by Pearl Jones Available Now from Loose Id Angel is a Centerfold "I am neither slave nor lady, lord. But I am yours." She took the hand he offered and drew it to her lips, kissing it as she had longed to do. Her teachers had told her she would one day yearn to perform the erotic arts, but none had explained how strong the need could be. Was this unique? Was it only him? The taste of him, salt and musk and with more than a hint of horse, made her head swim. She moaned.

"Lady ..." He fell to his knees beside her. "Lady, I cannot ..."

She spoke around his fingers. "I know your oath." Still, there was chaste and chaste. More than her honor was at stake; she risked her life. Feeling his flesh yield as she bit lightly down, she counted the reward worth the cost. Her tongue circled the digit, pulling it deeper; she sucked her cheeks in.

He groaned.

Leaning back until her head touched the rug, she let his hand slip from her mouth, down her neck, over her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, her belly. He pulled away with a hiss, then let his hand fall. Just a touch, a brush over her hips, away again. She s.h.i.+vered at the light touch. "Again."

"I must not." But even as he spoke, his hand was at her shoulder, tracing a path down her arm, reaching her hand to weave fingers together, matching until the fit was perfect.

His skin was hot, as though he fevered for her. She felt his touch like a brand and leaned into it, hoping to be marked forever. His hand flexed, stretching her smaller one.

Her turn to moan.

He tried to pull away; she gripped him tightly, rolling up to face him again. Holding his gaze with her own, she raised their clasped hands to her breast. He s.h.i.+vered and shook, and his mouth fell open. She smiled, and would not let him look away.

His hand loosened; this time, she let him go.

It was tempting to look down, to see his huge hand splayed in a futile attempt to surround her, but she enjoyed the look in his eyes. So might a man look were he visited by a djinn, awe and fear and hope and longing all at once. His other hand came up to join the first; she could almost believe it independent of him by the surprise that widened his eyes. And then his hot, hard fingers found her nipples, eager and thrusting through her silks, and her eyes fluttered closed at the sensation.

"Mother of G.o.d."

It might have been a prayer.

His fingers stroked and tugged and twisted through the cloth, sending tiny strikes of lightning toward her core. It was wonderful, so much better than when she played with them on her own. But it would be better still with skin on skin.

Deciding, she pulled free from his touch. His face fell on the instant, and he began to speak in some language she did not recognize. The tone was enough; he was apologizing. She leaned in long enough to plant a kiss on his quick-moving lips, then twisted and came to her feet.

"You are greatly privileged," she laughed, "for few infidels ever see a performance like this." There was no music, but she needed none. She danced.

He gaped as she moved, her body free and swaying and not completely concealed within lengths of s.h.i.+mmering cloth. And then the cloth came free somehow, pieces waving from her wrists, veiling his vision for a heartbeat and then falling away, leaving inches of spice-dark skin to gleam in the lantern light.

One foot, bare but for painted symbols, touched his knee. He looked down, saw another piece of fabric drop down to curtain her maddered toes, rise, fall again. And then it was gone, and the foot was on his thigh, and the ankle, too, was bare, as was the calf.

He gasped, and his hands came up.

She stilled him. "The dance is not yet done." Another length of cloth fell away.

When she was clad only in a few fringed bits, a single length around her b.r.e.a.s.t.s rising to circle her neck, and the last of her mult.i.tude of skirt-wraps, she ceased, falling gracefully to kneel again, inches away from him, hands palm-up on her knees. "Now," she said.

He did not move. Did not even blink. A pulse in his throat leapt and throbbed; she could see it. It seemed to beg for her touch, so she reached out to stroke it.

He grabbed her wrist, hard enough to hurt. "No." Too loud; he winced. "No." Slowly, he reached for her other hand, pulling them toward himself until he could s.h.i.+ft his grip, both small wrists trapped in one of his large hands, his sun-darkened skin still lighter than hers, and rough. Gently, firmly, he held her, and breathed.

Spices and honey and oil and tea and the scent of her.

He looked her up and down, every lithe inch she had exposed. Lantern-light flickered on gleaming skin. His gaze followed each dancing shadow, every bright flare.

She s.h.i.+vered at the intensity of that gaze, as hot as his touch, and as welcome. His mouth was open again. Did his lips tingle, too?

He held her wrists, but she was not immobile. She twisted in his grasp to bring her face to his, tilted up, and brushed a soft kiss over his mouth. He swore, and let her hands free, his hands reaching to tangle in her hair, holding her firm as he plunged his tongue between her open lips.

There was none of the delicacy she had been taught, but far more pleasure, and the taste of him was hot and urgent and stronger than foreign ice wine. She twined her tongue with his, darted a teasing tip between his lower lip and teeth, sucked his lip into her mouth and bit down not quite gently. He learned quickly, copying what he enjoyed; she learned from that, and discovered likes she had not known she had.

They kissed until they must breathe or die, and broke away only long enough to gasp for air before returning to their sweet duel.

Her hands, freed, roamed his back, his chest, finding his tiny nipples beneath the padded vest and thick s.h.i.+rt he wore, pinching and flicking in time with her tongue. He groaned into her mouth, and she swallowed the sound, never ceasing. When the kiss came to its inevitable end, she loosed his garments and ducked her head to suck the small nubs until he would have screamed had he not bit down on his own hand.

"Stop. You must." His voice was strained. She ignored him until he pulled her up by the hair. "Stop."

"Why?" She s.h.i.+fted, and saw his eyes go dark and wide at the sight of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s thrusting at him through the thin bit of silk that remained. "Is it your turn?"

"Oh, yes." He set his mouth to the cloth and began to suckle.

What people are saying about Angel is a Centerfold The s.e.xual dream sequences were pretty hot and varied. The plot twist came out of left field and was a total surprise! Angel is a Centerfold is a different kind of story featuring a young couple and a purely unique plot twist that will keep readers rapt with interest until the very end.

-- Ann Lee, Just Erotic Romance Reviews Angel is well crafted - warm, mysterious and sensual. The two sides of her personality merge to create something greater than the girl she once was. Angel is a Centerfold delivers a unique brand of scorching eroticism and tender pa.s.sion.

-- Mich.e.l.le, Fallen Angel Reviews