Dance of the Rogue
Love-’em-and-leave-’em bad-boy Rolf has met his match, and she’s nothing like his usual dalliance. Older, plus-sized Fantine is a woman who embraces her curves and revels in her femininity. She knows what she wants and isn’t afraid to go after it. A weekend of pleasure that begins as a torrid sexual distraction to both, sparks a deeper need that neither was looking for, a connection neither one is able to let go of.
Fantine also brings Rolf a gift beyond measure, the answer to his inchoate dream—a link to the dark-eyed, dark-haired father he always suspected was his, not the blond-haired, blue-eyed sire of his brothers. Amid the joy of learning of his new family and a tempestuous relationship burgeoning with unrestrained sexuality and newfound emotions, Rolf and Fantine become targets for someone who will stop at nothing to keep that family’s wealth out of their hands.
A new side to Rolf emerges—the man he never thought he could be, and the lover of Fantine’s deepest fantasies.
“Cris Anson has finished her Dance series with a bang. Dance of the Rogue is a very powerful love story that will have readers taking notice. Fantine and Rolf’s relationship will break reader’s hearts with the emotional turmoil and crying from this tantalizing love story. Ms. Anson coped with saying goodbye to a loved one and gave her readers an explosive love story that will not be forgotten. Kudos to Ms. Anson for giving us what we ask for and so much more in a love story. Dance of the Rogue is one of the best erotic romances available. I loved it, and I cannot wait to see what she will come up with next.”
— 5 angels, reviewer Sonya, Fallen Angel Reviews
“Dance of the Rogue is the final book in the Dance series. Rolf has always felt like an outsider and Fantine blindsides him as she is not anything close to the women he plays around with. The author creates a wonderful suspense story as she explores Rolf’s and Fantine’s relationship and the budding relationship with his grandmother. This book will draw you in as you read.”
— 5 nymphs, reviewer Amazon Nymph, Literary Nymphs
“Cris Anson definitely brings the heat in this story! Rolf’s sensuality comes through on every page, just as does Fantine’s inner temptress. These two scorch the pages! DANCE OF THE ROGUE is a great mix of discovery, eroticism, and love. Rolf and Fantine are definitely an unlikely duo, but they are strengthened by their growing trust in each other. You will not want to miss their tempestuous love story!”
— 4 blue ribbons, reviewer Sarah W., Romance Junkies
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An Excerpt From: Dance of the Rogue
Copyright © CRIS ANSON, 2009
All Rights Reserved, Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Inc.
As if coached, all thirty-two women in the loft gasped when Rolf Thorvald dropped his black silk robe to reveal his finely honed, naked body.
Well, almost naked, Rolf corrected silently. But…that little scrap of a G-string wouldn’t be hiding his Magnum for long, the way their eyes ate him up. The way they shifted their bodies, crossing long, bare legs to nudge miniskirts up even closer to their crotches. Or like the willowy blonde in the first row, bending forward to reach the drawing pencil she dropped and, not coincidentally, exposing a ripe tit to his view through the loose, low neckline.
Standing on a dais set two feet off the floor, Rolf assumed the final pose. The one they invariably asked for, his muscular arms raised over his head, wrists crossed as though chained, fingers grasping the heavy steel ring the art gallery’s owner had installed in the ceiling for his comfort and balance. Head slightly back to simulate pain and helplessness, his thick black hair tickling his shoulders. Legs spread apart, chest out, abs sculpted, belly flat.
Oh yeah, it was a painless way to pick up some spending money. Kat, the owner of A Discerning Eye Fine Arts Gallery in upscale Bryn Mawr, Pennsylvania, on the Philadelphia Main Line, had struck gold with him as a model. These bored high-society women, of all ages and sizes, had willingly forked over a king’s ransom for a four-session course in drawing the human form, the last session of which offered a live model. His take for two hours’ work was a Jackson per head, twenty bucks times thirty-two women and he’d pocket a cool six-hundred-forty untraceable, tax-free cash money.
Life was good. He had all the pussy he could handle and then some. Tonight it was a tossup between the blonde flaunting her tits or the brunette with the long legs sitting two chairs to her left. Or maybe the cookie in the second row with the Angelina Jolie lips, who fucked her artist’s brush with her mouth every time his glance landed on her from beneath his lowered lashes.
Nah, tonight he felt like covering someone’s luscious ass over the hood of his Mustang and fucking her from behind, if he got lucky.
And Rolf Thorvald always got lucky.
Just thinking about it sent blood pooling to his Magnum. At the sight of his swelling cock, the electricity in the room crackled. Even though the air conditioner was on full tilt, it being July, a couple of the students wiped perspiration from their foreheads, and one fanned herself with a sheet of drawing paper. For some classes he stood totally naked and let himself swell under their longing gazes, but tonight he’d decided on the peekaboo route.
It was working.
There was something so…forbidden…in what he was doing. Giving these women wet dreams in public, making them rub their legs together to ease the itch, feeding their naughty fantasies. He could see the lust in their eyes, the stiffening of their nipples poking against skimpy tops. Kat had told him that after last month’s session, several of the women’s husbands had thanked her for whatever it was that their wives did at the live-model drawing class. Of course, he assumed the bold ones he humped in the parking lot after each session weren’t among the married. He did have scruples. Sort of.
The purple mushroom that was the head of his cock popped totally out of the G-string, gaining strength and thickness as it grew. He wondered how long it would take for a drop of pre-cum to seep out.
Hell, not longer than a New York minute and there it was, a pearly bead that instantly became the center of attention. He shifted his stance a bit—deliberately—which made his cock bob up and down. Idly he wondered how many of them were sketching a close-up rather than a full-body view.
The music playing softly in the background changed to a brisk tempo, signaling to Rolf that this final half-hour pose was nearing its end. He caught Kat’s eye as she straightened up from commenting on a student’s effort, and gave her a slight nod.
“Class, the half hour is almost up.”
A chorus of groans greeted the announcement.
“But the model has agreed to a few more minutes.”
To a scattering of applause and murmurs, the boss lady moved to the rear of the loft and pushed a few buttons, reprogramming the CD to give these lucky ladies a bonus.
After the ten-minute encore he’d bestowed on them, the music faded and died, his cue to exit stage left. Showman that he was, he released his grip on the iron ring and slowly, provocatively stretched the cramps from his arms and back before bending down to retrieve his robe. He flung it over his shoulders, tucked his arms in the sleeves and, with a slight bow to his rapt audience, left the dais.
Skirting the edges of the three semi-circular rows of artists and dilettantes, he belted the robe loosely while sauntering to the rear. He could feel their eyes caressing him, devouring him, storing up impressions for later, when they could use their fingers or their husbands or lovers to experience an orgasm with Rolf as its trip-hammer.
He entered the small dressing area and took a cold bottle of water from the mini-fridge that served as an end table. Popping the tab, he drank half the contents before setting it down and easing himself into the lounge chair.
Did he have it made or what?
Rolf knew that Kat would spend the next fifteen minutes giving the students individual critiques before the class ended, although it was filled to capacity tonight and she’d probably run over. A lazy smile tipped up the corners of his mouth. No way would Kat mind working a little overtime. Since she’d started these art classes, her gallery had become even more of a hot spot.
Last year Kat had “discovered” an artist whose sensual paintings had layers upon layers of meaning, most of them dealing with aspects of sex, and had interested a number of New York collectors in her work. Currently, Kat was featuring his oldest brother’s wood sculptures. Magnus was the latest darling of the art world. He was also Kat’s new husband. While Magnus disapproved of Rolf’s streak of exhibitionism, he allowed as how his wife hadn’t the slightest interest in a “boy” of twenty-eight, so he ignored the whole thing.
Downing the rest of his water, Rolf pushed himself off the soft leather chair, shucked the robe and G-string, and began to dress. His jeans went on commando-style—he never wore his briefs to this job, they’d just be in the way afterward—and then a snug-fitting black T-shirt that advertised Thor’s Hammer, his other brother Soren’s bar.
With just over a year between them, Soren and Magnus were often mistaken for twins, with their Nordic-blond hair, glacier-blue eyes and Viking builds. Seven years separated Rolf from Soren, so he’d sometimes felt like an only child. He often wondered who in the family tree had bequeathed him his raven-black hair and brown eyes to look so different. He’d had his share of “It must have been the mailman” digs when he was growing up, and had learned early to fight dirty.
And he’d paid back all the bullies by fucking their sisters and girlfriends.
These days, though, it was all about the woman. Short or tall, slim or curvy, whatever their hair color, he loved them all, enjoyed making them all happy. No woman could resist him when he set his mind to seducing her. Soren—the quiet one—used to goad him with a “Bet you can’t…” and of course Rolf could and did. He no longer needed Soren to nudge him. His cock woke up at the mere scent of a ripe woman.
The swell of conversation outside caught his attention. The women were packing up their canvases and sketch pads and charcoals. He’d give them another ten minutes to thin out then see who had hung around to accost him in the parking lot. He’d given several women the eye tonight, and their body language told him loud and clear that they were willing.
Maybe he’d witness a cat fight over him.
“That’d be fun,” he murmured. He’d collect his pay from Kat and then go out and collect another notch or two for his bedpost.
“So many women, so little time.” He laughed at the cliché. But in his case, it was true. If it wasn’t his bad-boy stance that drew them, it was his irresistible charm. Women fell all over him, offered themselves to him. Who was he to disappoint them? He was more Alfie than Alfie, and better looking than either the Michael Caine or the Jude Law version.