WhatLiesBeneath

Margo
Diamond

As a professor of historic literature at a prestigious San
Francisco university, Amanda Fine has the perfect job in the perfect city. The
new guy and fellow academic at work should be the perfect man for her. Except
Amanda’s idea of the perfect man is Jericho, a Harley-riding, leather-wearing,
ponytailed, scruffy-bearded, make-your-panties-wet, world-class bad boy. When
Amanda struts into his tattoo shop ready for a down-and-dirty seduction,
Jericho can only assume the high-falutin’, pearl-wearing beauty is slumming.

When their explosive chemistry starts moving toward
something deeper, preconceived notions and assumptions blind Amanda and
Jericho. But with love on the line, this not-so-traditional literature
professor and not-so-unconventional tattoo artist need to learn to see what
lies beneath.

Reader Advisory: This story has graphic sexual language and
scenes—no closed bedroom doors (or other rooms) here!

A
Romantica®
contemporary erotic romance
from Ellora’s Cave

Amanda Fine couldn’t step out of her new Pac Heights digs
without stopping to appreciate the view of San Francisco sprawled below her,
and this morning was no different. She shifted her messenger bag across her
shoulders while surveying remnants of fog caught between the nooks and crannies
of the Bay City’s natural and man-made architecture. Born and raised in the
flat farmlands of Ohio, she wondered if the postcard perspective would ever
lose its ability to enthrall her. She only had a few months to enjoy the
hilltop panorama that came courtesy of the Pacific Heights Victorian she was
house-sitting while its owner, a fellow university professor, was on sabbatical,
so she planned to make every moment count.

As much as she would have liked to linger and savor the
sight, she had a class to teach in less than an hour. The university was only a
brisk, fifteen-minute walk away, but she was scheduled to meet with a student
beforehand. She set off toward the city center, her step almost light enough to
pass for skipping. Sometimes she wanted to pinch herself to prove this wasn’t
all a wonderful dream, and that she really was living and working in one of the
most exciting cities in the country. And not just employed as an overworked,
underpaid, anonymous adjunct either but as a professor of historic literature
at Benbine University under Dr. Timothy Mueller, one of the foremost
authorities on medieval lit, her personal passion.

Life couldn’t get any better.

Oh yes, it could!

Her pace slowed as she approached Body of Art. It wasn’t
really a tattoo parlor, not in the traditional sense of pierced and inked
fringe-type people. Amanda thought of it more as a tattoo studio.

First, it was located amongst a collection of posh
boutiques, trendy galleries and eclectic coffee shops-slash-wine bars. Second,
expansive plate glass windows revealed an interior more reflective of an
upscale salon or exclusive spa. Life-size black-and-white photographs
showcasing tattoos on beautiful—and naked—men and women adorned the walls of
the reception area where an attractive young woman checked in clients at her
glass-and-chrome desk. A leather couch provided seating for those waiting to be
accompanied to one of the private rooms off the corridor that ran to the back
of the shop. Last but not least was the clientele, any of whom could have posed
for the studio’s provocative décor.

The only element at Body of Art that matched the
stereotypical tattoo parlor was its proprietor. Jericho Creegan was a
Harley-riding, leather-wearing, ponytailed, scruffy-bearded,
make-your-panties-wet, world-class bad boy.

Amanda knew all of this, including the damp undies factoid,
because she’d been stalking Jericho Creegan for the better part of a month.
Ever since she’d seen him in almost all his tattooed glory one Monday night.

She’d been one of a few late diners at a nearby restaurant
and had stopped to wait out a sudden downpour in a doorway across the street
from the tattoo studio. Jericho came around the corner of the building from the
alley where he parked his motorcycle, hair and clothes plastered to his skin.
Amanda had watched him unlock the front door, hit the lights and dash inside,
only to skid across the tiled floor. His arms windmilled as he careened into
the glass-topped receptionist’s desk. Despite the curtain of rain, Amanda had
been able to make out Jericho’s frustration with his sodden condition and the
water puddling around his feet as he slicked the hair back from his forehead
and pulled at his shirt. Another step toward the back of the shop and he’d
slipped again, clutching the edge of the desk to steady himself.

Fuck.

His word choice had been obvious, although she could not
hear him. Suddenly Jericho had looked up through the window, his furtive gaze
prompting Amanda to move deeper into the shadowy doorway. After glancing up and
down the street and determining it was empty, he’d begun to strip.

He reached back to pull the black T-shirt over his head then
wadded up the fabric to swipe water from his arms and face. From her vantage
point, Amanda had been surprised to discover Jericho was not as heavily inked
as she’d expected. A tribal pattern started at his left wrist and continued
upward, covering a well-defined pectoral muscle and sinewy shoulder. Balancing
one ankle over the opposite knee, he’d tugged off heavy black motorcycle boots
and socks. The position had showed off a broad back that narrowed at the hips.
Her gaze had roamed the smooth expanse of skin that shimmered wetly.

Wearing just a pair of very wet, very tight jeans, Jericho had
dropped the boots next to his T-shirt and headed for the rear of the shop. A
few seconds later, he’d come back into view.

And Amanda had forgotten how to breathe.

He had one towel knotted at his waist and was vigorously
rubbing another one over his head. Once finished, he’d draped it around his
neck then strolled to the entrance. Bracing a hand on either side of the glass
panel, he’d peered out into the rainy night. Framed between the doorjambs, he had
reminded her of the erotic photographs displayed on the wall behind him.

Her physical reaction had been immediate, her body
simultaneously melting and hardening. The flutter of desire low in her belly had
triggered a warm, wet response from the inside out. As her knees went weak, her
nipples knotted so fiercely they ached. The emotions that had accompanied her
gut-wrenching reaction to Jericho elevated it beyond lust to something more
akin to need. As if there were empty spaces only he could fill, a secret only
he could reveal, a turbulence only he could calm. Amanda had the wild urge to
cry and laugh and scream all at once.

There had been something intimate about seeing him swathed
in terrycloth, his hair loose and tousled as if he’d just stepped out of the
shower. Amanda had closed her eyes and pretended he was coming to join her in a
tangle of silk sheets atop a king-size brass bed.
He tugged to loosen the
towel and…

Water had sprayed over Amanda’s feet, yanking her from the
fantasy, as a car zoomed through a puddle in the street. The vehicle’s sudden
appearance had seemed to remind Jericho that his shop’s windows offered a
fishbowl view for passersby and he’d turned away. She’d caught a glimpse of
shadowy temptation between lean thighs when he bent to pick up his discarded
boots and shirt and the towel had hitched up over his ass. Gingerly carrying
the soggy bundle, he’d entered one of the rear rooms and closed the door.

Once home, Amanda had gone into the bathroom to dry off and
dress for bed. The towel was soft but abraded the still-puckered tips of her
breasts. She’d never experienced such a dramatic, instantaneous physical
reaction to a man, especially a stranger and someone so different from the men
who usually appealed to her. Jericho embodied the classic bad boy, with his
unconventional livelihood, bold sexuality and untamed good looks. She tried to
picture him escorting her to a literary book reading at Benbine, envisioning
the other faculty members—most of them as old and musty as the tomes in the
university library—sneering in disapproval while Professor Mueller took her
aside and suggested she might be better suited for a job at the local adult
bookstore than with one of the most prestigious academic learning institutions
in the northern hemisphere.

No. Someone like Jericho Creegan would never fit into
Amanda’s world but he was the perfect candidate for her private fantasies. She had
closed her eyes, transporting them from the dark-paneled library to a sandy
tropical beach.

It was the perfect backdrop for his staggering masculinity.
She pictured him standing over her while she reclined on the sand—the sheen of
suntan oil on the smooth expanse of his chest and torso, the intricate tribal
tattoo on his arm and shoulder marking him as primal as the other island
natives, his thick, hard, outthrust cock.

The mental imagery had fueled her fervor so that her nipples
pulled even tighter while her clit pulsed. A wave of lightheadedness had washed
over her, as if all the blood in her head had drained to flood the flesh
between her legs.

Unable to endure the relentless throbbing, Amanda had caved
in to the urgent wanton impulses. Propping one heel on the bathroom counter and
cocking her knee sideways, she’d watched herself in the mirror as she stroked
the swollen folds of her pussy until she’d cried out in shuddering relief.

After that rainy evening, she’d taken to strolling past the
tattoo shop on her way to the university as though she had all the time in the
world, even if she was running late. Those precious seconds netted her a few
enticing glimpses of Jericho, who seemed to spend most of his working hours
behind closed doors. On one occasion she thought they’d made eye contact
through the window. Her entire body had gone hot, the sensation so startling she’d
dropped her backpack. When she’d stood, he was gone.

This morning, as she cleared the lingerie boutique next to
Body of Art, the studio’s front door opened and Jericho bolted out, crashing
into her. The impact knocked the air from her lungs and upset her balance. As
she toppled sideways, he pulled her to his chest.

“Whoa, sorry.”

Embarrassment tinged a voice that was low and husky, and
sounded exactly as Amanda imagined it would. Like fine whiskey laced with
molten honey. Her other senses kicked in, assembling a glorious collage
composed of the controlled strength of his hands around her biceps, the scent
of soap and leather, the rapid pace of his breathing and the intimate press of
their bodies from shoulder to hip.

After dreaming what it would be like to get up close and
personal, the real thing put Amanda into sensory overload and she shivered.

“Hey, I didn’t mean to scare you.” Jericho released her and
stepped back.

Just as before, lust and a mix of other emotions careened
out of control to form a confusing vortex within her. Amanda stepped forward
into the space between them and laid her hand on his chest, her palm curving
over his pectoral muscle. Her gaze flew to his face.

Like a scientist observing an experiment, some oddball voice
in the back of her head was making notes about the way Jericho’s nostrils
flared and his eyes—not quite green and not quite brown—darkened. It registered
the way his nipple pressed into her palm and how his body heat warmed the
fabric of his T-shirt until another voice piped up. This time it was the voice
of reason, suggesting she stop manhandling Jericho as if he was her own
personal slab of beefcake.

Embarrassment scorched her face and Amanda jerked her arm
back as if burned. “My god, I’m so—”

He glanced down at his chest where her hand had rested,
frowning, as if confused. She watched as color crept up his neck and he
fidgeted. It was the last reaction she expected from a cocksure bad boy like
Jericho. Their eyes locked, and Amanda swore a tremor rippled the ground beneath
her feet. She gasped.
Earthquake?
She shook her head. No…that didn’t
make sense. Looking up at him, she whispered, “What happened?”

The question seemed to snap Jericho out of his bemusement.
He blinked a couple times and shook his head. “I didn’t think I hit you that
hard. Are you okay?”

“Yes. But did you feel that? It was as if the sidewalk…shifted.
I’ve never experienced an earthquake.”

Jericho swept the street with a quick, assessing glance and
shook his head. “No, nothing.” He tipped his head toward the sign hanging
overhead. “Usually you can see things swaying or shuddering. Small pools of
water, like a puddle or a bird bath, sort of jiggle.”

Realizing how close they still stood and feeling awkward for
blurting out such a silly comment, Amanda moved to leave. “Well, sorry—”

“Hold on.”

She paused. Again, Jericho seemed at a loss for words and he
looked…well, rather adorable.

And again, not a reaction she’d expect from a hardcore stud
but it eased the tension. “Really, I’m good. Don’t worry about it.” Unable to
resist, she laid her fingers across his forearm. “Probably just my overactive
imagination.”

He slid his hand over hers. “You’re sure?”

The sensation of his skin on hers, starkly erotic, gave rise
to all sorts of crazy compulsions. Unable to speak, she nodded and moved away
before she gave in to temptation and flung herself into his arms.

Jericho Creegan watched the gorgeous young woman he’d almost
steamrolled hurry away. Although his view was restricted to blonde curls neatly
held back in a barrette and slim hips encased in khaki trousers, he had no
trouble recollecting her huge blue eyes and pink-glossed lips. His balls grew
heavy as he remembered the weight of her breasts pressing into his chest when
he’d first tried to steady her. He shifted uncomfortably, reaching down to
adjust himself at the exact moment she glanced back at him.

“Shit.” He froze, feeling very much like a toddler caught
with his hand in the cookie jar.

When she winked at him—winked, by god!—he burst out laughing
and gave his package an exaggerated tug. Offering one last smile that did
amazing things to an already incredible face, the woman disappeared around a
corner, leaving Jericho rubbing his cock in the middle of the sidewalk in broad
daylight.

“Hell, Creegan. When did you start playing with yourself
again?” A familiar voice pulled Jericho from his musings.

“Hey. I was just on my way over to see you.” Bending to
avoid brushing his pelvis against Dolores D’Agnostino, a close friend and
neighboring business owner, he kissed her cheek. While the slender redhead was
ultra feminine, he knew she would happily trade his impressive erection for a
sweet pussy any day of the week.

“The fuck you were. You’re busy jacking off.”

Her penchant for four-letter words and foul language, so at
odds with her demure appearance, usually drew an audience when they conversed
in public, so Jericho steered her back toward her shop.

“If you can wait, I haven’t had my coffee yet and I’m out of
creamer.” Dolores’ silvery laugh only underscored her crassness.

“I swear, I don’t know how you keep your clientele with a
vocabulary like that.” He slowed so she could keep pace in her four-inch
stilettos.

Tucking an arm through his, Dolores shrugged. “Shit, you
know the saying. Men want a lady in the streets and a freak in the sheets.
Since this dyke has no interest in attracting a man, she can talk any fucking
way she wants to talk. And really, would you expect anything less from the
owner of a bookstore named Wicked Words?”

She was right, except too many women today acted like
freaks. Pick any reality show and by the end of the season, the entire female
cast would have exposed their low-class nature. The nastier and more dramatic
the behavior, the higher the ratings.

He wondered about the blonde. She was high class, with her
starched, button-up blouse, yellow cardigan and string of pearls. Odd, he
thought, recalling that she
had
worn a narrow strand. He couldn’t
remember the last time he’d seen a woman wearing pearls. Or only having a
single button undone so her entire rack wasn’t on display.

“Goddamn, Creegan. Where the hell are you off to now?”
Dolores stood in front of him on the sidewalk, hands on hips, foot tapping the
cement. “Who is she? I’ve got to meet the biatch who can put you in a trance
like that.”

Jericho strode past her, hands fisted and jaw clenched,
labeling the emotion annoyance instead of anger, as he knew it to be. Dolores
was just being herself, but for some reason her disrespectful reference made
him want to defend the stranger’s honor. He was acting foolish over a woman he
didn’t even know, so maybe he was really pissed at himself and not his friend.

He didn’t have time to moon over some sidewalk encounter.
After meeting with Dolores to discuss publicity for his upcoming book launch,
he had a full line-up of clients. Still, he couldn’t help but growl at the
smirking redhead, “She’s not a bitch.”