A Taste Of Fantasy

Samantha walked to the window, new black camisole clutched in her hand, and stood watching her garden as if she could somehow see the caller in the overgrown bushes if she stared hard enough.

“I’ll probably never get the sauce out of the rug. My mom will never forgive me for Aunt Ruby’s broken china. And I still have no idea where my thong is. But ohhhh, Johnny. You were worth it.”

Samantha pursed her lips in a silent whistle. An instant picture came into her head. The door opening. Johnny Orion standing there—looks by Hugh Jackman, body by Russell Crowe, smoldering intensity by Colin Firth. Male perfection. Slamming the door behind him, head tipped slightly forward as he moved, so his eyes would shoot passion from under lowered brows, so he’d have the appearance of a dark, charging bull.

“I’m still sore, I’m still ragingly horny, I still want you, Johnny. Call me.”

He’d walk forward, and without speaking lift her in his arms, clear the dining table of its carefully laid meal with one sweep, clear her body of its carefully arranged outfit with another, and go to it with hands, mouth, tongue and—of course—the industrial-sized penis.

Mmm.

Passion. Sex. Wild passion. Wild sex. She and Brendan never quite got there. There was always something polite in the way they treated each other. Always something slightly apologetic about their lovemaking, as if they felt bad about those pesky animal instincts, and were making do as best they could, since escaping their own humanity was impossible, darn it.

Wild messy passion. Wild messy sex.

She leaned back against the counter, rubbed the shiny camisole top over her body, then downward so it bunched into a soft ball between her legs and she could push against it. Jack might do that for her. The way he’d looked at her in the bar, like he wanted to devour her…

She’d let him.

The top slid between her fingers to the floor; she undid her jeans and pushed her hand inside. Jack Hunter. Right now, in this crazy hormone-charged mood, she wanted him. Badly. She wanted to get naked for him, feel that glorious sense of female power, that explosive chemical reaction at the beginning of an affair, when just the sight of her body would send him into a state of mating-readiness. When the toss of her hips, or the slide of her hands on her own thighs could turn him into a stiff groaning mess of desire. When just the touch of her fingers on his bare skin was enough to get him ready.

She wanted Jack to be her Johnny Orion. To come to her and take his fill of her, giving as much as he took. She wanted that. She wanted it.

Her jeans crept down farther on her straining legs; she rubbed herself harder, breath accelerating, imagining that beautiful meal spread on her dining table, Jack sweeping it to crash on the floor and spreading her on the dining table, stripping her, taking her.

“Oh.” The orgasm hit, hot and hard and she rode the wave, keeping the image of Jack’s naked thrusting body firmly in her mind until she came down, legs cramped and stiff, zipper straining open.

Blanche and Fudge chose that moment to investigate the kitchen and demand dinner in loud no-nonsense yowls.

Samantha blinked and burst out laughing. God what a sight she must be. Masturbating in her own kitchen, fully clothed, in front of her cats. But it didn’t feel pathetic. It didn’t feel pathetic at all. She pictured Jack again and smiled, doing up her pants, pushing the hair back from her face, body still glowing.

It felt damn good.

“CAN WE GET THE wrinkle out of the left shoulder there?” Jack pointed to the digital image of a Watson Sports T-shirt his assistant Beth handed him. “And try getting the folds to run left to right instead. Maybe straighten that seam a little more. I like the look, but the client won’t want the logo distorted. That should do it. Let me know when it’s set and I’ll shoot it.”

“Done.” Beth pointed to another table where a prop stylist was lovingly adjusting Watson golf shoes on a small mat of Astroturf. “They’re ready for you to check the shoes.”

Jack wandered over, hands in his pockets, whistling carelessly through his teeth, eyed the shoes critically and nodded. “Looking good—I like the angle. Let me see a test when it’s ready.”

He strolled back past the T-shirt table, still whistling, a rambling melody completely at odds with the techno-pop assaulting the studio’s airspace, and stopped to check the next shot—a putter to be shot on outline, against a neutral color for the client to fit into its own background.

Unfortunately, with no one else at the table demanding he do his job, no matter how hard he focused his eyes, his brain refused to take in the concept of “golf club.” Thoughts of her invaded immediately, as they’d been invading all weekend no matter how hard he tried either to push them away or sort out the dilemma to a workable solution.

He should call her today. He probably should have called her over the weekend. Samantha was perfect for the human dining table series. Tall, slender, not overly curved. More than that, she had the perfect look. Class, innocence, sensuality, all built into the striking planes of her face, so that even immobile and deadpan, those qualities would come through in the shot.

So why hesitate? He absently adjusted the head of the putter, which a barely conscious part of him knew didn’t need adjusting.

Because he wanted her. Because in her classy innocent sensuality, she represented a danger to the control he held tight to. Since Krista he’d been careful to find models who fit the shots but held little or no appeal for him personally. He wasn’t going down that road again.

But something about this woman called strongly to him. Made him plenty aware that being alone with her in a studio—even on a closed set with a hair and makeup stylist on call—while Samantha had on next to nothing would bring temptation home.

More than temptation. Torture.

He should avoid her. Listen to the voice in his head shouting, “Run, you idiot, run.” He didn’t need to mess up his life again, now that he’d clawed his way back on track. If he slept with her, as he was pretty sure she wanted him to by the signals she was sending out, and if he got away with it this time, then what would stop him the next time someone offered, and the next? Until he hooked up with another Krista and had his career nuked again. He might not be able to start over a third time and get anywhere he or anyone else could respect.

Jack glared at the putter and unnecessarily adjusted the grip this time. What scared him was that in spite of the well-known, acknowledged, been-down-that-road-before risks, he wanted Samantha in his studio and in his series. He missed the game, the chase, the thrilling, orgasmic victory. He wanted to be tempted by her. Wanted to feel the intense rush of excitement as he had in the bar. A rush he’d denied himself for so long.

He felt like a recovering alcoholic face-to-foam with a big frosty mug of beer. Lifting it, inhaling the sour yeasty scent, bringing it to his lips so the bubbles tickled his—

“What the heck is with you?” His studio manager Maria lifted a dark pierced eyebrow. “You’ve been whackyed-out all day.”

“Whackyed-out?” He smiled at her tough hands-on-hips stance, so incongruous on her tiny frame. But he sure as hell wouldn’t want to be on the receiving end of her temper. “How have I been whackyed-out?”

“All day you’ve been wandering and whistling. Usually you’re like a headless chicken running around.”

“Wow, Maria, thanks.” He sent her a look of fond exasperation. “It really pumps me up to be compared to barnyard animals.”

“No problem.” She crossed her arms over her chest and tapped her foot. “So what’s this woman’s name?”

Jack tried very hard to recover from extreme shock without giving himself away. “What woman?”

Maria’s eyes narrowed. “The one who has you whackyed-out.”

“I don’t know what you’re—”

“Ha! Cut the crap.” She leaned forward and impaled him with her nearly black eyes. “You can fool some people sometimes, but Maria never. I know you have a woman and she’s crazying up your head. My brother Paulo looks just like that about ten times a year. If my Miguel looks like that even for half an hour, bam!” She made a decisive chop on her open palm.

He grinned and shook his head. “And if I tell you it’s none of your business?”

“I’m making it my business.” She cocked her head so the studio light sparkled off the diamond piercing her nostril. “She better be worth you. Is she?”

He pictured Samantha’s blond hair draping her shoulders, her soft-looking, slightly rosy skin, clear eyes dancing with life. She was probably worth about ten of him. “I don’t know.”

“Then you better find out.” She made a circling motion with one finger next to her multi-earringed ear. “Or you’ll stay wacky forever.”

He crossed his arms over his chest. “Is that right.”

“I’m serious.” Her eyes widened in outrage. “This obsession won’t go away by itself. Like a splinter, she will dig in deeper if you ignore her. Take her out. Examine. You can’t get free any other way.”

He rolled his eyes, still grinning. Since the dawn of time, there had never been a more determined matchmaker. “I think you’re reading a little too much into it.”

She shrugged. “If you don’t give love a chance at the obvious time, it’ll come back and bite you in the ass.”

“Love?” He stared at her incredulously. Over the top, even for Maria. “This isn’t love we’re talking about.”

“Oh, right, matters of the dick.” She waved at him dismissively. “I’ve seen you lusting plenty of times. This is different. You watch. You’ll see. In one year, I’ll be dancing at your wedding, thumbing my nose at you.”

Jack laughed. As much as he sometimes wanted to use dynamite to budge her from her strongly adhered-to opinions, Maria lit up the studio like a 2K hot light, and he adored her. “My wedding, huh?”