Always dream deeper ~ http://kzsnow.blogspot.com/
Now available from Ellora's Cave:
Playing with passion comes naturally to Jessamyn Kozak—if, that is, she’s holding a cello. Mozart might move her, but the middle-aged men she’s been dating? Not. The tide turns, and surges, when Jessa agrees to be a one-time guest instructor at a night school class for amateur musicians and meets a gorgeous harmonica player twelve years her junior.
Bronson McCullough is a custom auto-body painter who has no problem expressing himself sexually. But, for the sake of his job and his personal life, he does feel a need to unleash the passion in his soul. He’s tired of being merely an expert technician, both at work and in bed.
As a relationship blossoms between Jessa and Bron, their intimacy deepens and the line between teacher and student begins to blur. He helps her revel in her sensuality; she helps him hone his creativity. They decide to engage in the ultimate act of liberation—one that will finally, fully force Jessa’s inner vixen and Bron’s inner artist out of hiding . . . while an entire audience looks on.
* * * * *
I got out of the booth, debating with myself whether or not to mention phone numbers, future meetings, any of that connection stuff. But Bron suddenly seemed preoccupied. My doubts mounted. As we left the diner, though, he further explained why he had to hustle back to his shop. I could tell he wasn’t lying.
"I’m doing a job for a really demanding client right now. Rich and demanding. He wants a whole safari mural painted on his Hummer but he wants it done in a specific style. I’ll probably put in more time figuring out that style than I will doing the painting."
"Good luck," I said, standing at my driver’s door. "And…thanks."
"No, thank you. Your sex analogy really helped me understand what Olmstead’s class is all about. Or should be. I think I finally know what my ultimate goal is."
"I’m glad it makes more sense now." So maybe clarification was all he’d been after. He still hadn’t expressed an interest in contacting me. Confused and disillusioned, I turned toward my car.
Bron’s hands curled around my upper arms, coaxing me into facing him again. "A lot of things are beginning to make sense," he murmured.
His hands slid up the back of my neck into my pinned-up hair. His thumbs lightly caressed my temples and the upper arcs of my ears. He lowered his eyelids and his face moved closer.
And then I felt his lips. Their cushiony heat pressed against my welcoming mouth. He moved them as if he were speaking to me, quietly yet insistently. I didn’t need persuasion, though. I craved him. The voltage of his kiss sent arousal shimmying through my body, a sensation so pervasive I felt it in my toes. When I sought his tongue, he immediately offered it. The kiss became more fervid. Did Bron want to possess me and was I giving him what he was seeking? I didn’t know. I just wanted to drown in the sensuality of this unexpected embrace. Bron’s mouth was exquisite.
His hands glided down my back as his lips glided across my face to my throat. I felt the plank of his firm body settle against every soft mound of mine—breasts, belly, thighs—rubbing them almost imperceptibly, persuading me further. I could feel his cock hardening against my stomach. Ever so slightly, he moved his hips against mine. My breath caught. My insides already pulsed with the heralds of orgasm. It wouldn’t take much more to make me come.
"May I see you again?" Bron whispered, still kissing my neck, my face. The tip of his tongue made moist inscriptions on the whorls of my ear. His breath slid across my skin.
"Another stupid question," I managed to gasp.
I felt his subdued laughter through the wall of his chest. I wanted to rip off his shirt and my blouse and feel the vibrations against my nipples, feel his laughter and his heartbeat and the hills of muscle encased in smooth, smooth skin.
We eased away from each other, our respiration quick and heavy . . .
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Copyright (c) 2008 K. Z. Snow
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