The Art of Desire by Cherie Feather, a new erotic romance from Berkley Heat, comes at us this week! (so to speak)

Keep reading for the book’s summary and part I of a four part excerpt extravaganza. This is a seriously steamy series of excerpts, so read on only if you dare!

Summary:

Museum director Mandy Cooper is obsessed with nineteenth-century artist Catherine Burke-and the artist’s erotically charged relationship with Atacar, her enthralling American Indian lover. But Mandy’s link to the legendary couple runs deeper than she knows. She’s having a heated affair herself-with Jared Cabrillo, Atacar’s handsome great-great nephew who knows precisely what it takes to seduce a woman…

He’s in possession of Catherine’s explicit journal. He knows every intimate detail of what she wanted and needed. But he also knows how desperately Catherine had loved Atacar and how dangerously he’d loved her. The journal is timeless and tragic, and the secrets contained within its pages can bring Mandy and Jared together, or just as surely destroy them both-desire by shocking desire.

E-X-C-E-R-P-T

Prologue

Texas

1895

The first time I saw him he was naked, morning-dappled water lapping at his skin, swirling around tendon-tight calves. His rifle, a gun he’d probably stolen from a rancher, was at the edge of the stream, well within his reach.

A hawk soared above his head, screeching like a red-tailed devil, creating a strangely spiritual arc. Mesmerized, the Indian followed its every move.

I knew he was unaware of me. Although I was no more than twenty to thirty steps away, I was crouched amongst a copse of cottonwoods. Earlier I’d been napping there, and upon awakening, I’d lifted my head and spotted him through a branch-scattered gap in the foliage, a stunned gasp locked in my throat.

Was this my punishment for dozing in the sun? Or my reward? I’d gone to that location to work, to sketch the scenery.

I longed to draw him instead. But I couldn’t find the will to move, to do more than stare. Curiously handsome, his bluish-black, cheekbone-length hair framed the hollowed angles and mysterious shadows that sculpted his face. Muscled ridges and flat planes defined his body, with wide shoulders and a powerful chest. His thighs, I decided, had been built for striding the horse that grazed nearby. A stolen mount, no doubt. A prize that went with his rifle.

Taking a swift breath, I centered my gaze, filling my vision with his penis. I measured the length and fullness, but I imagined how it would look fully erect, with his testes drawn tight, his foreskin pushed back and the sensitive head exposed.

Queen Victoria shame me.

In my own country, I was a rumored bohemian, London-borne, Paris schooled, an artist seceding from conventionality, an upper-class girl who’d cast her morals to the wind, who’d stroked many a cock with her hands, even with her ruby-red mouth.

But the gossip wasn’t true. Not completely. I fantasized about those carnal acts, but the only cocks I dared stroke were with a collection of Asiatic marten brushes.

The hawk flew away, abandoning its circling post. The Indian snapped out of his trance and continued his bath. My heart pounded like the drums of his people. I knew who he was. He was an Apache prisoner of war who’d escaped from a military fort in Oklahoma Territory. Last week U.S. Army soldiers had scoured this area in search of him. They’d ridden into town with a photograph, asking if anyone had seen him. They’d gone to ranches and farms, too. When they’d come to my house, I’d gazed curiously at his picture.

And now here he was.

I should have remained motionless until he went away. But somewhere in the peril of my soul, I found the strength to sit upright, to lift a piece of charcoal from my ready-made paintbox. The paper clamped to my stretching board was cold-pressed, better suited for rough effects than a detailed portrait of a bared man. But I was willing to compromise. Desire burned like a hot-wick candle beneath the folds of my skirt.

I had moved to America to study its ethnic, geographic, and religious diversity, to paint its fading frontier. So why not study him? Make him my secret project?

“Atacar,” I whispered his name. It was of Spanish origin, and in English it meant, “to attack.”

Suddenly he went still, his dark gaze shooting through the trees like an obsidian-tipped arrow. He couldn’t have heard his barely audible name on my lips, yet he’d found me out.

The charcoal slipped from my fingers; my paper remained blank.

Our eyes met, and he reacted like a hound on the heels of a fox. Before I could blink, he grabbed the rifle, jammed it against his water-damp shoulder and aimed it at me.

I did the unthinkable. I looked at his penis again, challenging the air between us. His face remained an indiscernible mask, devoid of emotion, of any kind of lust. But in his fire-ready stance, his stomach muscles jumped, giving him away, making his cock stir.

From there, neither of us moved.

Finally he motioned with his chin, ordering me out into the open. I didn’t hesitate. I lifted my arms in surrender and walked toward him.

Praying he would take me.