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An Excerpt From: DANCE OF THE BUTTERFLY

Copyright © CRIS ANSON, 2010
All Rights Reserved, Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Inc.

“So he is here.”

“You never had any doubt, did you? Didn’t you come here to see your competition in action?” She tossed the comment over her shoulder as she ascended the stairs with a bouncy, feather-light step.

Magnus stared at the magnificent ass inside those tight jeans, the expanse of willowy waistline whose bare skin looked smooth as cream, the flaming hair cascading down her back, until she disappeared around the corner.

“Damn you,” he whispered, jiggling his hard cock to a more comfortable position inside his shorts. If she was wearing panties under those jeans, he hadn’t seen a line of elastic. He clenched his hands into fists against the urge to strip them off her to see if she went commando style.

I’ll give you all the stroking you seem to need, she’d said. I can think of worse fates than having the image of you in my bed, she’d said.

Did she always toss around double entendres so casually? What was the matter with him, that he couldn’t control his cock around this woman? She didn’t deny that she issued invitations like that to every man she met. Did she try to play one against the other to see if they’d fight over her? Christ, he didn’t want another man’s leftovers, didn’t want to stand in line. Didn’t want to be third or fourth in her thoughts.

Hell, he didn’t want her at all. Why was he even thinking like that?

Fighting the impulse to creep upstairs and see exactly what Rolf was doing, he paced the small foyer. What the hell was he doing here? Why couldn’t he get that promiscuous redhead out of his mind?

The gallery. He’d wanted to see that artist’s work, the one she “launched,” see how she displayed them. If she was going to be his agent, he needed to see how professional she was. Yes, that was it. He’d wait until class ended and ask her for a walk-through of her own office. She wanted to see where he worked? Let her show him hers first.

His head jerked up. The music had started again. Did that mean Rolf was posing again?

Damn. He found himself sneaking up the steps. At the top of the stairs he turned left toward an archway leading into the loft. Keeping within the shadows cast by the wall, he peered inside.

Wearing a white robe sashed around his waist, Rolf stood barefoot on a platform facing the crowd. Chairs and easels clustered in ragged semi-circles around him. Kat climbed the platform and spoke to the students.

“This is the fun part, class,” he heard her say. “You get to pose the model.”

A thin woman with long, straight brown hair jumped up. “He should be like this,” she said, lifting her arms over her head, wrists crossed. “You remember that Dara Joy cover where the hero was handcuffed to the ceiling?”

“Oh yeah,” said another young woman, this one with a curly mop of short blonde hair, “like he has to do our bidding—or else.”

A murmur of general agreement reached Magnus’s ears, with a word here and there jumping out at him, “dominate him…helpless…in our power.”

He gritted his teeth. He’d be damned if he’d let a woman dominate him. He would do the dominating in a relationship, or there wouldn’t be a relationship.

Rolf stood calmly as they debated his next pose, eyes roving the class as though trying to choose which artist he would allow to dominate him. Then his eyes focused on Kat and turned intense, burning. Magnus felt himself go rigid. No. Rolf was too young for Kat, dammit. She was a mature, worldly woman. Would his kid brother let a domineering woman walk all over him just to get laid?

He watched as Kat spoke quietly to Rolf, gesturing with her hands, then stepped down.

Rolf dropped his robe to the floor and grabbed the overhead pipe with both hands, his head lifted up as if in supplication—or pain.

Magnus felt his jaw drop. Rolf was totally naked, and his dick stuck out thick and pointing like a man who enjoyed being humiliated.

He must have gasped, because Kat’s eyes darted to where he stood in the shadows. He spun on his heel and took the stairs three at a time, then punched the outside door open. What kind of farce was she pulling? And why didn’t he just get the hell out of Dodge instead of standing in the doorway, breathing deeply of the cool night air?

“Magnus, wait!”

Belatedly he moved to take that last step onto the sidewalk, to put distance between him and the woman with the morals of an alley cat that he couldn’t get out of his mind.

Kat grabbed his arm and pulled hard. “Wait!”

He spun to face her. “What the hell are you, a pimp? You get your kicks finding young studs to parade in front of your paying customers?”

“He’s old enough to make up his own mind.”

“The hell he is. Just seeing him there with his cock sticking out like a horny satyr’s tells me he doesn’t know what he’s doing.”

“He’s reveling in it, Magnus. Most of my male models pose absolutely nude, but their cocks don’t all get hard and proud when they’re the center of attention. Rolf is of the ‘If you’ve you got it, flaunt it’ school. Believe me, he’s exactly where he wants to be.”

“Do you screw all your models?”

Kat’s eyes narrowed. “I beg your pardon?”

“Are all your models young and good looking and hung like stallions?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know until they take their clothes off. What I look for is more of an attitude, not how big their cocks are. Remember, even Michelangelo’s ‘David’ doesn’t have a big—”

He cut her off by crushing his mouth to hers. His kiss was demanding, almost cruel, in its quest to dominate, to mold her to his will. As easily as a feather, he lifted her by the waist and slammed her against the wall, holding her there by pressing his rage-fueled body against her, fitting his rampant cock between her legs. His tongue stabbed into her warm mouth again and again as both his hands roamed up and down the naked length of her waist, dipping down inside her hip-cut jeans, then up to the curve of her breasts.

A muffled curse escaped him. No bra. The softness of her tits against his work-roughened hands penetrated his unreasoning fury.

Awareness came to him gradually—her fists, rigid balls against his shoulders, contrasting with the slackness of her mouth. Her wide-open eyes staring into his heavy-lidded ones. The dangling movement of her legs.

“Oh God,” he mumbled, slowly easing her to the floor. “I’m—”

“Get out, you bastard,” she hissed. “Get out and don’t come back.”