Tease Me

by Tracy Wolff

  Sweat beaded on his chest, rolled down his back, but still he refused to stop. He thrust into her over and over again—trying to get as close to and as deep in her as he could. Trying to get inside more than her body. His arms trembled under the onslaught, his cock screamed for relief and still he continued to move inside her.

  She was sobbing, screaming, her muscles contracting more and more tightly around him with every slam of his hips. Her nails dug into his back, her teeth into his shoulder, and still he kept at her. Her legs circled his hips, her hands clutched at his back and he knew that he couldn’t hold on any longer. She felt too good, too alive, and he wanted to hold on to every single part of her.

  He was buried deep, as close to her as he could get, when he felt the orgasm tear through her, a deep, dark wave of sensation so powerful that it swamped him, buried him, dragged him under before he could find the will to resist. His own climax welled up within him, the sweet clutch of her body sending him right over the edge and beyond, to a place where nothing existed but the infinite pain and pleasure of their joining. A place where he could do nothing but wallow in the need that arced between them.

  It started at the base of his spine and spread out from there—through his dick, his stomach, up his back, around to his chest. Pleasure, pain, passion roaring through him, flowing from him to her and back again as he emptied himself inside her in a series of powerful, all-encompassing waves.

  Stripped of all defenses, completely vulnerable, Byron poured everything that he was, everything that he felt, into Lacey. Then held her as he wished, hoped, prayed, that just once he would be enough. That just this once he had given her everything she needed to be happy.

  Chapter Nine

  So, Lacey Adams had a lover. Gregory kept his face schooled into its normal implacable lines as he studied the brief report Jim had brought him a few minutes before. Though he was furious at the idea of some other man putting his hands on the little redhead he was already beginning to think of as his, he was smart enough to keep his reaction to himself.

  Jim was concerned about his preoccupation with her; the look his bodyguard had sent him when he’d asked for information on her first thing this morning had been telling. But Jim hadn’t said a word—and wouldn’t. Not if he valued his tongue.

  For the third time since he’d gotten the folder, he read over the sketchy details inside. His men had followed her to an apartment building on the outskirts of the Quarter. Had found out her apartment number—2D—and had used that to track down her car and run the plates.

  That’s how they’d gotten her name. As they’d been hanging around, watching the place, they’d seen a tall guy go in. When they’d finally left—five hours later—he had still been in there with her. The thought made Gregory’s hands itch to curl into fists, but he controlled the impulse. He hadn’t gotten where he was today by letting emotion rule him or his actions—no matter how tempting it might be. Still, how much could he be expected to take? How long could he be expected to tolerate her fucking some other man?

  “Has Micah sent in his report yet?” He spoke through his teeth, keeping his voice steady through sheer strength of will. It wouldn’t do for Jim to see just how anxious he was in reviewing the PI’s report on his little Lacey.

  “Not yet, sir.”

  “Did you tell him to put a rush on it?” He barely bothered to listen to the answer. He was too caught up in the pictures in the file—Lacey dressed in short-shorts and a skimpy tank top while she opened the door to her muscle-bound lover. Lacey silhouetted against her balcony doors, her nude body gleaming in the moonlight. Lacey backed against the wall while her lover plunged into her without even taking the time to disrobe. As if the actions themselves weren’t infuriating, the look on her face was enough to send him right over the edge.

  There was ecstasy on her face. Ecstasy and a depth of passion he couldn’t help wanting to experience. Ecstasy he couldn’t help wanting to kill the other man for giving her.

  He wanted her focused on him and only him—an odd sentiment, admittedly, for a man who had never cared about anything enough to become attached to it. While it was true he didn’t share his women and never had, that was more from a need to appear strong—to guard what was his—than out of any jealousy he might have felt. But no one took what was his, and watching Lacey share herself with this man, watching him take what Gregory had already claimed for himself, was unacceptable. And not to be tolerated—at least not for much longer.

  But first—first he needed to know everything about Lacey Adams. Who she was, what she did for a living, if she’d be missed by anyone besides her Neanderthal lover. He hoped that wasn’t the case, but . . . he shrugged. If she did have people waiting for her, then it could be taken care of.

  Everything could be taken care of—for a price.

  “I want to know who he is too.”

  “Sir?” Jim’s voice was quiet, obsequious, but puzzled as well—as if he didn’t know who Gregory was referring to.

  “The boyfriend!” he snapped impatiently. “Have Micah put together a file on him as well.” He’d gotten as far as he had in this business by knowing everything he could about his enemies, and this man who had dared to put his hands and mouth on the woman Gregory already considered his was definitely an enemy.

  For long moments, he studied the picture of Lacey with her head thrown back in passion, her eyes sexily glazed as pleasure rushed through her. And imagined it was him putting that look on her face, imagined what it would feel like to be inside her tight little pussy while she came, her sweet body milking him again and again.

  His fingers tightened on the picture as his dick hardened painfully. “Get Sophie.” He barked the words to Jim, and his assistant was gone in the blink of an eye. He was back moments later with one of the girls from the club below. She had a smile on her face and anticipation in her eyes—something he saw regularly when one of the girls from the club was brought up here for his own private use. He was, after all, known for his generosity, in and out of bed.

  And she was the closest thing to a redhead they had downstairs, but her stick-straight, strawberry-blond hair was a far cry from the gorgeous auburn waves that floated halfway down Lacey’s back. Still . . .

  “Get over here.” It was an order, pure and simple. Hard, direct, without the normal softness he used with his lovers. But then, she isn’t really a lover, is she? he wondered as he bent her over his desk. More like one small step up from using his hand. After pushing her skirt—he didn’t know if he was disgusted or gratified that she wasn’t wearing any underwear—he sheathed himself in a condom. With her history in the club, God only knew what diseases she might be carrying.

  “Gregory, baby,” she turned to look at him with a smile on her face. He ignored it, ignored her, except to shove her facedown into the desk. Hard. Then he thrust roughly inside of her, with no preamble or foreplay. He didn’t want anything to distract him from his fantasy of Lacey. Certainly not this skinny, drugged-out little bitch who was out for everything she could get from him.

  “Close your legs,” he grunted as he pumped against her. “I like it tight.”

  “Whatever you wa—”

  “Shut up!” He grabbed her hips and slammed her ass against his pelvis, excited when he heard her muffled gasp. Again and again he shoved himself into her—brutally hard and without compassion. With each thrust she cried out, and he imagined that it was Lacey beneath him. Lacey taking him so completely, holding him so tightly. Lacey whimpering, not in pain but desire, as he took her again and again and again.

  Reaching beneath the girl, he grabbed her breasts and squeezed hard. She moaned, but didn’t protest; simply pushed her ass more firmly against him, like she wanted even more. That’s when he lost it. With one final thrust inside of her, he came—in long, powerful waves that nearly brought him to his knees.

  When he was done, he sagged against her, relishing the feel of the soft, female body beneath his. But as the minutes ticked by, he beca
me more and more aware of where he was and who he was with. It wasn’t Lacey beneath him, wasn’t Lacey who had taken him so fully and enthusiastically.

  Pulling out, he yanked off the condom. “Get out!” His voice was harsh—much harsher than he usually used with the girls—but he couldn’t bring himself to care. Jacking up his pants, he fastened them as Sophie stared at him, wide-eyed, her mouth gaping like a fish’s.

  “Did you hear me? Get your ass out of my office. Now!”

  He settled behind his desk as she fled, yanking her skirt down while she ran. Then picked up the top photo of Lacey and ran a finger over her beautiful body.

  “Soon,” he murmured as he stroked her. It was a promise, but he didn’t know whether it was to her or to himself.

  “So, can I buy you breakfast, or is that against the rules?”

  At Byron’s voice, Lacey looked up from the morning paper she’d been studying for the last fifteen minutes. Too bad she’d read the first paragraph at least six times and still had no idea what it said.

  “Breakfast?” She tried her damnedest to look him in the eye, but it was hard, especially when his heavily muscled chest was bare and still a little damp from the shower he’d just finished.

  “Yeah, you know. Eggs, toast, pancakes. Ring a bell?”

  “I just thought you’d . . .” Her voice trailed off lamely.

  “Thought I’d what?” His eyes narrowed dangerously. “Slip out while you were in the shower?”

  He walked over to her, took her lips in a long, hard kiss. “Sorry to disappoint you, but I’ve never been much of a wham, bam, thank you, ma’am kind of guy.”

  “That’s not what I meant.” She stared at his back in frustration as he sauntered past her into the kitchen. Then lifted a hand to her mouth and rubbed her fingers over her well-kissed mouth. Even as she did it, she knew it was going to take more than that to wipe away the toothpaste-and-lemon taste of him.

  “There’s fresh coffee,” she called, striving to sound as relaxed as he obviously was.

  “I already found it.”

  He appeared in the doorway, holding her favorite cup. The delicate fairy mug looked much too small for his hard, lean hands.

  “Well, help yourself,” she muttered, not sure whether she should be disgruntled at the fact that he’d made himself at home in her apartment.

  “I usually do.” He flopped down onto the dining chair next to hers, ran one long, tanned finger over the bridge of her nose. “So, what do you say?”

  “To what?” She determinedly ignored the shivers sliding down her spine.

  “To breakfast. There’s a great little place on Chartres that serves the best—”

  “I can’t.”

  “Okay.” Her refusal didn’t break his stride. “How about lunch?”

  “I have a meeting.”

  “Dinner?”

  “Come on, Byron. Don’t do this.”

  “Don’t do what?” His grin was razor-sharp, but his eyes were amused. “Don’t try to spend a little time with you outside of bed? Or don’t buy you a meal?

  “Come to think of it, every time I try to feed you, you turn me down. Are you on a hunger strike for world peace or something?”

  Irritation skated through her. “I’m not a dog; I don’t need you to feed me.” “You didn’t answer the question.”

  “Do I look like Gandhi?”

  He took a sip of coffee. “Not a hunger strike, then. Just a feminist’s objection to letting a man do something for her? That’s easy enough—you can buy me breakfast.”

  “No!”

  “Well, if you’re not a feminist or an activist or any other kind of ist, what, exactly, is your objection to sharing a meal with me?”

  “We didn’t agree to this!”

  “Didn’t agree to what? Consuming a few hundred calories together? God knows after the night we had, I think we both deserve several thousand.”

  “You’re being deliberately dense.”

  “Well, enlighten me, then.”

  “I don’t want . . .”

  “What?” He raised a brow. “What don’t you want?”

  “I don’t want this. I don’t want to have to make conversation or worry about having morning breath or . . .” She trailed off, looked at him helplessly.

  “Believe me, Lacey, after last night I’ve got a pretty clear picture of what you’re looking for—and what you’re not. But I didn’t think a little breakfast was a declaration of intent. My mistake.” He drained his coffee cup in one long gulp, then carried it to the kitchen. “Let me get my shirt and I’ll be out of your way.”

  “I didn’t say you had to go.” She jumped to her feet, followed him back to the bedroom.

  “Yeah, well, you’ve made it pretty obvious you don’t want me to stay.” Byron slipped his T-shirt over his head as he strode toward the front door. “Call me sometime if you want a repeat of last night. Otherwise, I guess I’ll see you around.”

  He didn’t even bother to slam the door on the way out, just closed it with a firm thud that was somehow all the more intimidating.

  Lacey stood where she was for long moments, staring across her living room at the closed door, wondering how the morning had gone so wrong. She hadn’t meant to piss him off, hadn’t meant to make him feel like she wanted nothing more to do with him. But he’d made her nervous, walking around half dressed, poking in her cabinets like he belonged there. Kissing her like he meant it.

  She could barely handle her own feelings; she sure as hell didn’t want to be responsible for his as well. And yet she didn’t feel nearly as good about this whole fuck-buddy thing as she’d thought she would.

  Maybe it was because she’d broken her promise to herself to remain celibate until she could get her head on straight. Byron’s eyes, haunted and angry, rose up in her mind’s eye. Or maybe it was because she’d really wanted to go to breakfast with him—which was why she’d felt honor bound to say no. The idea of strolling hand in hand through the Quarter with him, of sitting across a breakfast table and talking to him about everything and nothing, had been way too appealing.

  No, she told herself as she settled in front of her computer to write the day’s blog entry. She’d done the right thing. Better to go on as she planned—fun and games in bed—but that was it. There was no way she was going to chance falling for someone right now, no way she was willing to give control over her heart and her emotions to a guy who could use and abuse them.

  Satisfied that she’d done the only thing she could do, Lacey tried to put herself in the right frame of mind to write her blog. But for once, no fantasies were coming. She snorted. It was probably because Byron had done such a great job satisfying every craving she had the night before.

  Still, she needed to write something. She didn’t want to lose her following after she’d spent months building it up and responding to the comments she got there. Plus, she admitted, she really wanted to see if that new guy would comment again. Something about his response the other day had gotten to her, and she wanted to see what else he had to say.

  But before she could do more than close her eyes, the phone rang. She thought about ignoring it—instead trying to stay in the zone—but she was expecting a call from her editor and really wanted to discuss with Melissa where she thought the book might be going.

  Lunging for the phone, she answered with a breezy, “Hello.”

  “May I speak with Lacey Adams, please?”

  Lacey’s heart beat a little faster at the tentative female voice. “This is she.”

  “This is Carrie Winston. You called yesterday about my daughter. About Anne Marie.”

  There was such hope in the other woman’s voice that Lacey winced. Any and all thoughts she had of something besides the investigation flew right out of her head.

  Her hands were damp when she answered, “Yes, Mrs. Winston. I’m in New Orleans, and your daughter’s name came up in reference to an investigation I’m doing—”

  “You’re a polic
ewoman?”

  “No, I’m a true-crime writer. I’m working on a book—”

  “A writer? You’re another reporter?” The hope died, replaced with disgust. And a bone-deep anger that had Lacey wincing in painful empathy. “I should have known.”

  The silence on the other line was absolute. Lacey cried, “Please don’t hang up!” She blurted the words out as fast as she could, certain she would never get another chance to speak with the Winstons. “It’s not what you think.”

  “That’s what they all say. But it’s always the same thing—someone, somewhere, looking for a new angle on my daughter’s disappearance. Looking to exploit Anne Marie in one way or another.”

  Lacey winced as guilt once again assailed her, but she shoved it aside. She had a real chance to help Anne Marie here, and even if it caused her parents pain, she needed to take it. “That’s not what I’m doing. I want to help Anne Marie.”

  “Really?” Carrie Winston’s voice dripped sarcasm. “And how, exactly, do you think you’ll be able to do that since she’s dead?”

  Lacey felt the blood drain from her face. “Anne Marie’s dead?”

  “Isn’t that why you called?” Anger fairly vibrated through the phone lines. “They found her body six weeks ago, though it took some time to—it took some time to identify it.”

  “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”

  “You’re not much of a reporter, are you? I’m not surprised. It’s not like the NOPD is much of a police department.”

  “Technically, I’ve never worked as a reporter. I write books.” She paused, then: “They haven’t found anything?”

  “Nothing. They don’t even know how she died. Her skeleton—” The woman’s voice broke and she started to cry softly.

  Lacey started to apologize again, started to hang up, as she didn’t want to cause the woman any more pain. But at the same time, she was starting to feel like she had a real chance of finding out what had happened to Anne Marie.

  When the woman’s sobs had quieted, Lacey said softly, “When I was in the Quarter yesterday, I saw Anne Marie’s picture on a strip-club wall.”