The Art of Desire is the perfect blend of historical, erotic and contemporary romance with just a touch of suspense. I can only hope the follow up is as grand. And a big thank you goes to Cherie Feather for visiting and giving away some great prizes. LOL I know you don’t want to hear me ramble on… you wanna know who won *g*

Tracy S has won a copy of KILLER PASSION

Jane has won a copy of KILLER PASSION

…AND…

Becky has won THE ART OF DESIRE

Please email Cherie with your mailing address here – cheriecontest @ gmail . com (no spaces). Congrats and enjoy! Let us know what you think!

by Cherie Feather

Is erotica a genre you read? And if so, when did you start reading it? For me, erotica is a wonderfully guilty (or maybe not so guilty) pleasure. I love it in all forms: sensual books, movies, and art.

Some of my favorite erotica authors are Emma Holly, Ann Rice (writing as A. N. Roquelaure) and Shayla Black. Some of my fave erotic flicks are “Wild Orchid,” “The Red Shoe Diaries” Movie and “9 ½ Weeks,” which were all created by Zalman King. As for erotic art, I adore the works of Olivia de Berardinis, Alberto Vargas and Jay Trembly. I’m friends with Olivia and Jay on Myspace. Don’t you just love MySpace for that? Whoever thought there would be a day when we could “friend” people we admire?

Most of the key players in The Art of Desire are involved in the art world. The historical heroine is an artist and the contemporary heroine is a museum director. There is also a famous painting of the historical hero that is an integral part of the book, as well as a hundred-year-old journal.

So far the reviews have been extremely favorable, including a glowing write-up from Romantic Times. If you’re curious, here’s the review:

This story has it all–hot and varied sex scenes, a hunky hero to die for, a tough-yet-insecure heroine to identify with and a diary that links the characters to a tragic Old West love affair from a hundred years ago. The happy-ever-after ending is icing on the cake! Feather is an excellent writer who knows which details will evoke just the right emotion.” Romantic Times, 4 ½ stars, Top Pick!

On this site, Sybil recommended The Art of Desire as a book that “…fucking rocks!”

Oh, how I love that!

The Art of Desire is my first erotica and my first book written as Cherie Feather. I’ve always wanted to write a contemporary story with a historical twist. Have you read Kathleen Eagle’s Fire and Rain? It’s one of my all-time favorite books and the contemporary/historical element is what inspired me to try this fascinating theme. I wondered how an old journal would fare in an erotica, so I gave it a try.

First I wrote a pitch and sent it to my agent. She loved it instantly. From there I wrote a three-chapter proposal, but it took me almost three months because I kept re-writing it, trying to get the level of sensuality just right. After that, it flowed. The words spilled onto the pages.

Since then, I’ve completed my second erotica, a spin off from The Art of Desire. It’s called Submission and features a wildly sexy pin-up artist (the hero), a museum historian (the heroine) and two lovelorn ghosts (the historical characters and subplot). Submission will be released in Feb. 2009.

I am also published as Sheri WhiteFeather. My current Sheri WhiteFeather release is Killer Passion, a Silhouette Romantic Suspense that comes out in July. Killer Passion is part of a miniseries called Seduction Summer with authors Nina Bruhns and Cindy Dees. Nina, Cindy and I were asked to write hot, suspenseful stories, and we had a blast creating romances set in Fiji with a serial killer stalking lovers on the beach.

I just received my authors copies of Killer Passion, and I’ll be giving away some of them here. Leave a comment to enter the contest and winners will be drawn at random. Keep checking back to see if you won. I think you’ll enjoy this sizzling, suspenseful book.

I’m also giving away a copy of The Art of Desire. Once again, leave a comment for a chance to win. Then check back to see if you’re the winner.

For more contests, more news, see pictures of my gorgeous grown kids and read my blog, visit my websites at www.CherieFeather.com and www.SheriWhiteFeather.com

Hugs and Happy Reading!

Thanks, Sheri/Cherie!! Again, to win one of the copies Cherie is giving away, comment here and tell us what you like the most about erotic romance. You must be 18 or over to enter, one entry per household, and you must comment by midnight Central time (according to the blog’s timestamp) Sunday, 8 June (technically, 9 June, but who’s counting). Good luck!

We continue with excerpts from The Art of Desire by Cherie Feather, a new erotic romance from Berkley Heat. Keep reading for the book’s summary and the last of four excerpts. 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

THREE

Atacar didn’t take me. He didn’t sweep me into frenzied passion. For what seemed like the longest minutes of my life, he continued to hold me at gunpoint.

Should I tell him my name? That I am Catherine Burke, a twenty-two-year-old virgin artist with a wanton reputation? That I want him to kiss me? That I long to feel his nakedness against mine?

What if he didn’t speak English? Then what? My words would be lost on him. But my actions wouldn’t. I repeated what I’d done earlier and looked at his cock. I could see his genitals in much greater detail now that I was standing only a gun barrel away from him. He grew bigger, aroused by my visual attention, and I got bolder.

I brought my gaze to his face and stared him down, biting my bottom lip, sucking it lustfully between my teeth. His granite-cut features didn’t soften. They were as hard as his penis. I felt triumphant. His eyes burned for more. My boldness made them darker, pitched like a midnight fire.

At that point, I expected him to lower the rifle, to sweep me into the passion I craved. But he didn’t. He appeared to be waiting for me, to see what I would do next. Nervous energy skittered through my blood.

What would I do next? I’d never seduced a man before. I couldn’t just stand there like an inexperienced ninny and stare him into ejaculation.

So I did what I assumed a seductress would do. I curtailed my fear and removed my clothing. I got as far as my dress, petticoat and corset cover and stopped, letting him look at me in my ribbon-trimmed corset, lace-hemmed drawers and high-top boots. To heighten the image, I loosed my daytime coiffure, which was already messy from my nap, allowing my wheat-colored hair to fall in long, unbound waves.

Atacar finally lowered his gun, resting the butt of the weapon on the ground. He looked at me if I were a divine delicacy, the best sweetmeat he would ever taste. My breasts tingled. The juncture between my thighs went moist.

He jutted his chin, telling me, without words, to complete my state of undress. I prepared to unfasten my corset, and a sudden noise caught both of our attentions.

The rustle of foliage, of riders approaching.

Atacar moved at a spinning pace, and so did I. We gathered our clothes and dashed for the cottonwoods. He latched onto my arm to speed me up, and I felt as if I were being dragged. He was much taller than I was, making quicker strides. His horse spooked and ran, too. The animal disappeared out of sight. The riders were still coming from the opposite direction.

Once we were hidden in the trees, Atacar pushed me down and thrust his water-damp body on top of mine. He was heavy, big and muscular, and the air whooshed out of me.

He lifted his head and arched his torso to see who would appear. All I could see was his naked chest, which bore varying scars. War wounds, I presumed. I knew he was clutching his rifle. If the riders threatened us, he would attack, living up to his name.

The strangers arrived. I heard them dismount. I heard them talking, too. They were cowboys, filling their canteens at the stream, discussing the stray cattle for which they were searching.

Atacar’s posture relaxed a bit, and I realized that he understood what they were saying. I could have spoken to him after all. Either way, I suspected that he was relieved that the other men weren’t associated with the army. Luckily, they didn’t linger. They were gone soon enough.

Leaving Atacar and I alone once again.

This time I waited to see what he would do. Would he lift his body from mine and don his clothes so he could track his missing horse? Or would he stay where he was, pressed intimately against me?

He stayed.

Our gazes locked. My heart rapped in raw excitement. His hips bumped mine, creating friction. His arousal returned, stone hard and insistent.

“I’m aware of who you are,” I said.

“And I’m aware that you’re bewitching me,” he responded in a strong, choppy accent I’d never heard before. But that was probably how Indians sounded when they spoke English.

Dangerous. Exotic.

“Soldiers came through this area last week,” I told him. “I saw your picture.”

“And now you want to lie with me?”

I nodded, feeling my pulse rise. “Yes.”

After that, we quit talking. Our words no longer mattered. I battled my corset, and he tugged at my drawers. I didn’t show him that the crotch seam was open. I let him pull them down instead.

I knew that women could have orgasms, and I was anxious to experience what my bohemian friends in Paris whispered so deliciously about. They’d told me that I could make it happen myself, but I’d wanted to wait for my first lover.

And here he was.

Atacar kissed me, his tongue fornicating with mine. He tasted wild and forbidden, and I hungered for more. Liquid heat, as powerful as the sun itself, rained down on us.

Experimenting, I rubbed his cock, circling the head. It was silkier than I imagined. I felt as wonderfully wanton as my reputation, sliding my hand up and down, enjoying the gliding sensation. He groaned and kissed me harder. Our teeth clashed, and I bit his lip. He pinned me down and told me do it again, and I made a drop of his blood spill into my mouth.

We rolled over in the dirt, the grass-patched, leaf-laden ground abrading the exposed portions of my skin. My corset, which laced in back and contained a front opening, was partially undone, and my drawers were halfway down my legs. A twig scratched my bare bottom.

Atacar used his fingers, parting the curls that covered my mound, and I spread my thighs for him. He looked down, aroused by how willing I was to expose myself, to let him see. I looked down at him, too. His cock was even more engorged. I imagined him spending his seed all over me.

He played with the secret folds of my flesh, making me sinfully wet, making me squirm. I didn’t need to wonder if the nub he tended was my clitoris. I knew it was. My bohemian friends whispered deliciously about that, too. I finally understood why.

The world burst at my core. I shuddered and shook, lifting my hips in jerking motions. He dipped two fingers inside, spreading even more wetness, more of what I needed. I panted until there was barely breath left in my lungs.

Then I heard a familiar voice call my name. “Catherine!”

Atacar rolled away and grabbed his rifle.

“No!” I told him, scrambling to right my undergarments, pulling up my drawers and fastening my corset. “That’s my nanny. I’m from England, and she came to America with me.” I managed to put my petticoat in place, but I couldn’t find my corset cover so I climbed into my dress the way I was, nearly tripping over the fabric. Nanny kept calling out to me, expressing her concern. I’d been gone a long time.

Atacar shoved on his clothes, too. But he couldn’t get his cock to behave. In spite of our predicament, he remained half hard, the buttons on his pants straining. He still desired me.

For all the good it did. By now, he looked as if he wanted to rip my hair from my pretty little head, to make me suffer for his unresolved erection. I hoped that scalping one’s enemies wasn’t a practice in his tribe.

Nanny called my name again.

“Hurry,” he snapped. “Go to her. Before she finds you here with me.”

“I’m trying.” I had leaves in my un-scalped hair, and my hastily fastened corset was threatening to come undone. I was an abomination.

It was to no avail. Nanny discovered us. She came puffing through an opening in the trees, stopped in her tracks, her gaze darting from me to him, then back to me. Although my appearance was ravished, she didn’t accuse Atacar of hurting me. She must have recognized a seductress when she saw one.

“Goodness, child.” She shook her head, her double chin quivering. “What have you done?”

#

It was done.

Jared leaned against the sink while Mandy popped the dildo out of the cast. She traced the naughty phallus, and his cock went hard.

“It’s you.” Her fingers caressed the rubber form, moving from the head to the shaft to the testes. “Every sexy detail.”

“You’re making me excited.” He leaned over to kiss her, the toy pressed against her blouse.

“Pierce it,” she said.

He used a needle. Mandy seemed intrigued, studying the procedure. He put a circular barbell in the same location as his piercing to give her the familiarity she craved. He washed the dildo with an antibacterial solution, cleaning it for her.

Once it was dry, Mandy licked the newly decorated head. He thought about the blowjob she’d given him earlier and got even more excited. He wanted her to suck the dildo, too.

“Let’s go.” He took her hand and they went into her bedroom.

Jared removed the quilt and top sheet from her bed, leaving the bottom sheet and two pillows. Her room was soft and feminine with white washed furniture, pastel prints and hints of lace. It was perfect for tonight, ideal for a man’s voyeuristic obsession. He angled a chair, positioning it at the footboard, where he intended to watch the show. He put the dildo in the center of the bed, along with the lubricant they’d brought.

She dimmed the lights and lit the candles, placing them on the dresser beside several ornate bottles of perfume. The stage was set, he thought.

Jared took his seat, and Mandy turned toward him. The kama sutra candle began scenting the air, the light rose fragrance enhancing the ambience.

“Take off your clothes,” he said.

She stripped, removing her sandals first, then her blouse and jeans. Her flesh-colored bra and panties came next. She had small breasts with full pink nipples. Her stomach was flat, and her hips flared. As always, her pussy was delicately waxed. She was so beautiful, she looked like a centerfold come to life.

“Give me your panties,” he said.

She walked forward and handed him her daintily laced underwear. He tucked them into the front right pocket of his jeans, taking them as a trophy, wanting to keep something that belonged to her close to him.

All pink and pretty, she blinked, seeming unsure of what to do next.

He motioned with his chin. “Get on the bed.”

She did as he instructed, kneeling on the sheet, waiting to fulfill the rest of his needs.

He gave her another aroused order. “Lick the dildo. All of it. Every inch. And imagine it’s me.”

“It is you.” She darted her tongue over the head and played lavishly with the piercing.

By the time she worked her way down, he scooted to the edge of his seat. She held the phallus high enough for him to see her scoop one of the balls into her mouth.

Damn, he thought. Hot fucking damn. “Do that to the other one. Then give it a really nasty blowjob. Hot and dirty, the way I like it.”

She didn’t disappoint. Clutching the base, she wrapped her lips around the dildo and sucked, pumping the device as if it really were his dick. She tipped back her head, exposing the ladylike column of her neck.

Somehow, someway, Jared was going to get through this without jerking off. Looking but not touching, her or himself, was part of the fantasy.

Mandy made the dildo come. Or that was how it seemed in his mind. He imagined white-hot liquid spurting into her mouth. She even made a swallowing sound. When she released the dildo, she licked her lips.

This was the best fantasy he’d ever had, and it was just getting started. “Put the lube on it now. Make it as slick as you can.”

She used a generous amount, gliding the silicone solution over the rubber form. He could almost feel her sleek, smooth strokes. She took her time, favoring her new toy.

“Lie back and spread your legs,” he told her.

Mandy propped both pillows against the headboard and opened her thighs. But it wasn’t enough.

“Wider,” he said. “All the way.”

She inched them open a bit more.

He didn’t back down. It was part of the game, and they both knew it. “More. Show me how pretty you are. Show me what I want to see.”

She did it. She went as wide as she could, exposing her inner folds. He didn’t ask her to do anything else. He just sat there, staring at her cunt.

Mandy flexed her hips, offering him an even prettier view of her labia and the hood of her clit. She glistened in her own juices. He could only imagine how much wetter she was going to get.

He lifted his gaze to her face, and she gave him her best naughty-girl smile. He’d never met anyone like her. Good. Bad. Shy. Wild. He wanted to grab her panties out of his pocket and press them against his fly.

“Tell me to put it in,” she said.

“Not yet.” He needed a minute.

She clutched the dildo. “When?”

He took a steadying breath. “Now. But don’t insert it very deep. Go slow so I can see it happen.”

Mandy followed his direction, soft and easy, and he watched the pierced head disappear.

“A little more.”

She gave the dildo another tender push, and he marveled at how sweet and sexy she was. She was looking down at herself, watching, too.

When she glanced up, they stared at each other. He unzipped his jeans to ease the pressure, to make his hard-on more bearable. His boxers tented through the opening.

“Go deeper,” he said. “But not all the way. Just enough to hit your G-spot.”

She made a curious expression, biting the inside of her cheek, looking girlish and womanly at the same time. “I don’t know how far that is. I’ve never tried to find…”

“Try it halfway. At an angle.” He knew it was difficult to reach during regular sex, but devices like dildos and vibrators were easier to maneuver. Some vibrators were made especially for that spot.

“Like this?” She repositioned the dildo, angling it with each stroke.

“Yeah. Like that.” Jared spread his thighs. He wanted to give up the fight. He wanted to jerk off, as hard and fast as he could, but he gripped the underside of his chair instead.

Mandy stimulated her G-spot, using both hands to hold the tool, going at a watch-me pace that drove him half mad. Her rhythm was steady–shallow, then hard, then shallow again.

She went faster and her firm little tits bounced with each pumping stroke. Her nipples were as hard as rock candy. He wanted to dissolve them on his tongue.

“I like doing this for you.” She arched her back against the pillows and thrust her hips. “Just for you.” She thrust again, showing him how good it was.

He tightened the hold on his chair.

“Jared.” She panted his name, making sure his gaze was locked on the point of impact.

He dragged a gust of rose-scented air into his lungs. He felt as if he were going to explode. He knew she was going to come.

Her orgasm ignited the bed, shooting imaginary sparks straight at him. He could have sworn that she’d made the flames on the candles dance. The kama sutra couple melted all over each other.

When it was over, Jared gave Mandy, and himself, time to recuperate.

Before he told her to do it again.

#

Atacar scowled at me. He’d planned to cross the hills and ride into Mexico, where he could escape the law. But he didn’t recover his horse.

He blamed me for his dilemma, claiming his desire for me had affected his judgment. He should have tracked his horse before it had gotten so far away from him.

“I bewitched you,” I bragged, making his scowl deepen. He wasn’t amused, and neither was Nanny.

He formulated a new plan, pulling her and me into it. He assumed that we lived within walking distance of the stream or else we wouldn’t have traveled on foot. He questioned me, making sure we resided alone, just the two of us. We did. At a farmhouse I’d purchased from the bank. Up until last week, we had a farmhand, but he’d left our employment to marry the widow he’d been courting. Nanny and I had yet to replace him.

Rifle in hand, Atacar nudged us forward, insisting that we offer him food and lodging until he raided a neighboring ranch for another horse to steal.

I carried my stretching board and paintbox, and Nanny trudged beside me, complaining that Atacar was forcing us to the farm so he could steal our horse. We only had one, and we needed it to pull our buggy when we went into town for supplies.

“That Red Indian will leave us on the plains to starve,” she said, even though I caught her darting wistful glances at him.

Nanny was rather plump, with graying brown hair and sagging bosoms. I’d heard that she was quite voluptuous in her youth. Long before she’d become my nursemaid, she’d been a fetching farm girl. She’d also been accused of having a forbidden tryst with a notorious London thief. She’d denied the allegation, but I always wondered if the story were true. Now seeing the way she looked at Atacar, I suspected it was. My old Nanny missed her thief.

Hours later, Nanny served supper. The three of us sat at a simple wooden table and ate in silence. Compared to the genteel dwelling in which I’d been raised, the farmhouse was primitive. But in this area, it was considered quite nice. Nanny and I each had our own bedroom, and I used the third for my studio.

I watched Atacar beneath my lashes, trying to get his attention. I caught Nanny’s instead. She scolded me, squinting her eyes and pursing her lips. It wasn’t unlike me to misbehave during a meal. I’d done so at society events, poking fun at my already soiled reputation. My parents were greatly relieved when I’d expressed an interest in moving to America. Father bestowed a portion of my own dowry upon me, providing means for my survival. He was certain I would never snare a respectable husband anyway.

Nanny pursed her sour-plum lips again. I ignored her and resumed flirting with Atacar. He finally turned his frustrated gaze upon me.

“How long are you going to be uncivil?” I asked.

“When you stop bewitching me.”

“I won’t stop,” I countered.

“Then I’ll be civil,” he said, leaning toward me and speaking directly in my ear, keeping his words from Nanny, “after I fuck you.”

His harshness aroused me. But it frightened me, too. Had I taken my seductress game too far? Would he thrust hard and fast upon entering me? Would losing my maidenhead be more painful than it should be?

“You’ll be the first,” I whispered back, too stubborn to let my fear show.

His expression changed. He seemed confused. How could such a brazen girl be a virgin?

“I’ve been waiting for a man who makes me feel the way you do,” I admitted.

Atacar didn’t dispute my claim. He didn’t say anything. He just looked at me, as if I’d bewitched him even more. I relaxed, sensing that he would be gentle my first time.

The farmhouse had a sleeping loft in the barn. At bedtime, Atacar told me to meet him there. I knew it was because he wanted to lie with me where Nanny couldn’t hear us. She knew it, too. She’d figured out that she’d interrupted us in the cottonwoods before he could deflower me.

I changed into my finest undergarments, a red corset and matching drawers that were fashionably called lingerie. I brushed my hair until it shined, pinning a portion of it up and allowing the remainder to fall freely. I removed a buttercup from the glass jar beside my bed and worked it into my coiffure.

Before I left for the barn, Nanny draped me in a blanket. She insisted that I drink a special blend of tea, too. She told me that it would help me relax. So I took a few sips of the brew she offered.

“While you were getting ready, I asked Atacar why he speaks English so well,” she said. “And do you know what his response was?”

I shook my head. The blanket was soft and fluffy, providing the comfort she wanted me to have. The tea helped, as well.

“He scouted for the army,” Nanny told me. “He translated for them, too.”

“If he served the army, then why is he a prisoner of war?”

“After the Chiricahua hostiles surrendered, the entire tribe, including the scouts, were exiled to military installations. First to Florida, then to Alabama and now Oklahoma Territory. It didn’t matter that Atacar served the army, the government treated him and the other scouts as if they were hostiles, too.”

“He’s lived a complex life,” I said.

“Yes, he has.” She tucked the blanket tighter around my shoulders. “And if he doesn’t steal our horse, he’ll probably steal your heart.”

“The way the London thief did to you?”

She didn’t answer. She took my empty teacup and handed me a kerosene lamp. I turned away, slipping off for my rendezvous, the moon a silver crescent in the sky.

I entered the barn and climbed the loft. Atacar waited for me. He was stripped to the waist. I held up the light to admire him and let him appreciate me.

Neither of us spoke. I stepped forward and placed the brass lamp on a hook on the wall, then spread the blanket on a bed of straw.

We came together and kissed, standing on the fluffy floor covering. I showed him that my fancy silk drawers were slit between my legs, and he smiled. It was the first time I’d seen his lips curve. He looked wickedly handsome.

He knelt down and licked me there, right through the opening. I gasped and widened my stance. I knew this was called cunnilingus, and it elicited the warmest, wettest, most naughty sensation. I could scarcely wait to orgasm, to shake and shudder against his tongue.

Atacar gazed up at me, making sure I was watching. I was. Totally. Completely. How could I not? I felt like a wild-hearted bride on her secret wedding night.

He stopped pleasuring me, but only long enough to order me to lie down and remove my drawers. I did his bidding, and he knelt between my thighs and lifted my legs onto his shoulders, licking me some more.

He told me how womanly sweet I tasted, calling my private place my cunt. My bohemian friends had familiarized me with that word, and like all of the other definitions they’d taught me, they’d whispered it scandalously. From Atacar, it sounded rough and dangerously romantic.

I removed my corset so my breasts would spring free. He laved my clitoris and reached up to stimulate one of my nipples, to roll it between his thumb and forefinger.

I scooted even closer to his mouth. I was drenched with his salvia and my own honey-slick moisture. He stilled his tongue, and I rubbed against his face, teasing him the way he teased me.

Finally he resumed his skillful ministration, and I put I my fingers down there, encouraging him to lick them. He turned my boldness into a game and told me to do it, too. So I did. I tasted my own fingers after they’d been inside me.

Heat danced between us. I couldn’t take my eyes off of him, and he couldn’t stop looking at me. I’d aroused him, and myself, beyond reason.

I climaxed, even more powerful than before, streams of fire bursting through my quaking body.

After it was over, Atacar wiped the wetness from his face and rose up to hold me. I clung to his neck, and he said something in Apache. I had no idea what it was, but I could tell it was an endearment. He removed his pants and slid between my legs, his rock-hard penis poised at my soft, slick entrance. My heartbeat quickened and I exhaled a virginal breath.

Desperate for him to take me.

We continue with excerpts from The Art of Desire by Cherie Feather, a new erotic romance from Berkley Heat. Keep reading for the book’s summary and part III of four excerpts. 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

TWO

“Turkey with avocado and coleslaw on the side. Pink lemonade, lots of ice.”

Kiki Dion, the museum’s colorful historian, placed Mandy’s lunch on her desk. The other woman’s wavy red hair peeked out from beneath a geometric-printed-bandanna-style scarf, and freckles dusted her nose.

“Thanks. It’s been one of those days.”

“For me, too. We deserve a moment to rest our bones.”

The redhead sat across from her. She’d also gotten a sandwich, cramming in a quick lunch together.

“How’s the research going?” Mandy asked.

“I don’t have anything new to report, but not from the lack of trying. I’ll keep working on it.”

“I know you will.” The journal quest was still in its early stages. Mandy had worked at the museum for a little over a year, and Kiki had only been there for eight months, so it had taken some time for them to settle into their jobs before they’d made the journal a priority. But now that they had, they weren’t letting go.

The historian unwrapped her food. “So what’s up with you? Any more hot romps with Jared?”

“Not since the party.” Mandy wasn’t surprised by Kiki’s blatant question. She’d been confiding in the other woman about her affair.

They seemed like unlikely friends, but they weren’t.

Although Kiki was closer to Jared’s age than Mandy’s, they’d both survived mundane marriages, with ex-husbands who’d left them wanting more, not just sexually but emotionally. Not that Jared came anywhere near to fitting the emotional bill for Mandy. But she kept telling herself that wicked sex wasn’t supposed to be steeped in life-altering conversations and handholding walks.

Kiki glanced at the sofa and shot her a teasing grin. “I hope you had that cleaned.”

She smiled, too. “I did. Right away.” But the memory of him remained. She’d been focused on Jared all week, anxious for him to call, to tempt her into another be-bad-for-him encounter. “I spilled coffee on it the next day to cover my tracks.”

“Good thinking.” Kiki dived into a grilled roast beef and swiss, eating heartily, crumbs falling onto her napkin-draped lap. “Why don’t you ever call him?”

“I don’t know. Maybe I like waiting for him to get in touch with me.” Mandy removed a peppercinni from her sandwich and bit into it. The juice squirted into her mouth, the spicy hotness reminding her of her lover. “Maybe it’s part of my addiction. Part of the thrill.”

“He is exciting. Remember the first night you slept with him?”

“How could I ever forget?” Mandy had always been keenly aware of Jared’s reputation, but she rarely saw the art-celebrity bad boy out on the town. They didn’t run in the same circles. Then last month, she’d been seated next to him at a hotel ballroom charity dinner and sexual sparks flew. “I told him that I was half in love with Catherine and Atacar.”

“And he used that to seduce you.”

“Yes, he did. By the end of the night, he convinced me to check into a room with him.”

“You were the talk of the town. Atacar’s great-great nephew and the Women’s Museum director. People are still gossiping, wondering how a nice girl like you fell for a guy like him.” Kiki flashed another playful grin. “But I know the real scoop.”

“That he turned me into a Jared junkie?”

“Exactly.” Kiki paused. “Does he know you’re trying to find the journal? That you’re hoping to acquire it for the museum?”

Mandy nodded. “Yes, but he doesn’t think it exists.”

“He’s a non-believer?” Kiki sounded surprised.

“He tried to find it, too. A long time ago. But he never did, so he thinks it’s a lost cause.”

“Then I’ll do my darnedest to prove him wrong.”

The phone rang, and they quit talking, with Mandy taking the call. A few seconds later, she exhaled a quick breath and hung up.

“That was Gloria,” she said, referring to the curatorial division secretary. “She wanted to know if she should accept my flowers or have the delivery boy bring them directly to me.”

“Your flowers?”

Mandy struggled to keep her cool, to not make a fuss, even if her heart was heading toward a girlish patter. “Apparently someone sent me a bouquet.”

Kiki reacted openly, her voice boosting a notch. “Do you think it was Jared?”

“I doubt it. It doesn’t seem like something he would do. It’s probably work related.” Mandy reached into her bottom drawer for her purse, removing her wallet for some bills, preparing for the tip. “But I told Gloria that I’d take them. Just in case.”

They waited, Kiki perched on the edge of her chair, and Mandy standing near the door, lying to herself, insisting it didn’t matter who the flowers were from.

When the bouquet arrived, the women gazed at each other. A stunning spray of long stemmed, deep red roses in a sleek crimson vase. Maybe it was something Jared would do.

Mandy asked the delivery boy if he knew what kind of roses they were since they were so dark, and he said they were a hybrid tea called Black Magic.

After he left, she snagged the miniature envelope that accompanied the bouquet. But there wasn’t a traditional gift card inside. Instead, she discovered a business card of an adult store in Albuquerque. It was called Black Magic, too. She turned the card over. Jared had written a note for her to meet him there tomorrow at three o’clock.

“So?” Kiki asked. “Are they from him?”

“Yes.” She couldn’t think of anything to say except that one little word.

“Can I see?”

Mandy extended the Saturday-afternoon invitation, and the other woman studied both sides, her eyes going wide.

“He’s full of surprises, isn’t he?”

“Always.” Mandy wet her lips and tasted the lingering pepper juice. “I wonder what he’ll talk me into buying.”

“Something that will make you want him even more?” Kiki asked without expecting an answer. “Black Magic is right. That man is casting a spell on you.”

“I know.” Heaven, how she knew. Without thinking, she leaned in to inhale the roses’ sweet, light fragrance, to touch their bewitching petals.

Jared waited in the parking lot, leaning against his truck, a customized fifty-seven Chevy big block, Prussian blue with polished centerline wheels. It wasn’t his ranch vehicle. He drove it for fun.

Life was supposed to be fun, wasn’t it? Especially with Mandy. So here he was, keeping things light, telling himself not to feel guilty. He’d lied to Mandy from the start. He knew Catherine’s journal existed because he had it. He’d searched for years and then had uncovered the book unexpectantly. But that wasn’t something he could reveal. The journal was a secret he’d promised to keep.

He glanced up and saw that Mandy had arrived. She parked next to him and got out of her midsize sedan. He didn’t start a conversation. He let her do the talking. She was fifteen minutes late.

“I didn’t know what to wear to a place like this,” she said. “I changed three times.”

Was she kidding? He broke into a smile. “What you have on is fine.” Slim-fitting jeans, a blouse that shimmered in the sun, jeweled sandals. She’d painted her fingernails red for the occasion. Her toe nails, too. Normally she wore pink polish.

“I hope I don’t see someone I know.”

He tapped her chin. Her face was shaped like a heart, with a cute little point at the end. “If you see someone you know, you’ll both pretend it never happened. You won’t discuss it at the next stuffy fundraiser.”

“The last one wasn’t stuffy. You were there.”

He knew she was referring to the night their affair had begun. The charity dinner had been for a Native American cause, so Jared had bought a ticket and paid an astronomical price for his meal, hoping to do his part. He hadn’t intended to get sidetracked by the museum director whose job included keeping his ancestor’s portrait in her care. Her interest in Catherine and Atacar should have kept him away. But it had intrigued him instead.

He reached for her hand and led her toward the sex shop. She stalled for a moment, studying the shaded windows and shiny black door. Her urged her forward. Black Magic wasn’t a dungeon, even if it seemed dark and cavernous from the outside.

He escorted her into the building, and she made a pleasant sound.

“It smells good in here,” she said. “Like cinnamon.”

He didn’t comment, but he’d heard that cinnamon produced heat within the body, increasing physical and sexual appetites.

The store was big and well lit with an array of toys, BDSM gear, fetish clothes, lubes, lotions, books and DVDs.

Sensual accoutrements, he thought. For all types. A group of young women who appeared to be planning a bachelorette party were waving rainbow dongs at each other and giggling about wedding colors.

Mandy glanced at Jared, and they both laughed. “Are you still nervous about seeing someone you know?” he asked.

“Not anymore.” She walked over to a female-friendly display, a glass table showcasing massage oils and bath products.

“Try this.” He reached for a tester on another display and pumped clear liquid onto her hands.

She rubbed her palms together, as if she were analyzing a department-store moisturizer. “That’s nice. Silky.” She spread the lingering wetness over the backs of her hands. “It’s not drying very well, though.”

He bent forward to whisper in her ear. “It’s a silicone lube. For the toy I’m going to buy for you. To make it nice and slick.”

She caught her blunder and grabbed a hold of his shirt, a basic white T, keeping her body close to his. Their pelvises would’ve bumped if they’d been the same height, but he was taller.

“Are you getting a toy, too?” she asked.

“No.” They separated, and he led her to the dildo section. The giggling girls were gone. He gestured to a wall of rubber phalluses. “Check them out. Touch them.”

She blinked at him. “Are one of these going to be my toy?”

“No. But I want you to touch them anyway.”

She stepped forward and examined the samples, weighing them in her hands, running her fingers along their sculpted shapes.

Jared stood back and watched. He’d created this game for her, and he thrived on every inch of it. “Do you like the realistic ones?”

“Yes. Like this.” She fondled a model equipped with a thickly veined shaft, hefty balls and a bulging head.

“Good. Because you’re going to make one of me. When I’m big and hard.”

She looked up. By now her cheeks were flushed, giving her a warm glow. “Make one?”

He led her to another shelf, where he showed her a dildo making kit. Her cheeks turned pinker.

“It’ll include anatomical details,” he said, enjoying her reaction, the shyness that made seducing her exciting. “Veins, ridges, balls. Just like the one you said you liked.”

“Only it’ll be an exact replica of you.” She picked up the kit. The box depicted a picture of an erect penis. “I can use it when I’m alone.”

“Not the first time. You’re going to use it when you’re with me. I want to watch you slide it between your legs. In your bedroom, with the lights turned low and candles burning.”

She clutched the box, pressing the cardboard against her chest. The good girl. The want-to-be-bad girl. “That sounds romantic. Sort of,” she added softly.

Jared didn’t respond. Sort of romantic was the best he could do. In the silence, they gazed at each other. Was she imagining him in her bedroom, instructing her how wide to spread her thighs, how deeply to insert her homemade toy? A copy of his cock. He knew it made him seem arrogant, but he didn’t want her to use a device that was fashioned after another man. He wanted to be her lover in every way.

“Will you do this for me?” he asked. “Will you use it and let me watch?”

“Yes.” The word came out in a sensual rush. “But we have to pierce it. It won’t feel like you if it doesn’t have your PA.”

Damn, she was sweet. Multiorgasmic Mandy. “We can use one of my barbells.” He would be sure to go home and get one before they went to her place to make the mold.

“What about the candles?” She glanced around. “Can we get them here?”

“Sure. But the only kind they sell are shaped like body parts. Or full nudes. Like statues of people.”

“I think I’d like to get some of those.”

“Okay.” He knew what area of the store they were in, so he pointed the way.

She chose two white candles, one shaped like a man, the other molded as a woman. She went for a red candle, too, where a couple was together in a kama sutra position called Flower in Bloom.

“This is beautiful,” she said.

It was, he thought, wondering how it would look with a flame burning at the tip, making the lovers melt into each other.

She glided the wax creation under his nose. “It’s scented.”

He caught a fragile whiff of roses, like the bouquet he’d sent. Suddenly he worried about losing her, about their affair ending before he was ready to let her go.

“Don’t ever say no to me,” he said. “Don’t ever not be there when I need you.”

“I won’t,” she responded. “I swear I won’t.”

#

A naked man in her bathroom, Mandy thought. Tall and dark and waiting for her to make him hard.

She’d already read the directions on the kit and mixed the molding powder with water. The specially designed container was ready. But Jared wasn’t. He’d asked her to do the honor.

He sat on the closed lid of the commode and opened his thighs. He was so unabashed, so comfortable with his nudity. And why not? Between his gym routine and endless hours on horseback, he had the body of a modern-day god.

Mandy knelt on the contour rug at his feet. Her bathroom was decorated in dusty blue and sea-foam green, with a clear white shower curtain. She lived in a one-bedroom condo in a fast-growing urban area.

Jared skimmed her hair away from her face, and she darted out her tongue. He’d removed his piercing, so the cast would be smooth.

“That’s my girl,” he said.

She smiled against his growing erection. One lick and he was half hard. He leaned back against the commode and widened his legs.

She gripped the base of his shaft and lowered her mouth, stroking and sucking at the same time. He smoothed her hair again, keeping it from falling forward, from obstructing his view.

His testes were drawn tight. She cupped the tender sacs, and he pushed deeper into her mouth. He was cheating, she thought. By now he was hard enough for the negative mold. He just wanted to get sucked some more.

Mandy gave him what he wanted until he groaned and told her to stop.

Before he inserted his cock and balls into the container, she dabbed a little petroleum jelly onto his pubic hair to be sure the molding material didn’t grab any of it.

Sixty seconds later, the negative casting portion was done. The next step was pouring the liquid rubber into the container.

“It’ll take hours to set,” she said. “It won’t be done until later tonight.”

“Then we’ll hang out together and wait.” He reached for a washcloth and dampened it with soap and warm water, cleaning himself, getting rid of the petroleum. He slid his piercing back in, too.

They both stood beside the sink, their reflections in the vanity mirror. She wanted to spend the evening with him, to have dinner, to sit on the patio and watch the sun go down. But she wasn’t fooling herself into believing that they were headed toward an emotionally committed relationship. Earlier when he asked her to never say no to him, to be there when he needed her, she was well aware that he meant sexually.

He tossed the washcloth into the hamper, and she glanced at his cock. He was still half hard, hungry for more attention. Apparently she’d left a lasting impression.

“Do you want me to finish what I started?” she asked.

Jared looked down, then back up at her. “Is that a rhetorical question?”

Mandy smiled. “I think maybe it was.”

She guided him back to the commode. The moment she knelt at his feet, he sat down and assumed the fellatio position, spreading his thighs the way he’d done before.

She stroked and sucked, and he went back to playing with her hair, running his fingers through it, keeping it away from her face so he could watch.

“You’re getting good at this,” he said.

Enjoying his praise, she relaxed her throat and took him as deeply as she could, the way he’d made her do at the museum.

Although he tasted clean and sexy, he tasted salty, too. Semen was already beading at the tip.

He scooted to the edge of the commode lid, getting as close to her as possible. His breathing hitched, his legs went taut. His stomach tightened, too.

He thrust forward, fucking her mouth. She couldn’t think of another way to say it, not with the way he was moving in and out.

When he bucked his hips, she felt the pressure of his oncoming orgasm. He spilled into her, and she swallowed every drop.

Afterward, she returned to the sink to sip some water, and he came up behind her. Once again, they were standing in front of the mirror. He didn’t say anything. Instead, he put his arms around her, then unzipped her jeans and wedged his hand between the denim and her skin.

Instantly aroused, she exhaled a quick breath, and he worked his way into her panties.

“Do you know what I was fantasizing about when you were sucking me?” he asked.

She pressed against his fingers. By now, he’d found her clit.

“What you’re going to do to yourself later,” he said, answering his own question. “I can’t wait for the damn thing to set so I can watch you use it.”

She shivered against his touch. She was getting slick and wet. “You were watching me go down on you, too.”

“Can you blame me?” He grazed the side of her neck with his teeth. “You’re my bad girl.”

She had an insane urge to ask him to give her a hickey, to brand her in a visible way. But she wasn’t a smitten teenager letting her high school boyfriend get to second base. He’d already been to third and back. He’d scored at least a dozen homeruns.

He trapped her gaze in the mirror. “I want a key to your condo. Will you give me one?”

“Yes.” The tension between her thighs got thicker. He thrust two fingers inside of her, banging her in that dirty boy way of his.

“Do you know why I want it?”

“To come over in the middle of the night when I’m asleep. To kiss me. To climb on top of me.” But not to cuddle, she thought. He never did that.

“That’s right. Spontaneous sex. I can’t get enough of it with you.”

“Me, neither. With you.” She angled her hips to give him better access, to show him how wet she was. She was more than willing to let him steal into her bedroom at whatever ungodly hour he chose, to give her a fix, to feed her addiction.

Losing control, she climaxed, staring at her haunted image in the glass. All she wanted was Jared. Just him. Her lover. All the time.

The way Catherine had probably wanted Atacar.

Mandy pitched forward against the sink and closed her eyes. She didn’t want to think about Jared’s great-great uncle or the woman who was rumored to love him.

Not now. Not while Jared was standing behind her, with his hand still wedged in her pants, working her into another frenzy.

And making her come again.

We continue with excerpts from The Art of Desire by Cherie Feather, a new erotic romance from Berkley Heat. Keep reading for the book’s summary and part II of four excerpts. 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

ONE

Dirty sex with a dirty boy.

That was all Mandy Cooper, the proper, professional, highly organized director of the Santa Fe Women’s Art Museum, could think about.

She was addicted to Jared Cabrillo, Atacar’s great-great nephew, a man who sizzled in the art scene, who was notorious for having public liaisons, who wielded his celebrity like the party-on-the-edge charmer he was.

Mandy could feel him watching her from across the museum. She and her staff were hosting a summer reception and he’d crashed the event.

She tried to avoid him, but she couldn’t. His gaze was too strong, too persistent. She gave up the fight and looked at him, too.

Their eyes met, and he lifted his wine and toasted her before he put the glass to his lips and drank the blood-red liquid.

She gripped the silver chain on her evening bag, locking it around her wrist like a handcuff. He was drop-dead, imprison-a-woman gorgeous. There was no other way to describe him. He walked toward her, and her panties stuck to her skin, making her want to rub her thighs together.

“Nice party,” he said, as they came face to face.

“It’s going well.” She’d been sleeping with him for almost a month, yet she couldn’t stop herself from staring.

He sported a retro-style, black western shirt, decorated with white piping and tucked into crisp jeans. His face, diamond-blade dazzling and stone-quarry tough, mirrored his heritage. Both ears showcased tiny silver hoops. He had an intimate body piercing and tribal tattoos, too.

He was everything she shouldn’t want. At thirty-eight, she was supposed to know better. He was ten years younger than she was, but he wasn’t her boy toy. He controlled their affair, enticing her into carnal situations.

He set his empty glass on a nearby table. “You look beautiful, Mandy.”

“Thank you.” Her black dress scooped modestly in front and the delicate silver-and-turquoise cross around her neck offered a hint of adornment.

Aside from their naked urges, they didn’t know each other very well. They didn’t have meaningful conversations. But at least she knew he wasn’t seeing anyone else. He didn’t cheat on his lovers. Of course that didn’t change who and what he was. He treated monogamy like a courtesy, not a commitment.

Needing a diversion, Mandy turned toward a famous portrait of Jared’s ancestor. They were standing in front of Atacar’s exhibit.

He was the museum’s most prized possession, a Catherine Burke treasure, a portrait remarkable for its depth and passion, for its stunning realism. But Atacar was more than Catherine’s greatest work. So much more. The nineteenth century artist was rumored to have loved him, just as he was rumored to have loved her.

But no one knew for sure.

Catherine had abandoned her Texas home, never to be heard from again, and soon after she’d disappeared, Atacar had been shot and killed by a trio of soldiers.

As Mandy looked into his eyes, an air-conditioned chill blasted from the ceiling, sending goose bumps along her arms.

He was an imposing figure, his head cocked just so, his expression dark and serious. Positioned in a straight-back chair, he gripped the barrel of a Winchester rifle. She tried to imagine him sitting for Catherine while the daring girl painted his image. His clothes consisted of Anglo gear, reminiscent of ranchers and farmers, but he was Chiricahua Apache, an enlisted army scout who’d become a prisoner of war.

Mandy blinked, but Atacar’s gaze remained constant. The museum had acquired his portrait nearly forty years ago. Prior to that, it had been hidden inside the walls of the farmhouse where Catherine had lived.

Upon its discovery, their romantic legacy had begun. Rumors spawned that they’d been lovers. That she’d disappeared because of him. That their desperate hearts would remain forever entwined.

But once again, no one knew for sure.

The only ray of hope was that Catherine had kept a secret journal, writings that had never been found.

By now, most of the art world thought the journal was a myth. But Mandy chose to believe otherwise. She had the museum historian searching for it.

Suddenly Jared moved closer, close enough to invade Mandy’s space, to attack her senses. She could smell the spicy notes of his cologne. She turned to face him, his ancestor fading into the background.

“Why did you come here tonight?” she asked.

He smoothed the front of his hair. He wore it plaited into a single braid, leaving the hardened angles of his face unframed. “To fuck you.”

Her addiction jabbed her hard and quick, like a needle to a starving vein. “I’m working, Jared.”

“That’s what makes it so fun.” Fun or not, he didn’t smile. He just looked at her with the same driven expression as when he’d toasted her with his merlot or cabernet or whatever he’d been drinking. “Like when we do it at my work.”

She didn’t respond. He was a highly successful breeder, trainer and showman who managed his own horse farm. Banging each other’s brains out in his barn wasn’t the same as getting naked at the museum.

His gaze turned darker, more intense. “You could take me to your office. You could make me do things to you.”

Hedonic chills vibrated her spine. By now, they were just inches apart. He kept moving closer, drawing her into his seductive sphere, doing what he always did.

“What things?” she asked.

“You could take off your panties, order me to my knees and lift your dress in front of my face. You could make me taste how sweet you are.”

The room started to spin. She wanted his mouth between her legs. But envisioning herself standing in front of him, making him do it was almost more than she could bear.

“Does that excite you?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“What else turns you on? What other games do you want to play?”

“I don’t know.” Her voice shook. “I honestly don’t know.” At the moment she just wanted to crawl all over him, to fall like a sugared gumdrop at his feet.

“I’ll bet she did it,” Jared said.

“What? Who?”

“Catherine.” Jared moistened his lips. “I’ll bet she lifted her skirts in front of Atacar’s face. I’ll bet she came all over him.” His voice was soft and low, dangerously demanding. “Do it, Mandy. Be bad for me.”

Heat flooded her lungs. If her guests weren’t milling around, eating canapés and socializing, she would’ve removed her panties right then and there.

“Meet me at my office,” she said. “But give me a head start. I need to unlock the door.”

His demeanor didn’t falter. “Hurry up.”

“I will.” She did her damnedest to regain her composure, to not give away what she was about to do.

She walked toward the stairs, moving quickly so no one stopped her, so she didn’t get trapped into small talk. Finally she ascended to the second floor, her low-heeled pumps assaulting terrazzo-topped concrete, ringing like bullets in her ears.

Her office door came into view, and she fumbled with her purse. What if she got caught? Her affair with Jared wasn’t a secret, but doing it at work….

She removed her keys, and footsteps sounded. She nearly jumped out of her skin.

“Easy, baby, it’s me.”

Jared. He’d barely given her a head start. Mandy glanced his way, her heart thudding between her thighs.

He came up behind her, bumping his fly against her rear. “You’re so conventional. So ladylike. But here you are, wanting this as badly as I do.”

He had no idea. She crammed the key into the lock and pushed open the door. Her drug-of-choice was crashing in on her, rushing perilously through her veins.

They crossed the threshold and locked themselves inside. Her office housed an executive desk, a sofa and matching side chairs. But she didn’t move in that direction. She paused just beyond the entryway, beside a floor-to-ceiling bookcase, with a security light burning low.

Caught in a sexual whirlwind, she reached under her dress and removed her panties. She wasn’t wearing hose. Her legs were bare.

“Get on your knees,” she told him.

He dropped down with a grateful thud. Gorgeous Jared with his head tipped back, his jaw jutting forward. While he waited, a thick, naughty beat of silence swallowed the air.

One. Two. Three. Let him see.

She hiked up her dress, bunched the fabric around her hips and exposed herself.

“Damn.” His voice pulsed, the tendons in his throat strained.

He was staring at her. Ravenously. Mandy gripped her hem a little tighter. She knew he liked her Brazilian. He thought the process that left a small strip of pubic hair above a woman’s vulva was hot and sexy. He’d talked her into getting waxed, convincing her that it would make her feel prettier, even when she was alone. He’d told her to touch herself and think about him when he wasn’t around, to make it her guilty pleasure. She couldn’t begin to count how many times she’d followed his advice, imagining that he was watching her.

She moved closer, teasing Jared with her guilty pleasure, widening her stance to give him a better look, to show him the cleft of her labia. But that wasn’t enough. Anxious, she took her dress completely off, dragging it over her head. Her basic under-wire bra came next. She wanted to be naked, all the way bare, except for conservative black pumps.

He swallowed, eager to taste her. He looked half starved.

“Do it,” she commanded, spreading herself for him. “Do it.”

He didn’t waste a second, not one delicious moment. He went right for her clit, sucking hard and fast, then slowing to deliberate strokes. He knew how much pressure to apply, how much saliva to spread. Excitement gathered low in her belly.

She watched him, lavishing every taut, tingling taste. The sight was roughly, fiercely erotic. His hungry mouth. Her damp, swollen sex. She pitched forward, and he made a primal sound. Mandy got even more aroused.

“Are you hard?” she asked, trailing her hands through his hair and snagging his thick, silky braid.

He paused to answer her question, moisture glistening on his lips. “I’m so turned on, I could come in my pants.”

Her knees nearly buckled. “I’m going to do this to you. When you’re done with me.”

“What if I don’t want to stop? What if I want to keep going?” He snaked his tongue so she could see him make contact with her clit. He banged her with his fingers, too.

All the way in. All the way out. He even rubbed his sticky digits down the front of his shirt and along his bulging fly, searing himself with her juices.

Dizzy, she rotated her hips. Sooner or later he would have to stop, if he didn’t she would explode into a pool of pollinated liquid.

Reaching out, she grappled for something to brace the blinding pleasure and fisted the edge of a shelf. A moment later, she caught the binding of a hardback book and clutched it between her white-knuckled fingers.

He made a sudden move, cupping her rear and pulling her toward him. They both went crashing until she landed on top of him, sprawled across his handsome face.

This was even wilder, she thought. Sexier. She rode his mouth, her body flexed, her back bowed in a fluid arc. She’d never felt more graceful, more ladylike. The irony should have made her laugh. Instead, she came in convulsing waves.

All over her dirty boy.

#

Jared and Mandy sat on the floor and gazed at each other. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He’d just devoured her orchid-soft, pussy-sweet flavor, enjoying every warm, wet, orgasmic taste.

“That was the hottest thing ever,” he said, before she got shy and glanced away. “So don’t even think about blushing.”

She lifted her chin. “I’m not.”

Sometimes she did. Regardless of how nasty they got, she still had an innocent quality. Her mink-colored hair skimmed her shoulders, and her eyes were framed with sweeping lashes.

She was the first proper girl he’d fucked, and he was hooked. He didn’t know for how long, and he didn’t want to know. For him, it was easier living from day to day, walking the sexual tightrope that drove him.

“Now it’s your turn,” she said. “Take off your clothes.”

“Are you still going to blow me?” he asked, upping the ante on the offer she’d made. “Are you going to suck me as deep as you can? Deeper than you ever have?”

“Yes.” She released a shuddering breath. There was a damp spot on the carpet beneath her, where some of her wetness had leaked onto the floor. “I am.”

His nerve endings went electric. He got to his feet and offered her a hand. She stood up, and he grabbed her and swung her into his arms.

“What are you doing?”

“Carrying you to bed.”

She looped her arms around his neck and kicked off her shoes. “It’s a sofa. Not a bed.”

“Close enough.” He tossed her onto the sofa in question, planted his knees on either side of her face and shoved down his boxers and jeans in one fell swoop.

His penis sprang free, and he felt good enough to grin. The head of his cock was pierced, and he knew it fascinated her.

“Up close and personal,” she said.

“Just for you.” He imagined her tongue sliding over the curved barbell. He got harder just thinking about it. Not that he wasn’t already rock solid, not that he hadn’t meant what he’d said about creaming his jeans earlier.

“I like touching it,” she told him.

“Then what are you waiting for?” He wanted her to get aggressive.

But she didn’t. She traced the barbell with the tip of her finger. Softly. Tentatively. He thought he might die.

“You never told me what it’s called.”

“It’s a PA.” His own breathing engulfed him. “A Prince Albert. They pierce it from the outside of the frenulum and into the urethra.”

“Is this the frenulum?” She gestured to the band of tissue under the head of his cock, where a portion of the barbell was.

He nodded. “It’s a common piercing for a guy.”

“Not in my world.” She touched him again. No, not him. The jewelry. “Every time I see it, I keep thinking that it hurt.”

“When I first had it done? It didn’t. No more than getting your ears pierced.” His stomach muscles jumped. He wanted her to lean forward, to give him a silky blowjob. Her gentleness was exciting him. “It takes about the same amount of time to heal, too. But I’ve had it forever.” Since he was a rebellious teenager, seeking a rite of passage, a way to define who he was.

“If feels amazing when we have sex,” she said. “I didn’t expect it to. But it does.”

“It’s supposed to give both partners more pleasure. Not painful pleasure. Tingling sensations. It increases the sensitivity.”

Mandy looked up at him, and their eyes met, making him more aware of his erection popping in her face, of the promise she’d made.

They moved toward each other at the same time, at the same exhilarating instant, and she parted her lips, taking the tip of his cock inside.

She toyed with the barbell, creating a rippling sensation, then pulling back to lick him, to run her tongue along the underside of his shaft and over the top, until she nursed the head again.

He fought the urge to relinquish control. But he didn’t. He held on, letting Mandy play, letting her decide when she would take him deeper. While she experimented, he watched her, heightening the game.

It got better from there.

She shoved his jeans farther down his hips. “Lie on your back,” she said. “I want to crawl between your legs.”

Who was he to argue?

He did what she told him to do, even if they had to fight the sofa to make it happen. Once he was in position, she opened the snaps on his shirt and exposed his chest and stomach.

She took her time, kissing his abs, leaving wet marks on his skin. By now he wanted to push her down and make her suck him all the way to the back of her throat.

He didn’t wait for long. He tried, but he couldn’t. She put her mouth on him again, and he lost the battle. He did what he was craving to do. He pushed her down.

She made a girl-hungry sound. She liked his roughness, he thought. Jared spread his legs and lifted his hips, grinding one booted heel into the cushion and planting his other foot on the floor, supporting his weight. He set the rhythm, and she took over, sucking greedily.

She was sowing her blowjob oats, reaping him for all he was worth, the way he’d wanted her to. But even so, he didn’t spill into her mouth. Not because he was being polite. He loved watching her swallow. But tonight he wanted to come inside her. So he lifted her up and told her to stop, whispering gruffly in her ear, telling her it was time to fuck.

Mandy watched him undress. Her eyes were bright and her hair was tumbled. She was still feeling her oats.

Anxious, he ditched his boots and went to work on his jeans, then his pricey western shirt, tugging the sleeves to get himself out of it. He hadn’t brought protection. He and Mandy were clean and safe. They’d talked about it on the night they’d first gotten together.

“I love your tattoos.” She pawed his triceps, where he had matching armbands. “Do you have any idea how exotic you are?”

“Do you have an idea how hard I’m going to give this to you?” He nudged her with his steel-tipped sword.

“I’m ready.”

“You better be.” He told her to straddle his lap in a reverse cowgirl position, so he could see her ass, so he could reach around and cup her tits, so he could pinch her nipples.

His lover accommodated him. She turned around and spread her thighs nice and wide, creating the slick leverage she needed.

He gripped her waist, and she went rodeo, giving him a thrill. Not only could he admire the curve of her ass, he got an erotic view of her sliding up and down, milking his cock.

She gulped her next breath. “It feels so good.”

He knew she meant the barbell. The sensation rocked him, too. Her pussy caressed him, and he nearly growled, his heart machine-gunning his chest.

“Touch yourself.” He struggled to steady his voice. She kept riding him, only now she was going slow, forcing him to feel every luxurious glide. “Do it the way you do it when you’re alone.”

She moved her hand, and he could tell that she was rubbing her clit. He couldn’t wait to bring her deeper in his realm, to seduce her even more.

“Turn around,” he said. “I want to see.”

They made the switch, with her sitting forward on his lap, stroking her sex.

He watched her come, thinking how incredible she was. She smiled when she was done. Her lashes fluttered, too. How pretty could she be? Warm and soft in the barely there light.

“Is that what you wanted to see?” she asked.

He wasn’t about to respond, not now, not in the wake of wanting her so badly. Desperate for more, he pushed her down and opened her legs until they were almost straight in the air. She gasped, and he thrust full hilt, pumping hard and fast.

She had another orgasm, poised like an acrobat. Her stomach quivered, and she reached out and clawed the back of the sofa.

When she wrapped her legs around him, the familiarity of being this close to her shattered his mind. Jared tunneled his hands in her hair, heat surging through his blood and burning his loins. He went off like a geyser, coming deep inside her.

In the minutes that followed, she clung to him, breathing softy against his neck. He wanted to be gentle for her, to hold her close, but he didn’t know how to pull it off, not without getting out of his comfort zone. So he settled on a quick kiss, got dressed and went downstairs ahead of her.

Once he hit the party, he didn’t have another drink or wait for Mandy to reappear. He left the museum, and on his way out, he frowned at Atacar, knowing the other man would’ve stayed.

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.

If you are over erotic romance or haven’t found one or a GOOD one you need to pick up The Art of Desire by Cherie Feather in June. It is a Berkley Heat and is a contemporary erotic romance with a historical twist. And it fucking rocks.

The book is amazing. You NEED to read this book. Trust me. Cherie will be here to guest in June and we will have more of an excerpt later but here is the trailer, which I liked and a small taste…

The Art of Desire… write it down… you can thank me later…

Museum director Mandy Cooper has always been 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 perilously handsome great-great nephew. And the consuming passion Atacar once used to seduce Catherine is now being engaged by Jared. He knows precisely what it takes to move a woman…

He’s in possession of Catherine’s wildly 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.

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.

CHAPTER ONE

Dirty sex with a dirty boy.

That was all Mandy Cooper, the proper, professional, highly organized director of the Santa Fe Women’s Art Museum, could think about.

She was addicted to Jared Cabrillo, Atacar’s great-great nephew, a man who sizzled in the art scene, who was notorious for having public liaisons, who wielded his celebrity like the party-on-the-edge charmer he was.

Mandy could feel him watching her from across the museum. She and her staff were hosting a summer reception and he’d crashed the event.

She tried to avoid him, but she couldn’t. His gaze was too strong, too persistent. She gave up the fight and looked at him, too.

Their eyes met, and he lifted his wine and toasted her before he put the glass to his lips and drank the blood-red liquid.

She gripped the silver chain on her evening bag, locking it around her wrist like a handcuff. He was drop-dead, imprison-a-woman gorgeous. There was no other way to describe him. He walked toward her, and her panties stuck to her skin, making her want to rub her thighs together.

“Nice party,” he said, as they came face to face.

“It’s going well.” She’d been sleeping with him for almost a month, yet she couldn’t stop herself from staring.

He sported a retro-style, black western shirt, decorated with white piping and tucked into crisp jeans. His face, diamond-blade dazzling and stone-quarry tough, mirrored his heritage. Both ears showcased tiny silver hoops. He had an intimate body piercing and tribal tattoos, too.

He was everything she shouldn’t want. At thirty-eight, she was supposed to know better. He was ten years younger than she was, but he wasn’t her boy toy. He controlled their affair, enticing her into carnal situations.

He set his empty glass on a nearby table. “You look beautiful, Mandy.”

“Thank you.” Her black dress scooped modestly in front and the delicate silver-and-turquoise cross around her neck offered a hint of adornment.

Aside from their naked urges, they didn’t know each other very well. They didn’t have meaningful conversations. But at least she knew he wasn’t seeing anyone else. He didn’t cheat on his lovers. Of course that didn’t change who and what he was. He treated monogamy like a courtesy, not a commitment.

Needing a diversion, Mandy turned toward a famous portrait of Jared’s ancestor. They were standing in front of Atacar’s exhibit.

He was the museum’s most prized possession, a Catherine Burke treasure, a portrait remarkable for its depth and passion, for its stunning realism. But Atacar was more than Catherine’s greatest work. So much more. The nineteenth century artist was rumored to have loved him, just as he was rumored to have loved her.

But no one knew for sure.

Catherine had abandoned her Texas home, never to be heard from again, and soon after she’d disappeared, Atacar had been shot and killed by a trio of soldiers.

As Mandy looked into his eyes, an air-conditioned chill blasted from the ceiling, sending goose bumps along her arms.

He was an imposing figure, his head cocked just so, his expression dark and serious. Positioned in a straight-back chair, he gripped the barrel of a Winchester rifle. She tried to imagine him sitting for Catherine while the daring girl painted his image. His clothes consisted of Anglo gear, reminiscent of ranchers and farmers, but he was Chiricahua Apache, an enlisted army scout who’d become a prisoner of war.

Mandy blinked, but Atacar’s gaze remained constant. The museum had acquired his portrait nearly forty years ago. Prior to that, it had been hidden inside the walls of the farmhouse where Catherine had lived.

Upon its discovery, their romantic legacy had begun. Rumors spawned that they’d been lovers. That she’d disappeared because of him. That their desperate hearts would remain forever entwined.

But once again, no one knew for sure.

The only ray of hope was that Catherine had kept a secret journal, writings that had never been found.

By now, most of the art world thought the journal was a myth. But Mandy chose to believe otherwise. She had the museum historian searching for it.

Suddenly Jared moved closer, close enough to invade Mandy’s space, to attack her senses. She could smell the spicy notes of his cologne. She turned to face him, his ancestor fading into the background.

“Why did you come here tonight?” she asked.

He smoothed the front of his hair. He wore it plaited into a single braid, leaving the hardened angles of his face unframed. “To fuck you.”

Her addiction jabbed her hard and quick, like a needle to a starving vein. “I’m working, Jared.”

“That’s what makes it so fun.” Fun or not, he didn’t smile. He just looked at her with the same driven expression as when he’d toasted her with his merlot or cabernet or whatever he’d been drinking. “Like when we do it at my work.”

She didn’t respond. He was a highly successful breeder, trainer, and showman who managed his own horse farm. Banging each other’s brains out in his barn wasn’t the same as getting naked at the museum.

His gaze turned darker, more intense. “You could take me to your office. You could make me do things to you.”

Hedonic chills vibrated her spine. By now, they were just inches apart. He kept moving closer, drawing her into his seductive sphere, doing what he always did.

“What things?” she asked.

“You could take off your panties, order me to my knees and lift your dress in front of my face. You could make me taste how sweet you are.”

The room started to spin. She wanted his mouth between her legs. But envisioning herself standing in front of him, making him do it was almost more than she could bear.

“Does that excite you?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“What else turns you on? What other games do you want to play?”

“I don’t know.” Her voice shook. “I honestly don’t know.” At the moment she just wanted to crawl all over him, to fall like a sugared gumdrop at his feet.

“I’ll bet she did it,” Jared said.

“What? Who?”

“Catherine.” Jared moistened his lips. “I’ll bet she lifted her skirts in front of Atacar’s face. I’ll bet she came all over him.” His voice was soft and low, dangerously demanding. “Do it, Mandy. Be bad for me.”