Today’s the day. If I keep my head down, ignore my email and my laundry, I should finish the big book. As soon as I’m done, I’ll take a look at the entries in the title contest—so if you haven’t entered, you still have time! In the meantime, please give a warm welcome to my friend, Tracy Wolff! ~DD
“The ‘edgy and erotic’ author of Tie Me Down and Full Exposure offers another steamy novel of sex, lies, and sultry games.” Shannon McKenna, New York Times bestselling author of Tasting Fear
Burned once too often, true crime writer Lacey Richards has sworn off love. Instead, she explores her deepest desires through her anonymous- and very provocative-blog. Anonymous, that is, until her dark and ultrasexy neighbor discovers her dirty secret.
Stockbrocker-turned-carpenter Byron Hawthorne gave up life in the fast lane, hoping to start over in a new city. When he learns his alluring neighbor is the one writing the sizzling blog that keeps him up all night, he can’t resist offering to fulfill her fantasies in the flesh. But Byron isn’t the only man provoked by Lacey’s writing. Now Lacey doesn’t know who she can trust-and who she can dare to tease.
Lacey shivered, despite the heat, her body trembling under her neighbor’s intense scrutiny. Part of her wanted to look away, wanted to pick up her water glass and head indoors. But she couldn’t move, couldn’t think. Could barely breathe as her entire body lit up from the inside.
What was it about this man, with his black eyes and roguish grin that turned her on so much? That held her transfixed on her balcony when she should be doing anything but this? She knew better—had known better since Curtis had used and abused her—and yet she here she was, unable to look away. Worse, she was enjoying every second of watching him watch her. Was reveling in the arousal arcing through her body.
In the distance, lightning flashed. Once, twice, followed quickly by the sharp crack of rumbling thunder. The air around her grew heavier, wetter—as did her body at this sudden advent of the storm. The wind picked up, whipped through her loose hair and down her bare arms. Lifted her skirt and flirted with the soft, damp skin of her upper thighs.
And she let it.
Then watched, fascinated, as—across the courtyard– her neighbor’s eyes narrowed dangerously. She nearly grinned as he focused on her open thighs—and, she hoped, the small scrap of pink lace that was the only thing separating her from his view.
Desire escalated to need and she felt her breath catch. Sweat bloomed on her skin, ran in rivulets between her breasts and down her back and still she didn’t go inside. Didn’t cover herself. Didn’t so much as move.
Watching him watch her was the most erotic experience she’d ever had.
The breeze felt good as it caressed her thighs, as it slid between her breasts and crept softly down her neck. She imagined it was his hands touching her–that it was his long fingers trailing so languorously over her most private parts– and nearly whimpered.
Biting her lip to keep the sound from escaping, she watched as his jaw clenched at the tell-tale movement. Watched as his entire body tensed.
He knew exactly how she was feeling, knew exactly how turned on she was. His knowledge was dangerous, disconcerting and would have been completely unbearable—after all knowledge was power when it came to love and war—except for the fact that he was as turned on as she was.
Maybe more—although Lacey wasn’t sure that was possible.
The wind picked up, its caresses growing stronger. If she closed her eyes she could pretend that it was him teasing and tormenting her. That it was him bringing her one step closer to crazy.
But she couldn’t look away, couldn’t let her eyelids fall. His hands, clenched on the iron railing, had the muscles of his forearms standing out in stark relief—a silent testament to the fact that he was burning as she was.
The need was building in her—teasing her, tantalizing her, taking her over with the promise of sensual satisfaction. Suddenly her nipples were so tight that even the light fabric of her tank top chafed them and her lower body ached with the need to be filled. To be taken after so many long months of celibacy.
This time she couldn’t stop the whimper that escaped, any more than she could stop herself from stroking the back of her hand down her neck and over her chest. With a sigh, she moved her hand even lower until she was cupping her left breast—massaging slowly and firmly as her thumb glanced across her nipple. Once, twice. Then again and again as her body spiraled up and nearly out of her control.
And still she watched him. Still she maintained eye contact as his body stiffened and his hands clutched the wrought-iron railing with the desperation of an addict looking for a much-delayed fix.
Setting her water glass down on the table beside her, she brought her right hand to her stomach. Lifted the soft cotton of her camisole so that she could trail her fingers up and down the sensitive skin of her stomach. She shivered at the first touch of cold fingers on hot skin, but the chill didn’t last long. It couldn’t—not when her neighbor stared at her with fiery eyes. Not when her own need was growing more desperate with every second that passed.
As she moved her hand lower, skimming it over the bare skin of her upper thighs, a little voice in the back of her head started clamoring. What was she doing, it asked. Was she insane? She didn’t know this man, didn’t know anything about him. And she was out in the open, where any of her neighbors could see.
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 the release it was desperate for. 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 lounge, 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 rapt, 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, 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—anymore than he was ready to come in his jeans like an adolescent in the throws 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 of 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 once, twice, 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 canon, and he gritted his teeth in an effort to stop it. Squeezed hard in an effort 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 the breathy sigh of it.
She came with a strangled scream, her body stiffening as her slight curves arched off the lounger. 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 the 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 fucking 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. 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.