Naked Intent

Book 0: Deep Desire

by Emma Allan

Genres: Erotic & Steamy Romance

Synopsis

Melanie Chambers used to be passed over when she was a dumpy TV backroom girl. But since her transformation she's turned into a svelte sex-siren that no one ignores. And with Melanie's sensual liberation comes the discovery that even she can take on the big boys. Suddenly everyone wants a piece of her . . .

But superstar Adam Powell is plotting to ruin Melanie's blossoming career. Yet with newfound erotic powers at her command, it's by no means certain he'll come out on top . . . or unscathed.

Part two of the Deep Desire series.

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 256

Sample

He poured the colourless oil into the palm of his hand until it formed a little pool and began to leak through his fingers, then massaged it into his erection. He was kneeling, naked on the bed beside her. He spread the oil over his cock and balls. It darkened his blond pubic hair and made his erection glisten. His glans was very smooth and pink. As his fist squeezed the shaft within it, the glans inflated, like a small balloon. He pressed his cock back against his flat, muscular belly, then rubbed his palm up and down against it.

‘Are you going to wank for me?’ she asked. ‘You know I love to see that.’

He did not reply. His fingers left the shaft and fastened around his scrotum, pulling it down and away from his body. His cock throbbed visibly. It had left a slick of oil on his belly. She watched as his fingers jiggled his balls briefly then worked their way down between his legs. One finger delved into his anus, the oil making the penetration frictionless. He pushed it right up to the knuckle, his other fingers preventing it going any further. His cock twitched and shuddered in reaction. For a moment she wondered if he might come. His whole body was wired with tension, his eyes looking at her intently, staring at the neatly trimmed triangle of her pubic hair, as if the whole compass of his world had been narrowed to that spot. His cock jerked up again, but she could see he had wrested back some semblance of control. He withdrew his finger and pulled his hand away.

For the second time he made a cup of his palm and filled it with oil. Again the viscous liquid leaked through his fingers but this time he moved his hand so that it was poised above her belly and the oil dripped on to her flesh. Then he carefully poured the rest of the oil from his palm into the hollow of her belly button. It smelt sweet and heady, like sandalwood.

Very slowly he began massaging the oil over her body, first using just one hand, then both. He used a circling motion, spreading the oil up towards her breasts.

‘Aren’t you going to fuck me?’ she asked. She was getting impatient. The sight of his strong, slender body and his quivering erection, as well as the way those periwinkle blue eyes looked at her with such desire, was affecting her quite as much as the sensuous movement of his hands. She still couldn’t get used to men looking at her with such undisguised lust.

Again he did not answer her question. His eyes were glazed. He was lost in his own private world where she was an icon of desire. His hands cupped her plump, round breasts, and rolled them around in circles too, their stiff, corrugated nipples crushed against his oily palms. Soon her soft breasts were coated in oil. They shone, sleek and slippery, trembling slightly as his hands moved away.

He worked down the sides of her torso, taking his time, kneading her narrow waist and the marked flare of her hips. He moved to the top of her thighs, then down to her knees, the oil facilitating the contact, making it sinuous and smooth. His hands worked on one leg at a time, working right down her left leg to the ankle, then up the right, his cock nudging against her hip as he bent over her body. When he reached her thigh, he used both hands to spread her legs apart and worked his fingers up along the inner surfaces on both sides.

He stared at her sex and the glistening labia. Its scarlets and pinks reminded him of an exotic flower, the crimson mouth of her vagina like a honey trap dripping with sticky juices. Her thighs were slender, their muscles, honed by exercise, forming long ridges and shallow valleys in her flesh. He saw her open her legs even wider, and lift her buttocks off the bed, angling her sex up towards him, wanting to show him her need.

Her labia were already opened. He pressed one finger into them, slid it up to her clitoris and saw her body shiver in response. Her head snapped over to one side on the white sheet on which she lay. With the fingers of his other hand he probed her vagina, slowly boring into it with one finger and then two. Her head tossed to the other side, her mouth open.

‘Feels so good,’ she breathed.

The tip of his finger began to circle her clitoris. How many times had he done this to her in the past twelve weeks? His touch was perfect: exactly the right pressure, exactly the right spot. As he proscribed tiny rings around her clit, his fingers inched deeper into her vagina, straining against the tendons of his hand. She could feel how wet he had made her. A river of juices flowed out of her, soaking the sheet under her buttocks.

‘Such a little slut, aren’t you?’ His voice was deep, a cultured American accent.

‘You know I am,’ she said. Their eyes met. She had seen his face a thousand times on posters and billboards. She’d seen it in tight close-up on a cinema screen thirty feet high, every detail, every follicle of his blond eyebrows, every pore of his shaved chin, larger than life, his blond hair and those crystal blue eyes – the two features that it was generally agreed had made his fortune and turned him into an international film star – used to ensnare whichever female actress with whom he happened to be sharing the screen. It was odd to think she had seen him kiss and make love to some of the most glamorous women in the world, long before he had kissed and made love to her. She still found it hard to believe that this beguiling, almost hypnotic personality was now focused on her.

He dipped his head down between her thighs. Almost immediately she felt his tongue replacing his finger on her clit. It was hot, the rubbery texture more sensuous. She squirmed her buttocks against the sheet as she felt her sex contract involuntarily around his fingers. His tongue was only just brushing against her, circling her clit more lightly than his fingers had done, but it was enough to make her come.

She cried out his name as a surge of pleasure coursed through her. His fingers tried to push deeper, his knuckles pressing against her. A third finger slipped into her anus, quite suddenly with no warning. It caused a sharp stab of pain, followed by an instant wave of almost unbelievable pleasure. Her body locked, arching off the bed like a long bow, supported only on her shoulders and her heels, and her orgasm peaked, a huge explosion of sensation crunching up all her nerves.

It was only the beginning, the opening gambit in the game of sexual chess they had played so many times, the ploys and strategies they used on each other capable of infinite variation, the end result always the same.

‘Lie back,’ she said, recovering her senses.

He obeyed. Immediately she straddled his shoulders and planted her labia firmly on his mouth again. Leaning forward she grasped his rock hard cock in her hand then fed it into her mouth. While she pursed her lips around his glans she moved her fist up and down his shaft with a deliberate rhythm that matched the movement of his tongue against her clit.

Taking her hand away she began to move her mouth up and down on his bone-hard erection as he sawed his fingers in and out of both passages of her body, the rhythm they used the same, its tempo becoming increasingly urgent. It was a perfect circle, a vicious circle, the needs and passion of one feeding off the other. The heat of his cock, and the way it throbbed as she sucked it, served only to fuel the fire in her loins, just as her avaricious mouth aggravated the arousal he felt.

Was it seconds or hours before she could stand it no longer, and his tongue and fingers and the feeling of his hot, hard cock buried in her throat provoked her beyond endurance and a second orgasm welled up inside her? She thrust down until his cock was jammed into her throat and she could feel every inch of it, then came, shuddering as pleasure invaded every nerve, and she became its helpless victim.

She must have rolled off him but she had no memory of doing so. It was like coming round from a deep sleep. She was having trouble remembering where she was. Her eyes had been forced closed by her climax and when she opened them again Robert d’Angelo was kneeling by the side of her prostrate body, his cock held tightly in his right fist.

‘Is that what you want?’ she said.

In the games they had played over the last twelve weeks they had done everything it was possible for two lovers to do, every position, every geometrical possibility, and practically every orifice. There had been no inhibitions and no taboos. But there had been preferences. This was his.

‘You don’t mind?’

‘You know I don’t.’

He took the bottle of oil from the bedside table. It was standing on a small, thick metal disc. The bottom of the disc was heated, powered by two batteries, thus warming the oil in the bottle. She had never seen anything like it, but it was one of the many toys he’d brought with him from America. He trickled the warm oil on to her belly, her skin having absorbed most of the original application. She smelt its strong aroma again. She supposed the scent of sandalwood would always remind her of him.

‘Smells so good,’ she said.

His hand smoothed the oil over her body until it was shiny and slippery. He put the bottle back on to its stand, then rubbed the excess oil from his hand on to his cock.

‘I want it so much. I’m so hard. Just looking at you makes me hard.’

It was true. Though she found it difficult to believe she knew it was true. He had proved it to her over and over again.

‘Come on,’ she encouraged, bucking her hips off the bed in a crude imitation of copulation.

He knelt between her open legs, then lay on top of her, his erection not directed down to her sex but lying on her belly, trapped between their two bodies. Immediately he kissed her on the mouth, his tongue plunging between her lips. She sucked on his tongue, as, minutes before, she’d sucked on his penis. It made his cock throb. She broke the kiss and transferred her mouth to his neck, sucking and nibbling on that, working it higher until she could drill her tongue into the inner whorls of his ear. This made him shudder.

He began to move his hips, as if he were fucking her. His cock slid up and down on her slickly oiled belly.

‘Yes,’ he whispered. ‘So good.’

She kept her mouth locked to his ear, but sent her left hand down to his chest until she could grasp his nipple with her fingers. She pinched the bud of flesh hard, using her fingernails to increase the bite. His body shuddered again, his buttocks working faster and faster, his cock ploughing a furrow in her soft, incredibly slippery flesh.

‘God, God!’ he cried loudly.

His whole body shook in a throe of passion and she felt his cock kick violently against the confinement of their bellies. A hot, sticky liquid spattered out of it. A second convulsion produced another spending. Almost unconsciously, as she felt the tension seep from his body, she squirmed, spreading the hot spunk all over her belly.

‘Fantastic,’ he said rolling off her.

Melanie Chambers looked down at herself. Thick white liquid coated her flesh. Some had dribbled down into her pubic hair. As always, when he’d chosen this way to release his passion, she felt a certain emptiness, a void in her sex. But it was a void, she knew, that never lasted for long.

‘What do you want?’ he asked.

‘Champagne. And Beluga caviar. And mineral water. I’m thirsty,’ she replied from the bathroom.

She heard him pick up the phone and ask for room service as she turned on the mixer taps of the shower and adjusted the flow until the water was a pleasant temperature, on the warm side of cool. She was just about to step into the frosted glass shower cubicle when she caught a glimpse of a strange woman in the full length mirror that lined one whole wall of the white marble bathroom. The woman was lithe and slender with short blonde hair in a layered cut. She had big, round blue eyes, a straight, neat nose and sharp, sculpted cheekbones. The lines of her naked body were varied, flat and angular around her collar bone and pelvis, plump and curvaceous, by contrast, at her breasts and buttocks, smooth and contoured on her arms and legs. The stranger’s body was streaked with oil, the breasts shining with it, the neatly trimmed triangle of her pubic hair darkened by it, and there was a white powdery-looking residue on her belly.

It took seconds for Melanie Chambers to realise that she was not staring at a stranger but at herself. Inside every fat person there’s a thin person struggling to get out. So all the magazines had told her. And she had struggled out from her old body. But inside the beautiful strange body that stared back at her wide-eyed, from the wall of mirrors, the old Melanie Chambers – dumpy, plain, gauche with a large, bulbous nose – was still in residence, though she would never be allowed to see the light of day again. One day perhaps she would be banished, one day the vision that greeted Melanie in every mirror, and in every man’s admiring glances, would no longer be a stranger. It had not happened yet. One year after the operation, one year since she had been transformed, that day had not yet arrived.

The operation, by one of London’s top plastic surgeons, had taken away her large nose and her podgy jowls and cheeks, but the rest of the transformation had been her own work. She had taken herself off to a health farm to begin the process of losing two stones in weight, and to learn how to exercise properly in order to keep it off, as well as toning and shaping her body. She had spent time – which she had never done before – on learning about what make-up and clothes best suited her appearance. Her hair too, had undergone a dramatic and expensive re-styling. It had all cost her a small legacy left by a maiden aunt, but it had proved to be worth every penny.

She had never looked back, never once been tempted to over-eat, never once skipped the daily exercise regimen that kept her figure slender and trim, and never neglected taking trouble over her appearance. Before she had thought of clothes as a way of keeping warm. Now she never skimped on the time she spent considering what to wear and what to buy to wear. She was meticulous over her make-up and had her hair cut with monotonous regularity.

The reason she had not slackened the rigour of her new life was quite simple. In the past the old, dumpy Melanie Chambers had looked with a certain amount of contempt on the women who took time over their physical appearance. It had been a salutary lesson to her to find that these same women were the ones who had not only been promoted before her, despite lacking experience or qualifications or even a brain, but they were also the ones who seemed to have the most fun. Since what she called her transformation, not only had Melanie’s career been meteorically successful, she had also enjoyed herself more than she had ever done in her life. Before, men had hardly given her a second glance. Since, men had queued up for her attentions and shown they would do anything for a chance to take her to bed. The message was therefore self-reinforcing. She hadn’t the slightest temptation to slip back into bad habits because every day, in every way, in the admiring glances of men, and women for that matter, she saw the reason not to.

The other big change in her life that her transformation had wrought was sex. She had discovered sensual joy. Before, her experience of it had been desultory and unsatisfactory and she had wondered what all the fuss was about. As far as she was concerned, sex was a damp squib, her orgasms difficult to achieve, requiring an act of studied concentration, and, frankly, not worth the effort. At best they were frantic and short-lived, at worse muted and dull. All that had changed beyond recognition. The damp squib had become a soaring rocket cascading sparks into the sky. Melanie found she could come now with the greatest of ease. Not only that but her resulting orgasms were multiple and spectacular. She found she was capable of a whole range of sexual experience, that sex was not a flat featureless plane but a complex geography of hills and mountains. She was still exploring some of its more remote regions.

Being, by nature, introspective she had thought about how this could have happened. The change in her appearance had, by a strange alchemy she did not fully understand, changed her attitude too. She found that the lust her new body inspired in men gave her what she could only describe as a sense of power. It energised her. Before, she had always felt, subtly, that the man was doing her a favour by agreeing to go to bed with her. Now the boot was very definitely on the other foot. For the first time in her life she had experienced what she realised other beautiful women took for granted; the phenomenon of men wanting, even desperately wanting, her. It was this that had changed her perspective, she supposed. And feeling wanted had created a charge in her that had made her sexually sensitive and sexually alive, and had made her incredibly responsive. It had changed her sexual psyche, and made her open and uninhibited, ready for experiences that had once been taboo.

There were more things in heaven and earth than were dreamt of in her philosophy and there were certainly more sexual diversions than she had ever imagined. In the spirit of adventure her new attitude had engendered Melanie decided to learn all about them. Fortunately she had a friend who was much more worldly wise in such matters than her. Arabella Brown had proved an able teacher.

Melanie stepped into the stream of lukewarm water and showered quickly. She dried herself on one of the large fluffy pink bath towels provided by the hotel. They were in Rome in the Hotel Bristol overlooking the Spanish Steps. The view from every window of the suite was as breath-taking at night, with the lights sparkling over the city of the seven hills, as it was during the day when the burnt sienna of the terracotta roofs seemed to mirror the colour of sunlight, enveloping everything in its amber glow. Wrapping herself in a towelling robe with the Hotel’s crest emblazoned on the breast pocket, Melanie walked back into the bedroom.

Robert d’Angelo, the characteristic lock of blond hair flopped over his forehead, was lying on the bed, still naked. There was a silver tray next to him on the white linen sheet, set on which was a silver ice bucket containing a bottle of Krug cha. . .