Taste Me

Taste Me
Carrie Alexander

Artist Mia Kerrigan is anything but dull. When you decorate other people's bodies with edible paint, you can't be! But magazine publisher Julian Silk isn't sure Mia's sexy lifestyle is right for him. After all, he's a respected businessman. When Mia dares him to relax and let loose, though, he's intrigued…and more than ready for a taste of the wild side!Sure, Mia's attracted to Julian–who wouldn't be? He's hot, sexy and rich! His only downfall? He knows he's all three. It's going to take a lot for Julian to prove to Mia that she's more than just another fling. After all, he is Bachelor #17 according to one of the country's biggest gossip magazines. Can he show her that she's #1 in his life or only in his bed…?

“You want to paint me?”

“Sort of…” With a bashful grimace, Mia took Julian by one arm and led him to the tarp. “I also want to taste you.”

“Taste me?”

“To see if I’ve gotten the flavors of the body paints right.”

“And how will we test that?” He moved in to kiss her, but Mia stuck a brush between them, making a broad swipe of glistening red paint across his chest. Then she layered a stripe of warm midnight-dark liquid next to it.

“Bittersweet chocolate and strawberry. Always a good combination.” She plopped another full load of the paint onto his chest, watching with an almost scientific interest as a rivulet ran across his stomach to pool at his navel just inside the waistband of his shorts.

“Maybe you should take them off.” Her round cheeks pinkened. “In the name of science.”

“Maybe you should take them off,” he replied. His voice dropped, grating in his tight throat. “In the name of sex.”

Dear Reader,

You might be wondering about the title of this book. Taste Me. Rather provocative, isn’t it? Try being the author who must answer “Taste Me” when asked about her next title! Blaze leads me down some very interesting paths….

Just as Mia does to Julian in Taste Me. She’s an outlandish creative type and he’s the conservative CEO who’s ready to follow her anywhere—even to the world of edible body painting. No slouch as a Blaze heroine, Mia’s thrilled to experiment on the man who’s been named one of the country’s hottest bachelors. This book is a continuation of my SEX & CANDY miniseries (with all new characters), so you know the fun doesn’t stop there.

Mmm. Taste me.

That’s the book talking—I swear!

Carrie Alexander

P.S. Look for my next Blaze SEX & CANDY book, Unwrapped, in December, and go online to www.carriealexander.com to enter my contests and subscribe to the Get Carried Away e-newsletter.

Taste Me

Carrie Alexander

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

1

THE WET PAINTBRUSH hovered above the woman’s bare breast, then dabbed down, adding another coating of goop to her perky nipple so it looked like a shiny red cherry. A glistening globule broke free and rolled along the curve of the most perfectly shaped breast Julian Silk had ever seen. He could hardly believe his eyes.

“Damn!” The artist pressed her finger to the painted breast to stop the runaway drip, making the woman’s flesh jiggle slightly. Stretched out on her side, the model didn’t move, except to stifle a yawn.

One of the assistants darted in with a handful of Q-tips to repair the mistake.

“Cress!” the artist called. She removed her finger and stepped back, giving the model an evaluating stare. She held an open palm under the gooey paintbrush. “I need more cornstarch in the cherry paint, Cress. It’s too thin. Angelika’s thighs are streaking.”

Julian looked. The model’s thighs were also perfect. Not as perfect as the breasts, because Julian was a breast man, but perfect enough to make him want to wrap his hands around them and lick from stem to stern. That the thighs happened to be painted with candy-cane stripes had nothing to do with it.

He couldn’t say the same about the words TASTE ME, which were written out in silver nonpareils that framed the perfect little belly button on her tight, flat tummy.

Julian shoved his hands into the pockets of his trousers, giving himself a little more room down there. So this was why the X chromosomes on the Hard Candy staff had staged a Nerf ball tournament to decide who got to “supervise” the December cover shoot.

Victor Noone, the magazine’s advertising sales director, looked up from a consultation with a contingent from Sugar High, the up-and-coming candy company that was buying heavily into the gala holiday issue. “Julian! Please join us.”

At the sound of his name, a female head snapped to. Petra Lombardi, the Hard Candy art director, hurried over. “I didn’t know you planned to be here, Julian.” Her voice was like sliding silk, her heels staccato spikes. Silver-blond hair and milky skin looked an even whiter shade of pale against a black leather suit with dainty silver buckles. Petra was a woman of sharp contrasts and biting smiles. Attractive, but potentially poisonous. After a short-term exposure, Julian had developed a resistance.

“You must say hello to the Sugar High executives.” She took his arm. “And our creative team, of course.”

Julian cast another lingering look at the photo set before letting Petra tug him away. The reclining model was arranged on a satin-draped tabletop. Every inch of her skin had been coated in glorious color—edible paint, he’d been told. A team of black-clad assistants, wielding paper cones of frosting as glue, rapidly affixed assorted hard candies to her body, decorating her in stripes, scallops and swirls. Even the model’s hair was transformed, pulled back into a knot, sprayed white and strung with strings of candy dots.

The woman with the paintbrush hovered over a long table set to one side, out of the heat of the lights. The surface was chockablock with painting implements and small buckets of the sugary concoctions in a rainbow of hues. A young black man with sunglasses perched atop his shaved head was shaking a box of cornstarch into a plastic bucket.

The artist stirred the red syrup, lifted a long-handled spoon high to test the thickness, then licked a dab off her pinkie. She nodded at her cohort. “Thanks, Cress. That’s better.”

He cocked an eyebrow. “We can’t have streaky thighs.”