Take Me: A sexy contemporary romance

By Tracy Wolff

New York Times bestselling author Tracy Wolff kicks off a scorching new trilogy with Take Me

Seven days, seven nights…

One week of passion.

One week of submission.

One week where anything (and everything) goes.

Hope Stiles needs.

She needs inspiration. She needs tuition money. She needs a mentor who will teach her how to turn iron into art.

Enter Deacon Vick, world-famous sculptor and recluse extraordinaire.

When Hope answers his ad for an artist’s model, she gets more than just a job. She gets the answer to her every fantasy…including the ones she didn’t even know she had.

From the minute Hope opens her gorgeous mouth, Deacon knows neither his art nor his life will ever be the same. He plans to use every second of their week together to push Hope to her limits—for art and for pleasure.

This book is approximately 30,000 words

The Dirty Bits from Carina Press give you what you want, when you want it. Designed to be read in an hour or two, these sex-filled microromances are guaranteed to pack a punch and deliver a happily-ever-after.

One-click with confidence. This title is part of the Carina Press Romance Promise: all the romance you’re looking for with an HEA/HFN. It’s a promise!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Carina Press
• Release date: Feb 25, 2019
• ISBN: 9781488053719

Tracy Wolff

Tracy Wolff collects books, English degrees and lipsticks. At six she wrote her first short story and ventured into the world of girls’ lit. By ten she’d read everything in the young adult and classics sections of her local bookstore, so started on romance novels. And from the first page, she'd found her life-long love. Tracy lives in Texas with her husband and three sons, where she writes and teaches at the local college. She can be reached online at www.tracywolff.com.

Book preview

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Seven days, seven nights...

One week of passion.

One week of submission.

One week where anything (and everything) goes.

Hope Stiles needs.

She needs inspiration. She needs tuition money. She needs a mentor who will teach her how to turn iron into art.

Enter Deacon Vick, world-famous sculptor and recluse extraordinaire.

When Hope answers his ad for an artist’s model, she gets more than just a job. She gets the answer to her every fantasy...including the ones she didn’t even know she had.

From the minute Hope opens her gorgeous mouth, Deacon knows neither his art nor his life will ever be the same. He plans to use every second of their week together to push Hope to her limits—for art and for pleasure.

This book is approximately 30,000 words

The Dirty Bits from Carina Press give you what you want, when you want it. Designed to be read in an hour or two, these sex-filled microromances are guaranteed to pack a punch and deliver a happily-ever-after.

One-click with confidence. This title is part of the Carina Press Romance Promise: all the romance you’re looking for with an HEA/HFN. It’s a promise!

For Shellee Roberts, because I adore you!

Contents

Monday: Deacon

Tuesday: Hope

Wednesday: Deacon

Thursday: Hope

Friday: Deacon

Saturday: Hope

Sunday: Deacon

Acknowledgments

Also by Tracy Wolff

About the Author

Monday: Deacon

The moment she walks into my shop, I know she’s the one.

She looks like a wet dream with her long red curls, alabaster skin, and those goddess-like tits. Moves like one, too, luscious curves undulating to a beat only she can hear.

Fuck, yeah, she’s the one. Already my fingers are itching to touch. To mold.

You’re late, I tell her, not because I give a shit, but because I want to know what she’s going to say. How she’s going to handle herself. What pretty little lie this pretty little thing is going to spin to take the heat off.

You can tell a lot about a person by what lie she chooses—and how she delivers it. This one looks like the blushing type, looks like she’ll throw out a stutter or two as she tries to get through her story.

That’s fine by me. I like the shy type, every once in a while.

Whatever it is, however she does it, it won’t work. Not when my gut—and my dick—tell me that together we’ll generate enough heat for the frying pan and the fire.

I’d be the one lying if I said I wasn’t looking forward to the burn.

She surprises me, though, by holding up hands smudged with charcoal. I’m sorry. Class ran over and I didn’t notice because I was drawing. There’s a rueful apology in the tone, but no shyness. And definitely no groveling as she looks me straight in the eyes. There’s even a note of truth in there that I didn’t expect.

I like it.

Almost as much as I like the fact that she was so caught up in her art that she lost track of time. I don’t have to have anything in common with the women I stick my dick in...but it doesn’t hurt. Same with the women I sculpt.

I look her over again. No, it sure as shit doesn’t hurt.

You a charcoal girl? I ask, because I’m curious. And because I want to hear her talk about her art. It’s a first for me. Usually I can’t wait for the babbling, genuflecting art students to just shut the fuck up. All that adulation is exhausting.

Then again, this one isn’t babbling or genuflecting. Only the hot pink creeping across her cheekbones shows she’s affected by my scrutiny at all.

Actually, I’m an iron girl. Her voice is husky as she says it, and her cheeks may be pink but her big brown eyes are just a little wicked as they check me out, lingering on all the important spots.

It’s what I just did to her and the insolence of it all takes my dick from interested to Hard. As. Fuck. in three seconds flat.

Are you now? I widen my stance, deliberately shoving my hands in the back pockets of my ripped jeans, just to see if she’ll look.

She does. And then she licks her lips.

Fuck, yeah. She’s the one. And I’m not just talking about the art. But she’s perfect for that, too.

What’s your name? Desire’s riding me full on now and the words come out harsher than I intend.

She doesn’t flinch away, though. Instead she’s all brazen audacity as she answers, "Shouldn’t you know that already? We do have an appointment."

An appointment you were late for.

I already apologized for that.

You shouldn’t have.

No? She raises a questioning brow.

Never apologize.

Now both brows go up. Is that my first piece of advice from the great Deacon Vick?

You’re here to take your clothes off, not to get advice.

There’s nothing that says I can’t do both. As if to prove her words, she grabs on to the bottom of her black tank top, carelessly pulls it over her head.

She’s wearing a bra, but it’s an itty-bitty thing that shows more than it covers.

Hallelujah.

I was right about the goddess-like tits. Round, firm, high, with pale pink nipples that are already diamond hard. And since it’s about ninety degrees in here, I’m under no illusions that it’s the cold that made them that way.

The knowledge makes me want to reach out and pinch, just to see how hard she likes it. My gut says as hard as I do.

Still, control is a thing and the last I checked, I still had some.

"I say you can’t do both." I steer my attention away from her body and back to our conversation. I don’t do advice, haven’t for a long time.

She reaches for the button on her low-slung jeans and I turn my back, partly to remind her I’m the one in charge and partly because I want to see what’s under her clothes just a little too much. Then, to prove to myself as much as her that I don’t give a shit about the rustle of her jeans as they slide down her long, long, loooooong legs, I very deliberately walk toward the back of my studio.

I don’t stop until I’m a good fifty feet away from her—and then only because I haven’t yet mastered the art of walking through walls.

There’s a little voice inside of me—the same one that keeps telling me she’s the one—that’s now urging me to get as far from here, from her, as I possibly can. But I don’t run and I don’t back down. Little Miss Whatever Her Name Is will learn that soon enough.

How do you want me? she asks as I reach for my sketchbook—and my own charcoal pencils.

It’s a loaded question and I’m tempted to answer in kind, tempted to tell her exactly how I want her—starting with naked and spread-eagle on the St. Andrew’s Cross I made several years ago. I keep it in my storage and materials room for easy access. And because it turns me on. It would only take me a second to wheel it out here and less than a minute to strap her to it.

A minute after that I could be buried balls deep inside of her, sucking on those pretty tits of hers and fucking her straight into a string of mind melting orgasms.

The idea appeals—fuck, does it appeal—but my need to sketch her prevails. At least for now. And while sketching her on the St. Andrew’s Cross is definitely in my near future, it’s not where I want to start. From the moment she walked in here, I’ve had a vision of how I want to draw her. How I want to sculpt her. It’s only been ten minutes but already the itch has become an ache, one I have every intention of satisfying before this day is up.

The pay’s twenty dollars an hour. I want you six to ten hours a day, every day. I know you’ve got classes and we’ll work around them. But if you aren’t at the Art Institute, you’re here—at least for the next two weeks. Got it?

Her eyes go wide and wild at the acknowledgement that she got the job, but that’s the only reaction she shows. Good. Maybe she’s smarter than most third year art students. Time will tell.

Got it, she answers.

Good. I point to the corner of my studio where I usually do my sketching. See that drop cloth over there?

She nods.

Finish taking off your clothes then go stand on it.

She does as I ask without saying a word—which I like. A lot. Partly because nothing annoys me more than art students who think they know it all and want to prove that knowledge to me. And partly because I like that she follows my orders. It will make everything easier, in bed and out of it.

Because that’s where this is going to end up. I know it, and from the gleam deep in her big brown eyes, she knows it too. Whether it’s because she wants to fuck me or because she wants to fuck the great Deacon Vick remains to be seen.

It doesn’t matter, anyway, I remind myself. As long as I get what I want.

She’s naked by the time she gets to the drop cloth and the rest of her is as fucking gorgeous as her tits. I can’t tear my eyes off her plump, heart-shaped ass, the long, slender column of her spine, the legs that go on forever. Not that any of that’s a surprise...

What is a surprise is the long, sinuous muscles in her arms and legs, muscles that say she’s a lot stronger than I originally thought. Maybe she wasn’t blowing smoke up my ass with her comments about working in