Tease Me

Chapter One

I feel you watching me, feel your eyes through the cold glass of my window and the sheer curtain that does such a poor job of covering it. You don’t know that I sense you, that I revel in your burning eyes as they run over me.

To torment you—and myself—I open the pearl buttons of my blouse. I toy with them, sliding each through the buttonhole more slowly than the one before it. I can feel your impatience. Your rage. Your need, racing through the humid night until it slams into me as you long to do.

I slide my blouse from my shoulders, then slip out of my skirt, until I stand before you covered only by my white bra and panties, which are no cover at all.

I cup my breasts, rub my nipples through the stiff lace that has been a torment—and a delight—through the endless day.

You growl, low in your throat, and I swear I can hear you despite the courtyard separating us. I slide my fingers down my stomach, over the lace and silk that barely covers the secret, aching heart of me.

And imagine it is you.

Imagine that it is your hands caressing me. Imagine that it is your mouth upon me.

I rejoice in your strength—in the hardness of your muscles and the sweet seduction of your mouth. I run my fingers down your naked back, cup your ass in my hands and pull you to the very center of me so that you can feel my hard nipples and the wild, staccato pounding of my heart.

So that you can feel my damp, heated core and know that you are responsible. That you have done this to me. That it is you, and only you, that I want.

That I need.

That I crave.

 

“Fuck!” Byron Hawthorne slammed his laptop shut as need ran through him like a goddamn freight train. But closing the computer couldn’t make him forget what he’d read—or cool the desire shooting through his veins. But then, nothing ever did. Or ever would, he was afraid—save a random case of complete and total amnesia.

Striving to put some distance between himself and the words spinning in his head, he shoved himself away from his desk with a curse, only to find that his legs were almost too shaky to hold him. Goddamn it. His cock was on fire, his entire body so hard and turned on that it was impossible to breathe without pain.

Why did he continue to torture himself? Why, when he knew he’d spend the rest of the night so hard and horny that he would barely be able to function, did he continue to read her damn blog?

Because he was obsessed, that’s why. Obsessed, delusional and completely fucking masochistic. There was no other answer for it. No other excuse as to why he—like the thousands of other morons who were ruled by their dicks instead of their brains—couldn’t go a day without visiting her damn Web site.

What had begun as a lark had become the very best—and worst—part of his day. A friend of his, who was big into the New Orleans Internet scene, had introduced him to the blog months ago, while they were hanging out during halftime of one football game or another. Mike had told him the site was becoming another piece of New Orleans’ ever-changing, sexually based culture, and that as a newly single transplant to the Big Easy, he should have his finger on the pulse of what the city considered sexy.

At first Byron had made fun of Mike for going to the blog, had laughed at him for being so pathetically wrapped up in the words of a woman he’d never get the chance to meet. Had even wondered aloud what she got out of such a blatant fuck-you to the men of the world.

But he’d logged on. He’d told himself it was just because he wanted to harass Mike, but as the days passed and he continued to read the fantasies, he’d had to admit that he was hooked on the blog. Hooked on and obsessed with What a Girl Wants—as the mystery blogger had named her site.

It was a place where she could anonymously post her deepest, darkest fantasies. Where she could tell the world—or at least her small corner of it—what she’d never have the guts to tell anyone else. Or so she said . . .

But it was so much more than that. At least to him. It was like she had a window into his soul, like she knew exactly what he wanted. What he needed. The idea that she needed it too—well, that’s what kept him up at night, his body aching for release no matter how many times he jacked off.

It drove him insane—the knowledge that she was out there, that she lived in the same damn city as him, and he would never be able to meet her. Never have a chance with her. Hell, he couldn’t even try to find her, unless he wanted to look like some fucked-up, crazy stalker.

Which he wasn’t, he assured himself as he strode to the fridge and pulled out a beer. At least not yet. But if this insane sexual frustration kept up, who knew what the hell he’d end up being in a month or two. He could give up his gig as a carpenter and become a full-time psycho instead. He shook his head with disgust at the thought.

As it was, he’d been through five girlfriends in the last four months as he tried, desperately, to focus on a real, live woman instead of his fantasies. But he couldn’t connect to any of the women he’d dated lately, and while a year ago he would have at least tried to forge a relationship with one of them, these days he couldn’t be bothered. There was nothing wrong with any of the women he’d seen—they were nice, attractive, smart. But they weren’t her.

His laugh, when it came, was strangled—more angry than amused. Of course they weren’t. Because, really, who could be? Even this woman—who seemed to be the living, breathing epitome of every fantasy he’d ever had—couldn’t be real. Her writings were just words, her online personality just a persona that she’d adopted.

Or at least that’s what he tried to believe. What he had to believe, he corrected himself as he downed the beer in two long swallows. Otherwise he’d go insane thinking that his perfect woman was out there and he’d never have more of her than her fantasies. Never have any more of her than thousands of other men had too.

Just the thought of other men reading her words made him feel vaguely homicidal—a surefire sign that he was closer to insanity than he liked to admit. Because he wanted to go back to the laptop and read today’s blog entry again, he forced himself to stay on the other side of the room from it. It wasn’t nearly as explicit as some of the ones she’d written in the past, yet her list of wants—of needs—was so close to his own that he couldn’t help responding to it.

Pissed off, out of sorts, and still more than a little turned on, he grabbed another beer and headed out to his balcony. It was late August in New Orleans, which meant it was already hot as hell and twice as humid, but at least a storm was coming in and the fry-your-brain temperatures of earlier in the day had receded a little bit.

Once he got outside, he felt some of the tension ease. There was something about being out here, as day slowly faded to twilight, that relaxed him. In fact, it was this balcony, and the peaceful, narrow courtyard it overlooked, that had sold him on this building when he’d moved to the city last year.

To this day, he didn’t know if it was the magnolia-scented air or the soft trickle of water in the fountain down below that calmed him. Nor did he care. All that mattered was that for a little while, he had surcease from the painful, clawing need that enveloped him every time he thought about his fantasy woman. The fact that he was pretty much the only one who ever came out here made the whole thing just a little better.

Yet even as the thought formed, he heard the soft snick of a door opening and then closing. Annoyed at the disturbance, he bent forward until his forearms were resting on the wrought iron of the balcony railing, his beer dangling from loose fingertips.

Scanning the area where the sound had come from, he finally found the unexpected intruder. It was the sexy redhead from across the courtyard, the one who had moved in to the building last month and had caught his attention from his very first glimpse of her.

For a while, he’d thought about asking her out, about using her to help him get her and her dick-twisting fantasies out of his head. But the redhead had never even acknowledged Byron’s existence, even when they passed in the parking lot or took out their trash at the same time, and he hadn’t been interested enough to try to get her attention.

But looking at her now—a little mussed, a little sweaty, and much more than a little sexy—he was more than interested. He was downright intrigued. With her red hair tumbling down her back and her sheer blouse plastered to her breasts, she looked like a fantasy. Add the pissed-off scowl on her face, and she just might be his fantasy. At least for tonight.

 

Lacey Adams was hot, tired and more than a little irritated. She’d spent all day tracking down leads on her current book, only to be given the runaround time and time again. It was ridiculous, really, how all her original sources had closed ranks, especially since so many of them had been willing to talk about their roles in the Crescent City Escort Service / prostitution ring—and subsequent arrests—when she’d interviewed them over the phone a few weeks before.

Ridiculous and weird and very, very suspicious. She didn’t have a clue what had changed, but something obviously had—especially considering the fact that everyone else she’d managed to dig up was being just as closemouthed. She knew most of them were hoping she’d give up and go away, but their reticence only made her want to dig deeper—until she found whatever it was they were hiding.

The research for the book should have been a slam dunk—she basically wanted to write about the formation of the escort service, the names in its Rolodex and how and why it managed to operate for so long without drawing the attention of law enforcement. She’d expected a little trouble when it came to getting some of the important people in the files to open up, but the names had already been leaked, so it wasn’t like they had so much to protect. Yet trying to get more than the most basic information was turning into a nightmare.

With a groan of absolute frustration, Lacey flicked her hair over her shoulder as she flopped down on the upscale lounge chair she’d bought herself last year for her twenty-seventh birthday. It had been way too expensive, but so comfortable that she’d managed to talk herself into the splurge. She hadn’t regretted it once—had, in fact, spent many nights out here writing, or simply whiling away the hours when her insomnia was in full swing.

Her long peasant skirt had ridden up to the middle of her thighs when she’d sat down, but she didn’t bother to fix the soft cotton. In the evening’s oppressive heat, the slight breeze felt nice on her legs. Besides, there was almost never anyone out here. She and the guy across the courtyard were the only two who used their balconies for anything besides storage. But then, they were also two of the only single people in the entire building.

Because the apartments in the building were large, most of them were taken up by families with small children. And, judging from the amount of noise that came from her neighbors’ places, they had plenty to do in the evenings besides hanging out on their balconies—especially in this heat.

And God, it was hot, so hot that she could actually feel the sweat beginning to bloom on the small of her back. It was stupid to sit out here, baking, when her air-conditioned apartment was only a few steps away. But the frustrations of the day were still looming large, and the idea of sitting in her living room as the walls slowly closed in held no appeal.

Leaning her head against the back of the lounger, she let her eyelids flutter closed and her mind drift. But the heat wouldn’t let her relax; the humidity so stifling that it was hard to breathe. She could only hope the rainstorm that was due later that night would hurry up and arrive sooner.

Without conscious thought, she brought her fingers to the buttons of her blouse and quickly undid them before stripping it off, so that the only thing between her and the sticky air was the ivory silk camisole she’d shrugged into that morning.

With a sigh—of pleasure this time—she picked up a glass of water and took a long swallow, then rolled it slowly down her cheek and across her breastbone.

As the cold glass bolstered her flagging energy, life suddenly seemed a whole lot more bearable, even if her latest book was currently dead in the water. But how could she have known that in a city like New Orleans—which wore its many sins and bad behaviors like badges of honor—people would clam up so completely over a prostitution ring? Sure, it was a very large, very high-reaching prostitution ring, but it was still just a prostitution ring. Or so the papers and the police said.

Still, something about this whole thing just wasn’t sitting right with her. Everyone was being too closemouthed about the situation, even now, eighteen months after the prostitution ring had been busted up. A year after the Mardi Gras Madam and some of her girls had been arrested and spent only a couple months in jail, thanks to a suspicious-as-hell plea bargain.

But this was New Orleans, she reminded herself, a city whose crime rate bordered on the obscene. Stranger things had happened here before—and would again.

In the years she’d been writing true-crime books, Lacey had found that the payoff of notoriety was often more than enough to convince people to give up their secrets. That same formula had proven true as she’d begun to investigate this story, begun to dig into the prostitution ring that hinted at reaching all the way to the top levels of various industries, not to mention the government.

Right up until last week, when every source she had had dried up. Nearly everyone she’d previously spoken to had suddenly developed amnesia—and those who hadn’t simply refused to say anything on the record. Or off.

It was enough to drive her investigative radar crazy, enough to convince her that something darker was at work here. And everything she’d found—everything she’d experienced lately—only made her more determined to get that story. When this many people refused to talk, it was usually for a good reason. She wanted—needed—to find out what that reason was.

Too bad she was back at square one.

Taking another sip of water, Lacey sighed in disgust at the entire predicament. Then forced it from her mind for the moment, as dwelling on it was doing nothing but getting her more and more upset.

She let her eyes wander over the building and balconies across from her. Mrs. Rochet needed to water her flowers—they were dying in the heat, despite the frequent rainstorms. And Mr. Andalukis really should—

Her thought process came to a screaming halt as she suddenly realized that she wasn’t alone. That she was, in fact, being watched—by the same sinful eyes that had haunted her dreams, and her blog, for the last few weeks. Dark, dangerous and more than a little wild, they never failed to send shivers down her spine, and today was no exception.

For long moments, she could do nothing but return his stare, her gaze locked on his like a guided, heat-seeking missile.

There was power in those eyes. Power and sex and an edgy desire that set her blood humming in a way she hadn’t felt in far too long. For one endless moment, she wondered what it would be like if she took him up on the blatant offer in his too-hot stare. If she let him do all the wicked, wonderful, wanton things those eyes promised.

It would be good. She knew that much from the way she’d seen him move these last few weeks, when he didn’t know she was watching. She’d noticed her neighbor right after she moved in—with his broad shoulders, big hands and terrific ass, it would have been impossible not to. Add in the shaggy blond hair, too-pretty face and devil-may-care grin, and he’d been damn near irresistible.

But she had resisted him. For five long weeks, she’d ignored the interested glances he’d shot her way, had denied her own interest in him, even as he figured prominently in her most recent fantasies.

But this flirtation wasn’t make-believe, and she wasn’t the same woman who trusted every pretty face that came along anymore. Who gave everything to a man—and let him take far too much—just because she loved him. And she never would be again.

Lacey started to look way—to pretend a disinterest she was far from feeling—but he wouldn’t let her, his eyes so steady and sexy that she could practically feel them moving over her skin.

She couldn’t do this, her sluggish brain tried to tell her body. Not now. Not with him. No matter how out of sorts she was or how hot he made her, she couldn’t start this. Couldn’t let him start it. Because tomorrow was only a few hours away, and he had the word complicated written all over him. From his too-fierce eyes and grim mouth to his hardworking truck and straitlaced friends, he was everything she wasn’t looking for. No wham, bam, thank you, ma’am for this guy. He’d want to take all night and then start again in the morning, and she just didn’t have the time for that. Or the inclination.

Too messy.

Too involved.

Too much potential for emotional complications—something Curtis had cured her of wanting once and for all.

Besides, this guy was way too good-looking for her. He was out of her league, out of her division. Out of her whole fucking stratosphere. She’d watched him enough to know that—and to know that there was no way he’d put up with being a one-shot deal. She’d seen him around, seen a couple of the women he’d dated. The way he was when he was with them—serious, intense, interested—was the opposite of the kind of relationship she was looking for.

Curtis had carried around that same kind of intensity, and look where that had gotten her. All fucked up with nowhere to go.

No, she was much better off playing it fast and loose—something she had a feeling her too-sexy neighbor with the possessive eyes knew nothing about.

Which meant that they were at an impasse, whether he recognized it or not.

She took another sip of her water, but didn’t look away. The sexual magnetism he exuded was amazing, so intense that she could almost feel his fingers stroking down the slender column of her throat despite the courtyard that separated them.

He didn’t look away either. Didn’t move, didn’t blink, didn’t shift from that indolent pose against his railing. Just kept her in his sights, his gaze an odd mix of predator and partner.

It was strange and flattering—and oh, so arousing—to be the object of that heated stare.

But those are the wrong reactions, she told herself. She should be indignant or wary or at least concerned that he’d been staring at her as she took off her shirt, as she fanned herself with her skirt. She should be annoyed that he’d let her half strip and had done nothing to alert her to his presence.

It wasn’t like she was naked, her sense of fair play reminded her, or even showing as much as she would on the shores of Lake Pontchartrain. And it wasn’t like he’d been skulking in the shadows. No, his stare was a blatant, in-your-face come-on. One she’d been stupid to miss.

One she had a sinking feeling she wouldn’t be able to resist.

Besides, the way he looked at her—like he was the big, bad wolf and she was the most succulent sheep in the herd—intrigued her. More, it turned her on. It had been a long time since she’d paid attention to that look on a man’s face—and even longer since she’d given a damn.

One more time Lacey tried to convince herself to leave him hanging. To simply pick up her glass and head inside, where she would make sure to close her blinds behind her.

It was what she should do. What she normally would do, as she had absolutely no interest in encouraging any man—even one as hot as this one.

And yet she didn’t want to go. Not now, when her toes were curling and her nipples tingling. Not now, when he was smiling a slow, wicked smile that had her fists clenching and her stomach turning somersaults.

Returning his stare with the hottest one she could muster, Lacey sat up and straddled the narrow lounger, placing her feet flat on the ground, but making no move to pull her skirt over her knees. She knew he couldn’t see much, if anything at all, but she felt wanton sitting there with her pink lace panties exposed.

His eyes flared, grew darker, and she felt a little thrill all the way to her toes. Her nipples peaked and wetness pooled between her thighs. She knew she shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t be doing this. But it was like something out of one of her fantasies, and just once she wanted to be that woman she so often imagined.

Just once she wanted to live in the moment and say, “To hell with the consequences.” Eyes still locked with his, she took a long, slow swallow from her glass, and then tipped it so that a stream of cold water poured onto the hollow of her throat. Ran over her collarbone and trickled down between her breasts, until her nipples hardened even more and her camisole clung wetly to her chest.

Then she closed her eyes and let her head loll back on her neck while she arched her back, knowing that she was spotlighting her rock-hard nipples, that even with the courtyard between them, he was close enough to see the dark shadow of her nipples beneath the thin silk.

Wondering if he liked what he saw.

 

Byron’s brain shut down as he stared at the siren across from him. She was stunning, more beautiful than he had ever imagined, with her diamond-hard nipples and pink lace panties. More tempting than he had ever thought possible.

He felt his dick twitch, felt himself grow harder still, and it was all he could do to keep himself from leaping the two stories to the courtyard below, just so he could climb up to her. So he could bury his hands in those lush, red curls and run his lips over those full, tempting breasts.

He was more than aware that his thoughts echoed those on his fantasy blog, that the situation was eerily reminiscent of the one he’d just finished reading about, but for once, he wasn’t imagining doing these things to her. No, for the first time in six, long months he was completely in the present. Completely wrapped up in the gorgeous, desirable woman who was, at this very moment, watching him, watching her.

The only question was, What was he going to do about it?