The Mammoth Book of Hot Romance

by Sonia Florens

  When he came back to earth, Miranda was curled up against his side, one leg thrown over his as her hand stroked him from collarbone to hip.

  “Wow,” she whispered, looking deep into his eyes.

  “Yeah.”

  She pulled back a bit, lifting on to an arm and looking down at him, her face serious. “Jake, as amazing and freeing as that was, I don’t think I can do it all the time.”

  Love washed over him.

  “I don’t want it that way all the time,” he explained. “And I don’t want you to think I’m submissive to just anyone.”

  “Oh, I know that!” She laughed.

  He chuckled, happy that she could see him for who he truly was. “It’s just one aspect of things, and I needed to know that you were open to it before you broke my heart.”

  “I could never break your heart.”

  He lifted a hand to her cheek. “I love you, Miranda Grey, and I wanted you to know all of me.”

  Tears welled in her eyes and she smiled down at him. “I see all of you Jake Wolf. I know all of you, and I love you too.”

  Joy burst deep inside his heart and he moved, rolling over and pinning her to the bed. “Good,” he whispered as he placed his lips against hers, “because I’m never letting you go. We’re in this together now.”

  When he lifted his lips from hers, Miranda smiled up at him, her eyes gleaming as she blushed. “And I have to admit that I’m looking forward to tying you up and playing with you a lot.”

  Heart full, he grinned. “Anytime, darlin’. I’m all yours.”

  Inspiration

  K. D. Grace

  One

  If he had been wearing a toga, Donna could have easily mistaken Jake Anderson for Apollo. Instead his shirt was tucked and ironed and his trousers creased, which was no small feat for someone who had just driven all the way from Texas. He was tall and well muscled with golden hair and a sensual smile any woman would want to eat like ice cream. But alas, Jake Anderson was not Apollo. Jake Anderson was the new English teacher for Golgotha Christian School.

  If she’d had a choice, she would never have rented the spare room to someone who had been raised on a diet of Bible Belt righteousness. No doubt he would be no more comfortable with her than she was with him. But since Golgotha School and Church were conveniently located next door, Jake had rented the room, sight unseen. More importantly, he had paid the first and last months’ rent in advance as well as a hefty cleaning deposit, returning Donna to a precarious state of solvency that would allow her to eat until she got her first pay cheque from Sirens.

  Jake shook her hand tentatively. “I was expecting someone older.”

  She was expecting someone a little less yummy.

  He offered her a win-friends-and-influence-people smile. “Uncle Ed says you’re an artist.”

  “Ed Tandy’s your uncle?”

  He nodded enthusiastically. ‘He’s the president of the school board, as well as the senior evangelist at Golgotha.’

  ‘I know who he is.’ She forced a smile between bared teeth.

  He continued, all sweetness and light, “Teaching’s only temporary, you know, to give me some experience. Then I’ll …”

  “Follow in your uncle’s footsteps?”

  “That’s right, and my father’s and my grandfather’s.” His glory hallelujah smile spread tight across perfect teeth. “No self-respecting male in the Anderson familould consider anything else.”

  As soon as she could, she excused herself and returned to her studio, not because she didn’t want to linger and look at him, but because she knew his kind only too well. Better to keep a safe distance. In spite of herself, as Jake banged up the stairs with his luggage, she thought again of what a lovely Apollo he would make. Apollo was her favourite god from Greek mythology and the one who inhabited some of her hottest fantasies. It was sad that her fantasies were peopled with mythological beings in the absence – very long absence – of the real thing.

  She busied herself sketching the preliminary drawings of Apollo and Daphne she hoped to use for the mural at Sirens. Apollo’s hand caressed Daphne’s breast just above her ribs while his other hand slipped low down her stomach. With the hurried glance over her shoulder, Apollo’s lips almost but not quite found purchase on Daphne’s as his powerful embrace engulfed her.

  “Excuse me.” Donna jumped at the soft knock on the open door. For a second it was as though her sketch had come to life, as she turned to find Jake peeking around the corner. Quickly she flipped to a fresh page on the sketch pad.

  The dusting of sunlight filtering through the window, made him look even more like Apollo, and his voice had that honeyed resonance one would expect in a deity … or a preacher, she reminded herself. “You got settled in then?” she asked breathlessly.

  On the blank page, she sketched him rapidly, surreptitiously, feeling like a voyeur watching the god unawares, wishing wickedly that she could see beneath his clothes. There was no doubt that the Apollo now coming to life in her sketches, and in her imagination, would be Jake-inspired.

  But Jake’s gaze was locked on a half-finished canvas near the back of the studio. It was a large painting of a nude, legs open to the explorations of an enormous swan whose wings mantled the object of its affection. The woman’s arched back forced ripe fruit breasts heavenwards in a struggle to escape. Her arms were flung open as she tumbled backwards into folds of tapestry and silk. Her eyes were wide, and her mouth was an “O” that suggested both ecstasy and terror.

  “That’s Leda and the Swan,” Donna said.

  “Who?”

  “Greek mythology? Never mind. I’ll lend you the book.”

  His jaw stiffened and the sides of his nostrils pinched as though he’d just stepped in something nasty. “Doesn’t sound like the sort of book I’d read.”

  Suddenly he didn’t seem at all like Apollo.

  “Is that your work?” He sounded as though he were accusing her of breaking the china.

  “My mother started it. When I get the right inspiration, I hope to finish it.”

  “Your mother did that?” Neutrality could not quite mask his distaste.

  “That’s right. I’m surprised your uncle hasn’t filled you in on the notorious Ellen Jenkins.” She slapped the sketch pad shut and glared at him. “This was the last thing she painted before she died.”

  His face flashed red and he shot a quick glance towards the door as though he’d like to run. Then, as if God had answered his prayers, his cell phone rang, allowing him a quick escape. Good riddance, Donna thought, wadding up the sketch she’d been making and throwing it in the trash. She knew renting to him was a stupid mistake, but she just had to have regular meals, didn’t she?

  That night, she tried to work with little luck. It felt strange having someone else in her mother’s house, the house she herself was still getting reacquainted with after her return to Denver. As a child, the old Victorian heap had been full of students, full of laughter, full of creative energy and free thought. Ellen Jenkins had rented rooms to students at affordable prices. Back then the house was a magical place, a place full of inspiration. Sharing it now with someone employed by Golgotha after what had happened to her mother felt wrong somehow, and yet she saw no alternative. Before she closed up the studio, she dug the sketch of Jake out of the trash, smoothed out the wrinkles and stuffed it into the back of her sketch pad.

  Sleep, when it finally came, was laced with dreams of Apollo and Daphne, of Leda and the Swan. In the early hours just before dawn, she woke to the sound of running water. It was pretty inconsiderate of his holiness to shower at this hour. Cursing softly to herself, she threw on her robe and stomped down the hall to the bathroom, where she found wafts of steam floating through the open door.

  The surprise barely had time to register when the water stopped running, the shower curtain drew back and there he stood like Apollo just up from the sacred baths.

  “The shower woke me.” She forced the words through her tig
ht throat, struggling not to let her eyes go exploring,

  “I couldn’t sleep.” He seemed not to mind his nakedness or her inability not to notice. The bathroom floor creaked anxiously beneath his feet as he stepped from the tub, moving with the regal grace of a god, brown eyes locked on hers. His hands came to rest on the sagging lapels of her robe and, over the scent of deodorant soap, she breathed in the wood-smoke tang of male arousal. Her nipples stiffened against silk as she realized he wasn’t the only one who was wet.

  Your stature is like that of the palm, and your breasts like clusters of fruit.

  That wasn’t right. Why would Apollo be quoting “Song of Songs”?

  With a flick of thumb and forefinger, he undid her robe and slid it off her shoulders.

  I will climb the palm tree; I will take hold of its fruit.

  For a long moment he stood looking at her, his gaze falling like a caress against the tips of her breasts and the lower reaches of her belly. Her eyes dropped to admire the weighty erection pressing anxiously towards her.

  He lifted her hand to his lips and placed a searing kiss against her palm. A step closer and he guided her fingers to encircle him, then he took her mouth with a soft grunt of pleasure at her touch.

  While his tongue mesmerized hers, he pressed her back against cool tiles, then lifted her on to him and began to rock his hips, slowly at first, allowing her to feel with each movement the shape of him inside her before picking up speed and force with the growing intensity of need.

  May your breasts be like clusters of the vine.

  She circled his neck with her arms and clung to him as he thrust, feeling the rapid expansion of his chest against hers, hard muscle beneath hot skin beaded with moisture.

  And the fragrance of your breath like apples, and your mouth like the best wine.

  They both had stopped breathing, she didn’t know how long ago, but then gods surely didn’t need to breathe, did they? Mortals, however, did. As they clawed and pushed at each other until neither of them could hold back, she figured the ringing in her ears was surely from lack of oxygen.

  She woke with a gasp. Sunlight blazed through the windows of her bedroom, the sheet was tangled and damp from sweat. Every inch of her ached for the release the dream had promised, but not delivered. Outside somebody leaned heavily on the doorbell.

  She cursed under her breath, threw on her robe and raced down the stairs to find her bleary-eyed Apollo standing on the front porch in nothing but his jeans. Her heart nearly stopped at the sight. As she fumbled with the lock on the door, she found herself struggling to memorize as much of the magnificent torso as she could for her painting. She was amazed at how perfectly she had dreamed the shape of the young teacher only minutes before.

  When the door opened, and he stepped inside, she couldn’t keep from noticing the tightness in the front of his jeans. She knew it was impossible, but somehow she felt as though he’d been privy to her dream.

  If he wasn’t blushing already, he certainly did at the sight of her in the short silk robe, cleavage well exposed and nipples still at full attention. With what must have taken a great deal of effort, he respectfully kept his eyes locked on hers. “I’m sorry. Uncle Ed conned me into doing next Sunday’s sermon. I went to get my notes from the car.” He strategically moved the black leather briefcase he was holding to obscure his telltale bulge.

  “My fault,” she breathed. “I forgot to tell you it locks automatically.”

  His nipples mirrored hers with mini erections of their own, raised above well-muscled pecs in the cool morning air. “I thought you were painting.”

  A glance at the clock told her it was nearly ten. “Guess I overslept. Did you sleep well?” She didn’t know what else to say.

  He shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. “I had … unusual dreams.” He blushed again.

  For a second they stood staring at each other, both struggling to keep their eyes from wandering, neither quite knowing what to do next. At last, Donna found her voice. “I need coffee. Want some?”

  “No thanks. I’m expected at Uncle Ed’s for lunch.” He turned and fled up the stairs banging the briefcase against the banister as he went.

  By the time the coffee was brewing, she could hear the shower running, and her mind was catapulted back to the dream. The strength of his muscular body had seemed so real as he pinned her against the wall. She had been so close when the damned doorbell had rung. And from the strain on the front of Jake’s jeans, it hadn’t been a sermon he’d been thinking about either.

  Her mother used to say this house had powerful magic, that people who stayed here often had visions that inspired them in ways they never could have imagined. Standing in front of the counter with her back to the stairs, she found herself pressing against the hard wood, rocking hypnotically, feeling the pressure deep between her thighs. She slipped a hand inside her robe to cup her breasts, stroking her heavy nipples.

  The other hand sought familiar territory, still slippery from the dream and fragrant with her own salty sweet scent. She shifted her hips back and forth against her working hand and was soon holding her breath, bearing down harder and harder until her knees nearly gave as orgasm exploded through her, and she couldn’t hold back a startled gasp of pleasure.

  “Donna?”

  She froze, fingers still buried between her legs. She could just make out Jake’s reflection in the window above the kitchen sink. He stood on the stairs in a blue terry robe that barely covered his damp chest. She didn’t dare turn around. Even an innocent would surely figure out what she’d been up to.

  “The bathtub isn’t draining.”

  She fought to control her breathlessness, while pretending to watch something fascinating out of the window. “It’s just slow. The plumber is coming tomorrow.”

  Once he had disappeared back up the steps, she slumped against the counter, cursing herself for getting so hot over a dream, and a dream of a future preacher boy, no less.

  Two

  The next day, she arrived at Sirens early. She could hear Irv cursing in his office about profits beingdown. He always came in before hours to fondle his account books and bitch about profits, even though the place was usually packed as soon as it got dark. The attraction of the strippers aside, she knew she was partially responsible for the crowds. Most of the time she worked during the day when the club was closed, but on Thursday night she painted atop the scaffolding during regular business hours, oblivious to the gyrations and pole dancing of the strippers below, the only female employee who worked with her clothes on.

  The progress of the huge mural was a big draw, and Irv knew it. In fact, he had commented that when she finished, he might have her whitewash the whole thing and start all over again. The crowd was always anxious to see what titillating bits she had added to the Roman orgy unfolding on the ceiling and walls.

  It wasn’t a bad job. The pay would be good, and Irv allowed her plenty of artistic licence, so she painted more than a few of her favourite seductions from Greek mythology. Roman, Greek, Egyptian – Irv didn’t care as long as there were plenty of voluptuous women on display, and men with enormous cocks fucking them.

  She climbed the scaffolding and settled on to her back to paint a sexy romp unfolding in front of the temple of Apollo. She wondered what Jake would think if he saw what she was painting. A few touch-ups with just the right colours and the statue of Apollo surveying his realm looked warmer, more human, admittedly more like Jake. Then she turned her attention to a well-endowed supplicant kneeling in front of the statue of Jake, er, Apollo. The best part about painting the mural was that Donna got to experience the orgy vicariously, which was about as good as it got for her these days.

  Once she settled in and began to paint, the strip club and the scaffolding quickly drifted away, and her mind painted at least as many details as her brush did. It was easy to imagine herself the flame-haired supplicant offering herself on the altar of Apollo. In fact she could almost feel the warm breath of A
pollo on her neck as he asked what she sought from him.

  Of course the answer was simple. In her mind’s eye, Donna always sought the same thing she sought every day of her life – inspiration. And, as always, with her heart pounding her ribs, she would offer herself, unconditionally, without reservations, in exchange for that gift of divine inspiration. It was a bargain really. Inspiration was priceless and, when it was there, when it surged through her mind and body to manifest itself on the canvas, she was never closer to the gods – whoever they were.

  “Donna, you got company.” Irv’s voice brought her back to reality.

  She looked down over the edge of her perch to find Jake – this time the real Jake – staring open-mouthed at the painting of the supplicant before the watchful eyes she hoped he didn’t recognize as his own. Damn it! He always managed to interrupt at the worst possible time. She scrambled down the scaffolding and motioned towards the bar. Jake followed, stumbling over his feet, his neck craned to look back at the mural on the ceiling. “It’s a strip club. You work at a strip club?”

  “Yes, Jake, I work at a strip club. So?”

  “And that’s what you’re painting?”

  “Yeah. That’s what I’m painting.” She poured them a couple of Cokes and slapped one down in front of him.

  “Are you … You know?” He made a motion like he was taking off his shirt.

  “You kidding?” Irv interrupted before she could say anything. “I can’t even get her to show a little cleavage.”

  “I’m an artist, Irv,” she growled. “You’ve got chicks with implants for that. Now what’s going on?”

  “Found this slinking around in the shadows watching you,” Irv said. “He says’re his landlady?” Her boss gave Jake a doubtful once-over. “Lots a perverts would love to handle their junk while they watch you paint. He says he’s a preacher or something. That true?”

  “I told you, I’m not a preacher. I’m a teacher at Golgotha Christian School.”