PRAISE FOR THE NOVELS OF
Suzanne Forster
“[a] hard-edged, sexy romp.”
— Publishers Weekly on Blush
“A gripping novel…depicting the darker side of the rich
and powerful that includes intrigue, sex, lies and possibly
murder. The reader will not want to put the book down…”
—New Mystery Reader on The Lonely Girls Club
“Intelligent, psychologically complex and engaging…”
—Publishers Weekly on Come Midnight
“Forster’s name has become synonymous with taut,
suspenseful and wildly sexy novels that are
hot enough to melt asbestos.”
— Romantic Times BOOKclub
“The attraction was palpable, and [the] love scenes were
hot…a romantic suspense novel I can recommend highly.”
—All About Romance on Every Breath She Takes
“Interesting and appealing characters, great pacing and
interaction, an original plot line…strongly recommended.”
—The Mystery Reader on The Lonely Girls Club
Tease
Suzanne Forster
Prologue
“Whatever you do, Tess Wakefield, do not come.”
Had she actually said that out loud? Tess tried to open her eyes, but her lids were uncontrollable. They quivered like feather fringe. God, she must be glowing like a beacon. Sensations were lighting her up from the inside, crackling like the filaments of a neon tube.
Had he heard her? What would he do? Take it as a challenge and increase the pressure? Or lighten it and drive her utterly mad? It wouldn’t take much. He could so easily sweep her up and fling her over the edge.
With one finger.
With one more breath on her aching nipple.
One more feather stroke.
Why didn’t he just get it over with? Why did he leave her alone for so long? He came when she least expected him and touched her in intimate places. One finger gliding through her wetness, and then he was gone. The way a child steals icing from a cake.
Two fingers rolling her nipple.
Tight and tender.
Teeth on her rump.
How long had he been doing that? Hours? Days? She didn’t know anymore.
But he didn’t know how strong she was, how ardently she had fought to take back control of her life. She could not be broken, even if it was joy that poured from the cracks.
Someone was laughing, shaking with laughter. Him? No, it was her. Tears soaked her face and salted her tongue.
Was he even there? Or was she imagining a lover worthy of the Marquis de Sade? A demon with the patience for whatever time it took.
Was any of this really happening? The water dripping on her body, splashing between her legs and becoming more intense with each drop. It was a torrent now. She was becoming the water, flowing, dripping, melting like a glacier in spring. How did she stop this flood?
She forced her eyes open and saw them staring back at her. Eyes. Everywhere. Hypnotic and black as cherries. Her own eyes, heavy with sexual desire. Begging. Release me. Don’t let me writhe and thrash like this, helpless. Electrical current grounds me. Lust cracks me like a whip. I am what you have made me, a whore for pleasure. But I will fight you to prove that I’m not. And I will win.
“Put your hands against the wall. Spread your legs.”
Was that his voice? Was he speaking to her? Was that his hand on her naked flank?
Oh, God, no. Another touch. Another feather stroke, and she would be gone. Shattered.
She was ready to climb out of her own body, shed it like a snake, anything to escape him. She grabbed hold of the metal bars, quivering, waiting for pleasure that was unbearable. It took her all the way to heaven and back. All the way to hell. She could not let go. She would shatter into pieces.
One touch and he would break her in half.
Whatever you do, Tess Wakefield, do not—
Chapter One
Twenty-five days earlier…
No point packing the vibrator. Tess Wakefield had zero interest in sex. She’d been doing without it for the better part of a year, and that year had been better, thank you. No more bikini waxing unless she felt like it, no more inspecting her backside for unsightly blemishes or plucking the odd hair from the knuckle of her big toe, which hurt like hell.
No more penises or anything that was attached to them. Men were high maintenance. Well, most of them anyway. They needed all that ego-stroking and fawning, and they didn’t even care if you lied about how wonderful they were. They’d rather you fake orgasms than admit to not having them. Think about it.
And they were wimps, too, when it came to the important things in life. Squeamish about a little honest emotion. Terrified of giving up their freedom. They weren’t looking for partners in life. They wanted groupies. Wannabe pop stars, all of them, in search of an adoring audience. And all that pretending to love football when you were freezing to death and had to pee but didn’t want to risk hepatitis in the event bathroom.
Well, this groupie had turned in her backstage pass.
She tossed the vibrator into one of the boxes that would go into temporary storage and turned back to the array of clothing on her bed that still had to be sorted and packed. Thank goodness her new employer, Pratt-Summers, was handling most of the move to New York for her, which included the generous offer to use one of their corporate apartments until she could find a place of her own. She’d been offered the prestigious creative director position, and she had to look professional. That meant black, and lots of it. On the other hand, this was an advertising agency and they tended to be casual. It was also February, which meant jeans and sweaters, except for client
