Calendar Boy Read online

  Calendar Boy

  The Cougar Chronicles: Book Two

  Helen Hardt

  Contents

  Warning

  Praise for Calendar Boy

  Praise for Helen Hardt

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Message from Helen Hardt

  Also by Helen Hardt

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Warning

  This e-book contains adult language and scenes. This story is meant only for adults as defined by the laws of the country where you made your purchase. Store your e-books carefully where they cannot be accessed by younger readers.

  Praise for Calendar Boy

  As a writer, I love when another author writes a book about the wonderful book world. Even more so when they write it so well you can actually put yourself right in the characters’ shoes. I loved this book… I immediately put it at the top of my pile. And I am so glad I did.

  ~JPB Reviews

  * * *

  Once I picked up this book I couldn’t put it down. I was riveted from page one to the very end. I love cougar stories and this has just made my top five. I highly recommend this book.

  ~Whipped Cream Reviews

  Praise for Helen Hardt

  "Hardt delivers a brand-new series with rugged cowboys and scintillating sex. Talon and Jade’s instant chemistry heats up the pages..."

  ~RT Book Reviews

  * * *

  "This book is so raw and addictive! Hands down my new favorite series this year."

  ~ Meredith Wild, #1 New York Times Bestselling Author

  * * *

  "Ms. Hardt weaves magic with her keyboard and what remains is a beautifully written first installment about two people who are broken but not destroyed... How Hardt weaves the past with the present, while keeping the reader guessing about the secrets the brothers barricade from others, is flawless."

  ~Heroes & Heartbreakers

  To all the cougars out there!

  Chapter One

  “I can sign that for you.”

  Warm breath caressed Stacy Oppenheimer’s neck. She turned and looked into smoky hazel eyes—the smoky hazel eyes of the cover model she’d been ogling in the Men of Romance Calendar on display at the table outside the Vampire Ball party she was scared to enter. She gripped the stem of the martini glass holding what was left of her cosmopolitan. Nerves! Drove her crazy. An erotic romance writer shouldn’t be shy, but she was a classic introvert.

  Why enter a party alone when she was frightened to pieces? Why not stare at hot cover models instead? Of course she had gravitated to her favorite, Michael Moretti—six-feet-two-inches of mouth-watering Italian manflesh.

  He was known as a womanizer, but God love him, he was the hottest man on the planet.

  His gaze dropped to her cleavage.

  “Those are…” He smiled and winked. “That’s a really nice…shirt.”

  Her black fishnet top did cling in all the right places. She hadn’t bothered with vamp make-up, but she had buried her inhibitions while dressing. The long-sleeved fishnet shirt covered a black satin push-up bra. On her bottom half, she donned a black leather miniskirt.

  Yes, womanizer all right. He was thirty-six, she knew, from reading an interview with him on a blog. Older for a cover model and for an exotic dancer, which was his other line of work. With looks like his, though, he’d no doubt flourish in the industry for decades to come. A few silvery strands threaded through his shoulder-length sable hair. Stacy was secretly glad he’d chosen not to cover them. They oozed sex appeal, just like the rest of him.

  Still, at thirty-six, he was way too young for her. She was three months shy of her forty-sixth birthday.

  Forty-six and alone and scared of her own shadow since her ego-slashing divorce a year and a half ago. Men were more trouble than they were worth. Especially the one staring at her 36 Ds, gorgeous though he may be. He wasn’t interested in her. He was a cover model who was paid to be at this conference—paid to make sure authors like her had a great time. If that meant telling them they looked good, he’d do it.

  So what the heck? She gulped the rest of her liquid courage—it was her second cosmo—and decided to swallow her nerves and play a little.

  She stuck out her chest. “You like them?” She leaned toward Michael, standing on her toes to whisper in his ear. “They’re real.”

  His full red lips curved into the dimpled smile she adored. “No way.”

  He turned and grabbed a vampire clad in Armani coming toward them. Upon closer look under the stage make-up, Stacy recognized him as Dino, another cover model.

  “She says those are real,” Michael said to the other man.

  Dino eyed Stacy’s chest as warmth crept to her cheeks. Why had she started this again?

  After an eternity, Dino spoke. “I believe her. Good support and all.”

  Michael smiled again and shook his head, his eyes gleaming. “Real.” He glanced down at her hand. “You’re married.”

  Was that disappointment in his voice? She wore a diamond ring, but it hadn’t come from her husband. Make that ex-husband. Very, very ex. The ring had been her grandmother’s, and it didn’t fit her right ring finger. She’d always meant to have it resized but never seemed to get around to it. “Oh—” Her shyness kicked in. How did one explain this?

  Michael didn’t wait for her response. Instead, he eyed her chest once again. “I bet your husband loves them.” He picked up her left hand and placed a moist kiss on her ring finger, just above the gem. “Very nice to meet you”—he gazed at her name tag—“Stacy Summers.”

  Her pen name. Who wanted to read erotic novels by anyone named Oppenheimer? In a flash, he’d walked through the doorway into the Vampire Ball.

  Stacy stood alone, her heart racing. Her finger tingled where his lips had brushed softly against her flesh, and her chest and tops of her breasts prickled with red heat. The din of authors chatting as they grazed around the promotion tables buzzed in her ears like white noise.

  “Hey, Stacy, what are you standing around here for?”

  She jolted out of her stupor to see Veronica Miles, a young unpublished author she had met in a workshop that morning. With gorgeous mocha skin, dark brown eyes, and spectacular curves—not to mention she was at least fifteen years Stacy’s junior—Veronica would no doubt be the belle of the ball.

  “I was…just getting ready to go in.” Stacy inhaled, willing her nerves to settle.

  “What are you waiting for, girlfriend?” Veronica grabbed her arm and pulled her through the doorway. “I hope there are some good tables left. Great outfit, by the way.”

  “Thank you. You look amazing.”

  Veronica wore a black sheath that accentuated every spectacular curve of her young, fit body. She hadn’t used vampire make up on her dark complexion, and she was stunning.

  No use pining over Michael Moretti. If he ever looked Stacy’s way again, which was doubtful, he’d see Veronica, and it would be all over anyway.

  Still, Stacy was glad Veronica had happened by. Entering a party became much easier with a friend by her side.

  “Are you enjoying the conference?” Veronica asked as they scoped the room for some empty chairs.

  “Yes, I am. Are you?”

  “It’s been incredible!” Veronica’s husky voice nearly bubbled. “I’ve met some great people, and I’ve learned so much. I can’t wait to be published.”

  Stacy smiled. �
��It will happen soon.”

  “I hope so.”

  “If you need any help, let me know. I’d be happy to look at some of your work.”

  “Would you?” Veronica squeezed her forearm. “I’d so appreciate that.”

  “Sure, anytime. I gave you my card this morning, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Just email me.”

  “Oh, you’re the best, Stacy. There’s a table over there.” The young woman dragged Stacy along to a table full of younger, hipper people.

  “Hi, I’m Veronica, and this is Stacy. Are these seats taken?”

  The table of women urged them to sit down, and soon Veronica was chatting away as if they’d all known each other forever. Stacy watched her in action, mesmerized. How she envied extroverts! Why did this come so naturally to people like Veronica, while people like Stacy struggled to feel comfortable?

  “So what do you write, Stacy?” one of the others asked.

  Stacy cleared her throat and attempted a smile. “Mostly erotic urban fantasy and paranormal. How about you?”

  “Male/male,” the other author said.

  “Oh.” Stacy didn’t know how to respond. She’d never understood the male/male craze among straight women, but many authors had made it big in the genre.

  “Look!” Veronica gestured. “Here come some luscious males now to inspire you, Dolores.”

  Stacy turned her head to see Michael Moretti and Dino—did he have a last name?—ambling toward their table.

  Dino flipped his black cape, and the silky fabric rippled through the air. “You ladies enjoying the party?”

  “Yes, it’s loads of fun,” Veronica said.

  “Perhaps I can make it a little more fun for you.” Dino grinned. “Would you care to dance?”

  “Thank you. I’d love to.”

  As Dino led Veronica to the dance floor, Stacy sat, her body tense. Now what? She felt completely out of place, as though the room would swallow her up at any moment and she’d be invisible. Conversation droned around her and threatened to suck her into a vortex.

  Classic introvert feelings. She’d always been bashful, but the divorce from David had worsened her symptoms. Still, she had flirted a little with Michael earlier. Maybe hope existed.

  Not right now, though. A red-hot desire to escape this situation coursed through her. Would anyone notice if she got up and walked out? Of course not. She was invisible after all.

  She slowly rose from her chair.

  “Leaving?”

  Michael’s palm warmed her shoulder.

  “Yes. I’m…tired. It’s been a long day.”

  “Not”—his perfect teeth dazzled above his chiseled jawline—“until you dance with me, Stacy Summers.”

  Chapter Two

  Michael Moretti didn’t usually bother with married women. Not that he couldn’t seduce them. Quite the contrary. He’d done it more than once, but somehow he always heard his mother’s shrill Catholic voice in his head during the deed. She’s a married woman! You’re no better than your father! Yep, kind of a woody killer. Strange how that Catholic guilt could still get to him when he hadn’t been to mass in twenty years. Every once in a while it occurred to him that he didn’t have any issues with some of the other Catholic no-nos—namely sex outside of marriage and use of birth control. Nope, he only heard Mama’s voice when he was fucking a married woman, probably because his mother had caught his father in bed with the hot married neighbor when Michael was ten. That was the last time he’d seen the low life.

  He held out his hand to a beautiful nymph named Stacy Summers. A beautiful married nymph. With cascades of auburn hair and the biggest brownest eyes Michael had ever seen, she was almost worth letting his mother scream in his head as he spent himself inside her lush body. He shook his head to clear it. He had other fish to fry tonight. No time to waste on a woman who couldn’t fulfill his ultimate goal.

  A dance, though, he had time for.

  Her hand was slick with sweat as she shyly took his. Redness crept into her cheeks, down her chest, and onto the plump tops of her breasts showing through the black fishnet she wore. Damn, the woman looked hot. If only she weren’t married… He’d love to take her up to his room and free the tigress he knew hid inside her bashful exterior. She’d be an animal in bed. Somehow he just knew.

  He led her to the dance floor and took her into his arms. Yes, her body was as soft as he’d imagined and curved in all the right places. If only she didn’t have that damned ring on!

  Slowly, they swayed to the music. Her body tensed against his. Normally, he didn’t talk while he danced, but maybe a little conversation would relax her.

  He leaned in, positioned his lips above her earlobe, and inhaled the sweet scent of strawberry. “Your husband’s a lucky man.”

  “Oh.” Her voice cracked, and she cleared her throat. “I’m not married.”

  His cock nearly danced a jig inside his jeans. “You’re not? What’s with the ring then?”

  “It was my grandmother’s. She left it to me when she died last year.”

  He smiled. Did her eyes light up just a little? “You might try wearing it on your other hand, sweetheart.”

  The redness in her cheeks deepened. His cock hardened.

  “Yeah, I know. But it doesn’t fit, and I haven’t had the time to get it resized yet.”

  Michael stepped back a little and took both her small hands into his. “It’s very pretty. And big too.”

  “Yeah, Grandma was pretty well off. We were really close.”

  Sadness laced her big brown eyes. Was that mist forming? Why did he have the sudden urge to draw her to his chest and comfort her? Quickly, he willed his mind to return to his task at hand. Rich grandma dies, leaves everything to hot unmarried granddaughter.

  Just the ticket.

  Michael tipped her chin upward and gazed into her big baby browns. “I’m sorry about your grandma.”

  She sniffed. “Oh, I’m okay. She was ill. It’s better this way. I mean, I miss her, but she was in a lot of pain.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s just…it happened at a really hard time. My divorce…”

  Divorced. Recently. Possibly looking for a rebound guy. Definitely a candidate for rebound sex.

  The ticket, all right.

  “I’m sorry, sweetheart.” He brushed one thumb across her soft cheek.

  “Really, it’s okay.” She brushed his hand away. “I’d rather not talk about it.”

  He drew her to his body again, brushed his lips against the softness of her earlobe. “You’re fucking beautiful.”

  Hell, it wasn’t even a lie. She was ravishing. Even with her eyes sunken and sad, she lit up the whole damned room.

  Her head landed softly on his shoulder, and a quiet “thank you” escaped her throat.

  “You want to go someplace else? Get a drink?”

  Her head popped up. “You mean leave the party?”

  “Yeah. Or we can stay. It would be easier to talk without all the noise, though.”

  “Can we finish this dance first?”

  He chuckled. Without thinking, he leaned forward and kissed her pink cheek. “The song just ended, sweetheart.”

  “Oh.”

  More pink flooded her cheeks and neck. Damn, it would be worth it to embarrass her all night, just to see how red that beautiful body would get.

  “What are you drinking?”

  “Cosmopolitans.”

  “I’ll get you another,” he said. “Go wait for me outside. By the table with the calendars where we met before.” He smiled and headed to the bar.

  * * *

  Stacy tapped her high heel on the smooth tile floor. Her hands were clammy, her skin prickled with goosebumps. What had she been thinking, saying she’d meet Michael Moretti out here for a drink?

  She glanced at the calendars on the table. There he was, right on the cover. She liked the shot inside better. The photo on the cover displayed more skin, but the shot i
nside was a black-and-white, taken in the shower. It showed his amazing back and his broad shoulders, with his hair hanging in wet black waves down his neck. Rather than his whole face, the photo revealed his profile—his chiseled masculine jawline, his perfect aquiline nose—very sexy.

  He truly was a god.

  Her insides tumbled. Where the hell was he with her drink?

  “There you are, beautiful.”

  His husky voice washed over her like a smooth bourbon. He handed her a cosmopolitan, and to avoid talking, she immediately took a drink of the crisp pink liquid. She took another and another.

  “Slow down.” Michael touched her forearm.

  Her skin sizzled, and she jerked away.

  “No hurry. There are plenty of drinks.” He arched one eyebrow. “Besides, I want you coherent.”

  Warmth crept to Stacy’s cheeks. “I’m just fine, Mr. Moretti.” Mr. Moretti? Had she really said that?

  “You can call me Michael, beautiful. What shall I call you? Ms. Summers?” His eyes gleamed. “Mistress Stacy?”

  Stacy took another gulp of her drink. Mistress? She might write about light bondage occasionally, but she’d never practiced it. Had never wanted to. Her sex life with David had been…sterile. She couldn’t think of any other way to describe it. He brushed his teethand then kissed her, moving his tongue methodically in circles for exactly ten minutes. He fumbled with her clit for a minute or two and then shoved his cock inside her before she was wet enough to enjoy it. Afterward, he’d brush his teeth again, wash his cock, come to bed, and turn his back to her.

  In twenty years of marriage, he’d never gone down on her. She’d gone down on him the few times he requested it, but he’d never come in her mouth. In twenty years of marriage, she’d never had an orgasm.

  Just once, she longed to feel the amazing momentary sense of floating, the suspension of time, the tingling spreading rapidly from her pussy through her core, to her arms and legs…