Tempt Me (The Temptation Duet Book 1)

  For exclusive giveaways, and secrets

  of the series sign-up for my newsletter.

  Copyright © 2016 Roxy Sloane

  Cover Photo: Sara Eirew

  Cover Design: Sara Eirew

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Also by Roxy Sloane:

  THE SEDUCTION SERIES:

  The Seduction 1

  The Seduction 2

  The Seduction 3

  The Seduction 4

  THE INVITATION SERIES:

  The Invitation

  The Invitation: Surrender

  The Invitation: Release

  THE SUBMISSION SERIES:

  Sweet Submission

  Wild Submission

  Total Submission

  Perfect Submission

  THE EXPOSE SERIES:

  The Exposé 1

  The Exposé 2

  The Exposé 3

  The Exposé 4

  THE SCENE SERIES:

  The Scene 1

  The Scene 2

  The Scene 3

  EXPLICIT: A STAND-ALONE ROMANCE

  THE TEMPTATION DUET:

  Tempt Me

  Tease Me

  * * *

  For exclusive giveaways, and more sign-up for my newsletter.

  Come find me on Facebook.

  Let’s tweet!

  * * *

  Tempt Me

  By Roxy Sloane

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  1.

  I’ve never fucked a woman who didn’t lie.

  Not to me. When I’m grinding eight inches deep up against your G-spot, you can bet you won’t have the mind to remember your own name. No, I’m talking about the next guy. And everyone who’s unlucky enough to come after me.

  “That’s right, baby. You’re the best.”

  “Nobody’s ever gone so deep.”

  And this one, the classic. The biggest fucking whopper to ever cross a woman’s lips:

  “It’s OK. Size doesn’t matter. It’s what you do with it that counts.”

  Right, love. Say that again with a straight face once I’ve stretched you so wide, you’re begging me to stop and screaming for more, all in the same goddamn breath.

  Go on, I dare you.

  So yeah, all women lie. I don’t hold it against you, because men do it, too. We’ve all got our secrets, but it just happens to be my job to figure yours out.

  Like this girl. I met her at the bar ten minutes ago, licking martini olives like she wanted me imagining her wet mouth wrapped around my cock.

  Mission accomplished.

  Now she’s braced against the wall in the alley outside with her skirt shoved up around her waist and my cock pounding into her hard from behind.

  “Don’t stop. Oh God, please don’t stop!” She’s grinding back against me, out of control with my hand rubbing her clit just right and the other gripping one of those juicy tits to keep the pace.

  “Harder,” the girl begs, her face crushed against the wall. “Fuck me hard!”

  With pleasure.

  I pound relentlessly, sending her body crashing into the wall with the impact of my thrusts. But she just moans and begs for more. I knew from the minute I laid eyes on her she needed it rough and dirty. It’s why I took that seat beside her, over every other hot, willing woman in the bar. Sure, I could have had any one of them on their knees in a heartbeat, sucking me off like their life depended on it. Or maybe two of them back at my place, for a little three-way action. Double the pussy, double the fun.

  But one look at this girl, and I knew all her deepest, darkest secrets.

  She wants to feel it, every last thrust.

  And lucky for her, I’m in the mood to fuck.

  “You like that, baby?” I fist her hair and yank hard, arching her body back to meet me. All she can do is whimper, but she doesn’t need to say a word. Her clenching cunt is all the answer I need.

  Besides, that sweet mouth has done nothing but lie since the moment we met.

  She said she was a student at the college nearby, just having a fun night out with friends. She thinks I didn’t notice the pale band of skin on her wedding finger, or that happy couple background pic on her phone.

  She’s wrong.

  I notice everything. I see right through you. It’s what I do.

  Like how she spread her legs for me right here where anyone could see, because she wouldn’t dare take me home. How her body is grinding, desperate, because whatever flaccid little prick he’s been prodding her with for God knows how long doesn’t do it right. Not even close. And this—yeah, this, fuck—the way she’s convulsing around my cock like she’s having some kind of seizure? This tells me she’ll never have it this good again.

  Every other climax, every other cock for the rest of her life, she’ll be picturing me right now, and how I tore her goddamn pussy apart.

  “Yes! OHMYGOD. YES!”

  She comes, screaming so loud someone’s going to call the cops, but I don’t care. I slam into her faster, my balls tight and ready, so fucking ready. I’m gripping her hips so hard, she’ll need to explain those bruises in the morning, but that isn’t my problem. Nothing is, except the friction of her tight pussy and the slide of her wetness and fuck, yeah, that clenching, vice-like grip of her climax, milking me out. I’m close now, right on the fucking edge—

  One more thrust and then I suddenly pull away. I spin her around and push her to her knees, burying all eight throbbing inches into that wet, open mouth.

  Fuck yeah.

  She chokes around me in surprise, but now she’s got the message. Sucking me hard. Taking me deep. That tight friction of her throat is all I need: I come like a fucking tsunami, unleashing a torrent of hot cum gushing right down her throat.

  Goddamn.

  I growl with the release, feeling it crash over me. And bless her lying, cheating heart, but this girl swallows down every last drop, her eyes glazed with shock and lust and oh yeah, the best goddamn orgasm she’ll ever know.

  That’s how you do it, darlin’.

  That’s what you’ll never get from him.

  And that’s why one of these days, he’s going to be walking through the doors of my PI agency, hiring me to figure out why his sweet young wife is sneaking around on him.

  I can’t hold it against her. All women lie.

  They just lie better on their backs.

  2.

  CHLOE

  I learned a long time ago that honesty’s the best policy.

  Even if you think a little white lie isn’t going to hurt anyone, think again. Before you know it, that tiny fib has spiraled out of control, and you’re in way deeper than if you’d just been up front to begin with.

  I like things simple and clear-cut—which is why I never expected to wind up working in real estate. I mean, realtors? We’re one step above used-car salesmen when it comes to bending the truth. At least, that’s
the way my boss likes to play it . . .

  “It’s such a quiet building, no street noise at all.” Marcie smiles brightly, even as a garbage truck rolls past, honking and beeping so loud, you can hardly hear a word. “And the Boston school district is excellent. You can’t think about these things too soon!”

  The happy couple at our big open house seems unsure. We’re in a warehouse district with nothing but old buildings and storage units around. “Is it a safe neighborhood?” they ask me, looking concerned.

  I pause, reluctant. “Well . . .”

  Marcie jumps in. “Absolutely! Super-safe, and tons of things in walking distance.”

  Still, the woman isn’t convinced. “What do you think, Chloe?” she asks me again. “You’ve been helping us look for a while now. I know this isn’t what we asked for, but maybe we need to think outside the box?”

  I gulp. Marcie’s standing right there, and she’s told me flat out we need this apartment to sell ASAP, but I can’t exactly pretend that a massive industrial loft space is the family home of their dreams. “I say trust your gut,” I finally tell them. “Buying a place is a huge decision. If you’re not one hundred percent in love with it, then keep looking.”

  The couple relaxes. “OK, then this one isn’t for us,” the husband says. He hands the brochure back to Marcie. “Let us know if anything else comes up.”

  “Sure!” Marcie ushers them out, all smiles, but the minute they’re out of the door, she turns on me with a scowl. “What the hell was that? You’re supposed to be helping sell this place, not undermining everything I say!”

  “I didn’t!” I protest. “You’re always telling clients to trust their gut.”

  “Only when I know they really want to buy!” Marcie rolls her eyes. “Or if it’s out of their price range, and I need them to throw out the budget! Honestly, Chloe, you need to learn if you’re going to move up in this business.”

  “But I don’t want to lie to them.”

  Marcie laughs, like I just made a joke. “It’s not lying, we’re just . . . massaging the truth. Highlighting the good points. A neighborhood isn’t noisy, it’s vibrant. A house isn’t run-down, it’s got potential.” She sees a new group of people arrive, and brightens again. “Go make sure everyone signs in. And get another batch of cookies in the oven!”

  I head over to the front table and make sure to greet everyone cheerfully before heading to the kitchen area. I’ve been working for Fortune & Adler for two years now, a small family agency here in Boston. It was a lucky break to get a job at all: nobody’s exactly lining up to hire a failed ex-ballerina. Without a college degree, it was hard enough just getting through the door for an assistant gig answering phones and fetching Marcie’s lunch. But I worked around the clock for her, then bust my butt studying to get my real estate license. Now, finally, I’m a junior agent—although most days it doesn’t seem all that different, still running at Marcie’s beck and call.

  “A beautiful woman who bakes, it’s my lucky day.”

  I look up and almost drop the sheet of cookies I’m pulling from the oven. There’s a guy standing just inches away from me.

  A hot, drop-dead sexy vision of a man.

  He’s got blue eyes and close-cropped dark hair, towering over me with a muscular boxer’s build even though I stand almost six feet in my heels. His face isn’t classically handsome, it’s almost brutish with the angle of an old broken nose, but there’s an animal physicality radiating from his body that makes me blink a moment, lost for words.

  Wow.

  “Hi,” I finally say, feeling guilty for even thinking it. “Are you, umm, here for the open house?”

  “That’s right, love.” If the eyes and the body and that sexy grin weren’t enough, he’s got a British accent, too. Rough around the edges, not crisp and upper-crust.

  “Jase Banner. Pleasure to meet you.” He leans in closer and gives me a wink. “And if I play my cards right, it’ll be your pleasure, too.”

  I put the cookie sheet down with a clatter. “Chloe,” I manage to answer, and pull off the oven mitt.

  Jase whistles. “I take it back. Who’s the lucky man?”

  I look down. Fifteen carats wink back at me, a massive pear-shaped diamond surrounded by a dozen smaller stones. I told my fiancé I wasn’t comfortable wearing anything so flashy—or valuable—but he wouldn’t take “no” for an answer.

  “His name’s Max,” I say, relieved. “Maxwell Mainwaring.”

  Jase smirks. “Well, that explains it.”

  I blush. The Mainwaring’s are one of the oldest and wealthiest families in Boston. They have museum rooms and hospital wings named after them, and as the heir to the fortune, Max gets written up in the society pages all the time. Of course, I didn’t know any of that when we first met. It wasn’t until the third date, when he picked me up in a vintage Aston Martin and took me out for a picnic on his private yacht that I realized I was in way over my head. It’s been a whirlwind from day one; he proposed on our three-month anniversary, and even looking at his ring on my finger, it doesn’t really feel real.

  “When’s the big day?” Jase asks. He grabs a cookie and blows on it to cool.

  “Not until next year,” I reply. “We just got engaged, and there’s a lot to plan.”

  “Big society to-do, huh?”

  I nod, my heart sinking just at the thought. “I wish we could just elope,” I find myself confiding. “But it’s important to his family. They have traditions.”

  “Like the rock,” Jase says. I look up, surprised.

  “How did you know?”

  He chuckles. “Simple, sweetheart, it’s not your style.” Jase strolls closer, “You’re not flashy or hungry for attention. You’re simple. Elegant. Beautiful.”

  He fixes those blue eyes on me, and suddenly, I feel my heart beating faster.

  I quickly back away. “Can I show you the apartment?” I blurt, my voice sounding weirdly high-pitched.

  Jase smiles, like he knows exactly what I’m thinking. “Why not?”

  “It’s a converted warehouse space, lots of light, great open space . . .” I babble my way through the listing, showing him around. And even though I’ve done nothing wrong, I can’t help feeling guilty every time I register how his vintage T-shirt pulls across the thick curve of his biceps . . . or how the muscles in his back ripple under the thin fabric when he reaches up to test the window frame.

  His body is incredible, coiled with raw animal power. I wonder how it would feel, pressing me into the mattress . . .

  Hold it right there. What are you doing, drooling over a complete stranger? You’re engaged to the man of your dreams!

  I push the thought away and try to focus on the job right in front of me. We finish the circuit of the main floor and wind up by the front door again. “Have you been apartment-hunting for long?” I do my best to sound professional—and not like I’ve been scoping out his ass.

  Jase shrugs. “Off and on. I get bored, stuck in one place for too long. I like to keep things interesting.”

  “And what are you really looking for?” I ask.

  “Well,” Jase smirks. “You already know I like sexy brunettes who bake.”

  I flush. “I meant the apartment.”

  He chuckles. “I know you did, sweetheart.”

  For once in my life, I wish Marcie would interrupt, but she’s latched onto a wealthy-looking trust-fund kid with his parents in tow, and I know she’s already counting her commission.

  “Are you going to take me to bed?”

  My head snaps back around. Jase is waiting. “The bedroom,” he says, looking amused. “Is it up those stairs?”

  “Oh. Yes.” I look over. The master suite is set back on a mezzanine level, away from the main space. Totally private. “You should go ahead and look around yourself,” I tell him briskly. “I need to stay here to greet clients.”

  He looks surprised. “You’re not going to come sell me on the place?”

  “Nope.” I
shrug. “Either you like it or you don’t.”

  He laughs. “Blunt. I like it. And I agree,” he adds. “No point messing around when I already know what I want. It’s just a shame she’s off the market.”

  He looks at me again, the kind of smirking, sexy stare that makes it clear what he’s talking about—and exactly what he’d do to me if he had the chance.

  I flush. “Thanks for coming out,” I say. “Marcie’s details are on the brochure, you should call her if you have any questions.”

  “What about your number?” he asks, teasing.

  I cross my arms. “You won’t be needing it.”

  “Don’t be so sure.” Jase leans in, close enough for me to feel his breath, hot on my cheek. “Maybe I like getting caught with my hand in the cookie jar.”

  Before I can react, his hand slides over my hip—and reaches to grab another cookie from the plate. He steps back, gives me a wink, and then he’s gone, leaving me flushed and my pulse racing there beside the door.

  Bad Chloe. Bad, bad girl.

  3.

  JASE

  Some people guard their secrets, but Chloe Archer is an open book. Twenty minutes with that girl tells me everything I need to know:

  She’s gorgeous, sexy, and damn, does she need a good fuck.

  It was a surprise to walk through the door and find such an irresistible package. Teasing brown eyes, a sweet mouth made to suck cock, and legs that go to heaven and back. I could tell by the way she was watching me she was just picturing what I could do with those slim thighs spread wide open—or better yet, wrapped around my shoulders as I show her just how a real man likes to eat pussy.

  All. Day. Long.

  So why am I heading back to my office alone, without so much as her phone number? Any other girl would have fallen over herself to press her digits into my palm—her body, too. Hell, most women would have found us an empty storage closet and gone at it right there, not caring if anyone walked in and saw them coming their sweet brains out.