Tease Me

by Tracy Wolff

  Out in the open, where anyone could see.

  She tuned the voice out, didn’t listen. Couldn’t listen, as her body continued to operate on a frequency her conscious mind no longer reached. She was too far gone, desire and need and the months of self-denial all tied together as her body searched for release. She’d deal with the consequences later, put up with his knowing looks and sly smiles if she had to. Right now she needed to come, and for reasons completely unknown to her, it had to be here.

  Had to be in front of his passion-glazed eyes.

  Had to be with this man, whose desire was making hers burn hotter and brighter than it ever had before.

  With a sigh, she let her head fall back against the longue, then let the chaise take the weight of her upper body as she skimmed her fingers closer and closer to her inner thighs. Part of her wanted to just do it, to rush for the prize—the sweet release—that was only a few finger strokes away.

  But there was something addictive about the power she felt in these moments, about the incredible raptness she was inspiring in her audience of one. His gaze was intense, his jaw rigid. His muscles so tight that she could see them bunch and ripple even across the courtyard. The knowledge that he was as captivated by her as she was by him moved through her; right now a bomb could go off and he wouldn’t flinch, wouldn’t move. Hell, he probably wouldn’t even hear it. That’s how intent he was on her.

  After months—years—of being the good little girl, it felt good to be wanted. After a lifetime of playing the innocent for men like Curtis—and taking whatever they gave her—it was fabulous to wield total control over her own pleasure.

  And over his.

  The tension inside of her built at the thought, had her teetering on the edge of a truly unbelievable orgasm before she’d so much as run a finger over her clit. Deciding she’d waited long enough, and feeling more powerful—and more aroused—than she could remember, Lacey slipped her index finger beneath her pink lace thong and scooted the material out of the way so that she was totally open, totally bare. So that there was nothing between her most secret flesh and his most enthralled gaze.

  And then, when she was sure she had his undivided attention, she began to stroke.

  With the first caress of her finger, the tip of his cock damn near blew right off.

  Shit. Fuck. Goddamn, holy hell. Was this really happening?

  Was his prim little neighbor about to get herself off in front of him?

  Was she really going to let him watch?

  Dear God, he certainly hoped so, because otherwise he was going to fucking die from disappointment.

  As his little redhead—somewhere in the middle of this he’d definitely begun to think of her as his—slipped a finger between her slick folds, Byron groaned. And nearly came.

  Palming his dick through the heavy material of his jeans, he squeezed it tightly and did his best not to blow his whole fucking wad. But it was damn hard—no pun intended—as everything he’d ever wanted was spread before him like a fucking fantasy.

  Only this wasn’t a film. It was real, and all the more arousing because of it. As she touched herself, one delicate finger circling her clit again and again, he nearly lost it. Would have, except he wasn’t ready for this to end, any more than he was ready to come in his jeans like an adolescent in the throes of his first real hard-on.

  But he couldn’t help imagining what she could feel like, couldn’t help imagining that it was his finger caressing her to orgasm.

  She’d feel like silk—wet, soft and so fucking rich that he wouldn’t be able to resist her. He wouldn’t be able to stop himself from burying his face between her thighs and his tongue in her gorgeous, glistening pussy.

  The fantasy was so real—the need so alive—that he could almost taste her. Sweet, rich honey flowing over his tongue and down his throat. Thick and warm and delicious.

  His cock tightened even more, until it was a miracle he could even stand. Until pain pierced him with every shallow breath he took. And when she slipped a finger inside herself, and then another—her hips rocking gently against her hand—he knew he was done for.

  With another groan, he lowered his zipper slowly, then shuddered in relief as his dick sprang free from the restraining fabric. Fisting it, he stroked himself then stopped as that simple touch brought him right to the edge of orgasm. Any more and he’d go over, something he flat-out refused to do—at least until she did. They might not be lovers in the traditional sense, but “ladies first” had been his motto from his very first time with Jennifer Mason in the backseat of his daddy’s BMW, and he saw no reason to change it now.

  Besides, she couldn’t last much longer. Her hips were rocking faster now, harder, and her skin had turned that pretty rose color that told him her orgasm was coming up fast. And it couldn’t get here quickly enough for him—he was dying to see her shatter, desperate to watch her take her pleasure.

  Pulling his eyes away from the sweet, sexy flesh between her thighs, he concentrated on her face. On her eyes. And was at once gratified to find her as focused on his cock as he’d been on her pussy.

  Her green eyes were dark as emeralds, sexy as all hell. He felt himself start to come, his orgasm beginning at the base of his spine and then blowing down his cock with the force of a fucking cannon, and he gritted his teeth in an effort to stop it. Squeezed hard to make himself last just another minute.

  Her lips parted in a moan, and he longed to hear it. Was pathetically grateful when the wind whipped the sound close enough for him to catch a breathy sigh.

  She came with a strangled scream, her body stiffening as her curves arched off the longue. Her skin flushed pink—the prettiest pink he’d ever seen—while her wet dream of a mouth formed a perfect O.

  Her gaze jerked up to his, clung, as the orgasm rolled through her, and that was all it took to blast his control to hell and back. With a yell of his own, he let the climax rip through him, and reveled in wave after wave of sensation that swamped him. Hard, rough, nearly brutal in its intensity, the orgasm took him with more force than anything ever had.

  His knees actually trembled, and for one long moment he was afraid they wouldn’t support him. Was afraid that he’d collapse on the wood boards of his balcony even as his cock continued to spume.

  Locking his knees in place, he grabbed the railing with his free hand and let the sensations take him. Let them wash over him, again and again, in the most intense orgasm of his life. And still he didn’t look away from her. Still he kept his eyes locked on the wild jade of hers as the pleasure went on and on and on.

  Thunder boomed above them, shaking the building with its force, but he barely noticed. Just as he hardly noticed the rain suddenly lashing against his skin, against hers. But as the weather worsened, as the rain came down with more and more force, it became harder to keep up the eye contact. Harder to see her clearly.

  The pleasure finally ebbed and he glanced around for something to clean himself up with. He grabbed a towel he’d left to dry on the balcony after his morning swim and did just that. Then turned back to her, wanting to regain their connection—needing to do so, with a desperation that bordered on insanity.

  But she wasn’t there, had instead taken his momentary distraction as a chance to slip away.

  Cursing viciously, he studied her balcony with narrowed eyes. And told himself that he hadn’t dreamed it. Hadn’t dreamed her. She had been there—and would be again, if he had anything to say about it.

  Chapter Three

  Geez, Lace, what’s got your panties in such a wad?”

  “My panties are not in a wad!” Lacey looked across the narrow café table at Sandra, the first friend she’d made when she moved to New Orleans. A librarian at Tulane University, she’d helped Lacey with a lot of the initial information gathering she’d done weeks before.

  Sandra knowingly eyed the second order of beignets Lacey was in the middle of devouring. Café du Monde was famous for the square, French doughnuts, and usually Lacey c
ontented herself with one order, but today her nerves had her scarfing down anything she could get her hands on.

  “If you say so.” Sandra flipped her hair and started scoping out the prospects at the surrounding tables. The pickings were slim—mostly tourists and teenagers—but Lacey watched in amusement as her friend managed to garner the interest of the only hot guy in the place.

  Of course, Sandra was good at getting male attention. And unlike Lacey, she knew exactly what to do with it when she had it. Petite, blond, and cute as a button, she was everything Lacey wasn’t—including interested in a long-term relationship.

  “I do say so,” Lacey reiterated firmly, after she’d shoved the last beignet in her mouth. “This has nothing to do with a guy—the book’s just been giving me trouble lately.”

  As soon as the words passed her mouth, Lacey felt guilty for the lie. While the book was turning into a nightmare of epic proportions, that wasn’t what had her so out of sorts. No, her sexy neighbor was what had Lacey so stressed-out. He was also the reason she’d suggested this trip to Café du Monde for breakfast instead of eating on her balcony as she and Sandra had a tendency to do when they made an early morning breakfast date.

  For the last two days she’d done everything but dive for cover in an effort to avoid him; she’d even kept the blinds on her balcony firmly closed. She didn’t usually spook so easily, but she was too embarrassed to face him. She still couldn’t believe she’d actually let that whole scene happen the other night—it was so unlike her. Shocking, impulsive, insane—the encounter was everything she wasn’t. And then some.

  “Well, if it’s the book, stop by the library and we’ll do some digging together. Summer’s always quiet, and I’m sick of staring at the walls and inventing things to do.”

  “I might do that.” Lacey jumped on the lifeline, thrilled to have her friend’s attention turned away from the subject of men. “I’m having a terrible time getting anyone to talk to me. Maybe you can help me come up with some more names to contact.”

  “Sure.” Sandra pushed back from the table gracefully and swung her stylish hobo bag over her shoulder. “I’ve got a meeting until eleven, but after that I should be free for the rest of the day.”

  “I’ll stop by sometime after lunch.”

  “Excellent.” Sandra headed toward the opening in the wrought-iron gates that surrounded the sidewalk café. Half a dozen male heads turned to watch her go, and she worked the attention for all it was worth.

  Lacey sipped her café au lait and concentrated on following her friend’s progress, in a desperate attempt to focus on something, anything, besides the steamy encounter she’d had on her balcony the night before last.

  She almost laughed, would have if she wasn’t so damned annoyed with herself. What kind of woman was brave enough to share that kind of intimate sexual experience with a total stranger, yet too cowardly to stick around to see what might happen next?

  A smart one, she told herself as she polished off the last of the beignets. One who knew that real life rarely lived up to fantasy.

  A lonely one, the little voice in the back of her head chastised her. One who no longer trusted her own judgment when it came to men but who still had all the needs of a woman who was much less afraid than she.

  Completely disgusted—with herself, the situation, the whole damn world—Lacey reached into the ratty brown messenger bag that went almost everywhere with her and ripped a few sheets of paper from her binder. If she couldn’t get her devastatingly sexy neighbor out of her mind, then maybe she could channel all her pent-up desire for him into her latest blog entry. God knew, the way she was feeling, she could probably light up an entire block of Bourbon Street with the sexual energy pumping through her.

  I lay in bed at night, naked, and dream you. Dream your mouth sliding over my breasts, your hands smoothing down my stomach, your fingers playing with my clit. As she wrote, Lacey struggled to immerse herself in the words. To remember the fantasy she’d had last night as she’d stretched out in her own bed, staring at the ceiling and searching desperately for sleep.

  But, for once, she wasn’t able to get lost in the fantasy—or the sexy heat spiraling through her. She tried to blame it on the sidewalk café, tried to tell herself she was struggling with her blog entry because she was in public, surrounded by strangers.

  But her breasts were achy and her pussy damp despite the public venue, and she couldn’t shake the awkward, frightened feeling that had been with her ever since she’d realized late last night that she was no longer fantasizing about an imaginary lover.

  No, today—like last night—she was thinking about him. Imagining him, with his chest bare and his cock in his fist as he stared at her across that damn courtyard. Wanting him to slowly lick his way down her body.

  That was what was really bothering her, she finally admitted. Not the fact that she was in a public place, but rather that her imaginary lover had a face for the first time in longer than she wanted to admit.

  To see him when she closed her eyes, to think of him when she touched herself, was more than strange. More than disconcerting. It was downright alarming, especially since her body wanted nothing more than to be watched by him again.

  From the moment she’d seen him come—the moment she’d let him see her do the same—she hadn’t been able to get him out of her mind. And now, as she tried to put her latest fantasy into words, he was still right there.

  Ugh. Lacey folded the papers in half and stuffed them back in her notebook. Why couldn’t that one encounter be enough? She wasn’t looking for more—didn’t want more—so she should have just been able to enjoy it and move on. But instead here she was, having spent the last hour shoving French doughnuts in her face as she tried to pretend she wasn’t so turned on that it hurt to breathe.

  She was still cursing herself when her sixth sense had her looking up just in time to spy her very hot neighbor stroll into the open-air café and up to the long front counter to place his order.

  Heat flashed through her body at her first glimpse of him, though she didn’t know if it was residual lust or simply out-and-out embarrassment. Probably a little bit of both, she decided, while her heart started to beat double time in a panicked tattoo. Either way, she had to get out of there—and quickly—before he finished ordering and ran right into her.

  Maybe it was stupid, but she couldn’t face him, not now. Not when she hadn’t figured out what to say to him or how to act. She didn’t know if she’d ever find the right words, but until she came up with something, it seemed like a good idea, all around, to stay as far away from sexy courtyard guy as humanly possible.

  Gathering up her things as fast as she could, and leaving a brand-new, steaming cup of café au lait on the table in the process, Lacey darted for the opening in the low, black iron fence that surrounded the café.

  Sure that she was going to make it, positive that he’d be held up by the line at the front for the couple of minutes it would take her to mount her getaway, Lacey relaxed her guard as she got closer to the exit. There was no need for a confrontation here, no need to assume that he was as aware of her as she was of him. She’d just walk out and be on her way without him ever knowing she’d been in his vicinity.

  Besides, for all she knew, he wouldn’t care even if he did see her. It wasn’t like he’d come knocking on her door to introduce himself any time in the last few days. He was probably as interested in avoiding her as she was him.

  Calmer now that rationalization had set in, and that freedom was within her grasp, Lacey breathed a huge sigh of relief. Then froze when a strong hand grabbed her elbow and pulled her to a stop. Startled, she could do nothing but watch as everything in her hands—including her trusty bag, her book of the moment, and the papers she’d been writing her blog on—slid right out of her hands and onto the ground between them.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you,” said her hotter-than-hell neighbor as he crouched down and began gathering up her stuff.


  That she let him, and didn’t even try to help, showed just how far gone she really was. Normally she’d freak out if anyone handled the rough drafts of her blog entries; while she loved writing the blog, she was almost obsessed with keeping her identity secret. Not just because of the safety issue, but because the blog was her sexual outlet. Her deepest, darkest fantasies on display. Her psyche laid wide open, and she’d rather have a root canal without anesthetic than let someone inside her head again. God knew, Curtis had done enough damage to last a lifetime.

  “But I didn’t want you to leave before I had a chance to talk to you. I’ve been trying to run into you for a couple of days now.”

  His dark brown eyes were nearly black as they studied her, and she felt her stomach tremble in response—as if an entire flock of rabid vultures had taken up residence there. Or, at the very least, one rabid vulture with an attitude problem.

  As his words sunk in, she could feel her cheeks flaming. Of course he’d been looking for her—how often did a guy come across a woman more than willing to give him a balcony peep show? And one he didn’t have to pay for, at that. He probably wanted to arrange an encore.

  Wanting nothing more than to escape, yet deathly afraid that it was far too late for that, Lacey all but ripped her things from his outstretched hands. “Thanks,” she mumbled, then turned to go before she died of abject humiliation. Or jumped him out of the rampant horniness that only seemed to surface around him.

  “Hey, wait.” Once again those strong fingers curled around her elbow. Once again, her stomach flip-flopped crazily. “I don’t even know your name.”

  Taking a deep breath in an effort to ignore the embarrassment—and, God help her, arousal—that jangled along her nerve endings, Lacey gave him her most intimidating stare, the one she’d mastered after ten years as a true-crime investigator and writer. “Is there some reason you want to know it?”