Brooklyn Flame (A Bridge & Tunnel Romance)
A burgeoning sculptor in the Williamsburg art scene, Greer Langley loves her craft and has little time for much else. Spending her days locked away in her studio and her nights huddled on her rooftop gazing out at the city she's learned to call home, she's focused on one thing and one thing only: The Phoenix Juried Art Competition, an exhibit that will make or break her career.
Hunter Black has a thing for artsy girls and Greer is no exception. He's learned early to stay free of attachments, especially when they're the competition. But with sexy, determined Greer, he's been hooked ever since she caught his eye through a crowded gallery. He's never had an in with her. This time he will.
But when Hunter shows up to model for Greer and sparks fly, she suddenly realizes they're much more than artist and muse. He's ready to take the plunge with her… but will it destroy the one woman who's tamed his heart for good?
Hunter Black has a thing for artsy girls and Greer is no exception. He's learned early to stay free of attachments, especially when they're the competition. But with sexy, determined Greer, he's been hooked ever since she caught his eye through a crowded gallery. He's never had an in with her. This time he will.
But when Hunter shows up to model for Greer and sparks fly, she suddenly realizes they're much more than artist and muse. He's ready to take the plunge with her… but will it destroy the one woman who's tamed his heart for good?
Buy Links
Brooklyn Flame ~ .99¢ or FREE on Kindle Unlimited~
EXCERPT
“So this is going to look like me,” he said, nearing the sculpture.
“I just need a little help in terms of the proportions.”
“Right.”
When she looked at him, she caught his eyes widening ever so slightly at the sight of her sculpture’s genitals.
“You know this is nude modeling, right?”
“Yeah, I know the deal.” Eyeing her work more carefully, he added, “You might have to scrap most of this. I’m pretty buff.”
She cracked a smirk, cocking her brow, as she sarcastically suggested, “I’ll handle the art. You just take your clothes off and get settled on the couch.”
His laugh came deep and breathy, as he said, “Yes, Ma’am,” and paced away towards the stool she’d set off to the wayside from the couch.
He was confident, she observed. He didn’t blush from the idea of being naked around her, and as he made slow work of peeling off his jacket and his skullcap, setting each on the stool, Greer got the sense he was good with women and knew it.
Gradually, and stealing as many glimpses of him as she thought she could get away with, Greer sat on the stool beside her sculpture.
Hunter was pulling his tee shirt up and over his head, and though he was facing away from her, his muscular back, the line of his spine, his hard shoulders, and toned arms when he finally peeled the tee off, were too much fun to study.
Shirtless, his dark hair a mess of cowlicks, and his hands busily folding his tee, drew her eye to the jeans he would need to shed before she could get started. They were bleached and faded, scarred with natural holes, but hugged his ass so well she found it challenging not to smirk. The garment flattered his legs as well and she had to remind herself to breathe, sip her wine, and focus, as he wrestled his boots off and then stripped off his jeans.
Underneath were boxer-briefs and she had to stuff the huge smile on her face with more wine when she realized they were purple. She had always had a thing for guys wearing feminine colors, and when Hunter faced her, she noticed he was trying not to grin just as hard as she was.
If he was about to say or ask something, and he looked like he might, he shifted gears, once again cocking his ear towards the speakers as the song changed.
“I love Disclosure,” he said through a crooked smile, his excuse perhaps for the grin on his face.
As if she had no idea he was referring to the band that was playing, she said, “I’m not sure it’s wise we open up to one another.”
He laughed, saying, “Right.”
She drew in another sip of her wine, which sent his dark brows rising.
Then he teased, “I’m fine, thanks. I never drink in the morning. But nice of you to ask.”
“You’re working,” she pointed out, implying he definitely shouldn’t drink.
“So are you.”
“But no one’s paying me.”
He pursed his mouth into a frown that called to mind just how perfect his lips might fit against hers, and commented, “I’ll take your word for it.”
A tension-filled silence followed, one where Greer eyed his boxer-briefs expectantly and Hunter held her gaze, getting it but also hesitating.
“It’s chilly in here,” he said finally like a pre-emptive excuse for what she was about to see.
Giving him privacy, she stood and began smoothing more water over her clay, as she said, “Don’t worry about it; I’m only going to be looking at your arms and chest. Those are my problem areas at this point.”
Hunter was swift and calculated, pulling his boxer-briefs down on a forward bend and cupping his genitals on the way up. When he met her gaze again, the shape of him looked delicious, arms flexing, his big hands cupping himself, the lines of his thighs, the delicate arch of his abs where they wrapped around his hips, all statuesque yet sexy since he was undeniably real, warm and hard, flesh and breath, a man in her midst on the other side of a line she shouldn’t cross.
Approaching him with an air of authority, she explained, “Okay, I need you on your back on the couch.” He turned for it, and she could see him visualizing her direction as she voiced it. “If you could lie back with your right hand behind your head and the other draped on your thigh, like this.”
Greer lay on the couch, emulating the exact position she wanted him to take. When she pitched her left leg up, her knee bent, and she rested her hand on it, glancing up at him. But her breath hitched in her throat at the sight of him, tall and hard, gazing down at her. Backlit though he was, his green eyes fired, cutting through the shadows on his face, and if she wasn’t mistaken, she thought she caught his mouth curl ever so slightly at one corner, as if he enjoyed standing over her.
To clear her head, she babbled on. “It should be comfortable enough to hold for the full hour, but if you need breaks, like if your hand falls asleep or something, just say so.”
Popping up, she made a point not to look at him whatsoever as he got into position on the couch. Instead, she focused on the clay, analyzing the shape of her figure and the changes she would need to make based on the man she had spied.
When she turned, Hunter was set in the correct pose and staring into his eyes was all she could do not to sneak a peek at his penis.
Of course, within a few seconds she failed.
Hunter’s voice came smooth and deep when he said, “I thought you said you weren’t going to look at my d*ck.”
Quickly, she stammered, “I’m not. I didn’t.”
“You did.”
Author Links
Author's Goodreads Profile
Mira Gibson is a playwright, screenwriter, and novelist. After majoring in Playwriting at Bard College, Mira was accepted into Youngblood, the playwrights group at Ensemble Studio Theatre (NYC). There, Mira's plays received developmental readings and workshops. Most notably: Daddy Soda (2009), Old Flame (2012), and Diamond in the House of Thieves (2012). Her one-act play The Red White and Blue Process received a commission from The Sloan Foundation. And her one-act play Old Flame won the Samuel French Playwriting Competition and is available for licensing via Samuel French Play Publishers. In 2012 Mira's first screenplay, Warfield was produced by Summer Smoke Productions. It is available on Amazon Direct. She lives in Los Angeles, CA. Story is her life.
No comments:
Post a Comment