relishing the way she sinks into me a little more, the way her lush ass presses against my hard, aching cock.
“Spread your arms,” I say, sliding my hands along the sides of her ribcage and up her biceps and forearms.
She complies, but not enough, so I wrap my fingers around her wrists and widen her arms until they make a perfect V. She’s shaking now, from exertion or desire, I’m not sure. I move one hand to her hip, press her ass more firmly against my legs so that I can take more of her weight as we work out the position. And so I can feel the heat emanating off her bare skin.
“Palms up now,” I tell her in a low rumble. “And head back.”
She complies instantly, tilting her head until her face is turned toward the ceiling and her neck is completely bared to me. She looks good, so fucking good—submissive and powerful, vulnerable and strong—that I have to fight the sudden, overwhelming urge to take advantage of her position. Have to fight not to nip at the soft, creamy skin just beneath her ear, not to cup her full breasts in my suddenly aching palms.
I shove down the impulse, instead run a critical eye over her to make sure her position is correct. It is. “That’s exactly what I want,” I tell her, once again wrapping my hands around her waist as I start to ease away. “Can you hold it for a few minutes?”
She whimpers as soon as our bodies loose contact, her spine curving a little, as if trying to keep her skin pressed to mine.
I tighten my hands around her waist, holding her in place. “Relax your face for me,” I whisper against her ear.
She laughs, a wild, tortured sound that rips right through me. “Easy for you to say.”
It’s not easy. Not when all I can think about is bending her over and taking what I’ve wanted since she walked in my studio door.
“I know it’s a challenging position,” I say when the silence has stretched near to breaking point. “What would make it easier for you?”
She laughs again, and this time there’s a touch of wicked in the wild. Then she’s lowering one arm, pressing a hand over mine. And slowly, slowly, slowly, sliding our hands down her belly and over her mons to her pussy.
Her hot, sleek, wet pussy.
She whimpers the second my fingers graze her sex and that sound—along with her nails digging into my forearm—are all the invitation I need.
I slide my index and middle finger along her slit, relishing the wet heat of her as I press them slowly, carefully inside of her. She cries out then, a loud, harsh sound that has every nerve in my body screaming for relief. With a groan, I bury my face against her throat, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses to her neck and jaw and shoulders.
I find her clit with my thumb, circle it even as I slip my fingers in and out of her body. She starts to shake, to moan, her body growing more and more t
aut against me the more firmly I stroke her. I bring my other hand to her breast, pinch one pale, pale pink nipple the way I’ve been dying to from the moment I saw her.
She cries out, and just that easily comes on my fingers.
I draw it out, relishing the rhythmic feel of her clenching around my fingers. Relishing the breathless, broken sound of her, the sexy cinnamon smell of her. And fight the urge to give her another orgasm. And another and another, until she’s so sated she can barely breathe, let alone stand.
But that won’t get my sketch down, won’t get out of my head the vision that’s been clawing at me from the second I decided she was the one. Which is why, when she finally stops coming and sags against me, I slowly, reluctantly, pull my fingers from her heat. And it’s why, after making sure she can stand on her own, I slowly, reluctantly, step back.
“Relaxed enough?” I ask when she stumbles even as I help her catch herself.
This time her laugh is low and warm and so, so inviting. “Oh, yeah.”
“Good.” I grab hold of her wrists and bring her arms back above her head. “Think you can hold the pose now?”
“I think I can manage.” She opens her legs a little more, bends her front knee and leans forward as she tips her face back up to the ceiling. This time her face is utterly relaxed, filled with the peace—and the joy—I was looking for all along.
I shift her arms back a little, open her palms up just a tiny bit more. Then step back to survey my handiwork.
Perfect. She’s absolutely, positively perfect.
My dick is hard as a rock, my blood roaring through my veins as every instinct I have urges me to push her up against the nearest wall and slam myself inside of her. But those instincts are warring with my vision, with the need I have to capture her like this—strong, joyful, exuberant.
My vision wins out, like always. But for the first time, stepping back and grabbing my sketchpad is way harder than it should be.
I pull a charcoal pencil from my kit and say, “Tell me your name.”
It’s not a question this time, and she must know it because she glances at me out of the corner of her eye. But she doesn’t hesitate in answering, “Hope.”
