Tease Read online

  Tease

  Camilla Stevens

  Copyright © 2021 by Camilla Stevens

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  About the Author

  Camilla Stevens is a New York resident. At night you can find her typing away, often with a glass of wine, getting all the steamy, suspenseful or humorous, Happily Ever After stories out of her head and down on the page.

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  To the very real southern belle who was very much the inspiration for this book.

  Also by Camilla Stevens

  WRIGHT BROTHERS SERIES

  Mr. Wright & Mr. Wrong

  Mr. & Mrs. Wright

  So Wrong

  STAND ALONE

  One Night

  Sweet Seduction

  EX-CLUB ROMANCE SERIES

  Archer: Ex-Bachelor

  Dylan: Ex-Bad Boy

  Bryce: Ex-Business

  TEXAS HEAT ROMANCE SERIES

  Home Run

  High Stakes

  Hard Sell

  INTERNATIONAL LEGACIES ROMANCE

  The Italian Heir

  The French Thief

  The Nordic Lightning

  Her Icelandic Protector

  Her Russian Defender

  The Luxembourg Betrayal

  The Monte Carlo Shark

  The Spanish Pirate

  Contents

  DESCRIPTION

  Playlist

  Author’s Note

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Epilogue

  DESCRIPTION

  “Hello, neighbor. Going down?”

  Miss Pink

  That’s what I call her.

  Her “real” name is too ridiculous to repeat.

  Besides, my nickname for her is more than apt.

  Everything about her is pink, from the pink champagne she gets delivered by the caseload, to the tiny pink feathers I find randomly breezing down the hallway of our apartment building in her wake.

  It’s ridiculous…in the most addictive way.

  Clark Kent

  That’s what I call him.

  His “real” name is still a mystery to me.

  Which makes him all the more intriguing.

  Besides, my nickname for him is more than apt.

  Everything about him is straight-laced and serious from the dark-rimmed glasses to the dark suits he wears to work each day.

  There’s something about that stoic demeanor which is…so dang sexy.

  We’re as opposite as can be.

  Who would have ever thought we’d end up as a couple?

  Certainly not our exes.

  This is a BWWM Romantic Comedy with a very Happily Ever After. Due to Adult situations 18+.

  Playlist

  (Only the Love Songs)

  Love Me Again — John Newman

  Crazy in Love — Beyoncé

  I Feel Love — Donna Summer

  Historia De Un Amor — (Various)

  You Can’t Hurry Love — The Supremes

  Lovefool — The Cardigans

  Sunday Kind of Love — Etta James

  That’s the Way Love Goes — Janet Jackson

  Love Hangover - Diana Ross

  Your Love is my Drug — Ke$ha

  Love Train — The O’Jays

  I Was Made to Love Her — Stevie Wonder

  Author’s Note

  Welcome to the world of Tease!

  This book takes place in the same universe as the Ex-Club Series, specifically before Bryce Ex-Business.

  You do not have to have read those books to appreciate this one, which absolutely stands alone.

  Happy reading!

  Chapter One

  Honey

  “What’s the point of getting dressed if I’m just going to get naked again?”

  Poor Eugene gives me a pained look.

  I realize I’m not making his job as a doorman-slash-fire-putter-outter any easier. But my point remains the same.

  “She’s being deliberately provocative,” the older woman standing next to him insists, stabbing her index finger my way with each word.

  I assume this is so that Eugene knows it’s not some other resident of Norton Place dressed in a long, pink, silk robe, with pink feather trim, and pink Manolo Blahnik mules. A cheerful bit of a contrast to the dreary February weather outside.

  Fortunately, it’s warm and toasty in here.

  I take a dainty sip of latte from my dainty cup, one dainty pinky finger sticking out daintily before addressing my highly agitated neighbor.

  We Georgia gals never forget our gentility, nor how to kill a person with kindness, even after five years of living in New York City.

  Perhaps that will give her time to find her smelling salts before she faints.

  After all, it was just a nipple for heaven’s sake!

  “And what exactly is it that I’m—ahem—provokin’ in you, Miss…?” My exaggerated southern drawl, as syrupy sweet as a Georgia peach cobbler, is deliberately provocative, with one eyebrow very provocatively raised.

  I just barely manage to hide an impish smile behind my cup as I take another sip.

  “That’s Mrs. to you—not that I have any intention of making your acquaintance.” Her eyes wander down my robe, as though pointing out exactly which affliction of mine she’s quarantining herself from. “As for provoking anything in me, the only things you’ve managed to fill me with are indignation, revulsion, and contempt. ”

  “Ooh,” I reply, my eyes going wide with delight, “a veritable trifecta or, dare I say, ménage à trois?”

  I can’t tell if it’s a sigh or a groan that escapes Eugene’s lips.

  Mrs. gasps, and one hand flies up to clutch at imaginary pearls, something I thought only happened in novels and idioms.

  It’s all I can do to keep from laughing.

  That would most certainly ruin the fun. Fortunately, I’m a maestro (correction, maestra) of the façade.

  Yes, I may have haphazardly tied the sash around my waist before leaving my apartment to jot down and get my free latte from the machine that Norton Place makes available to its residents.

  And yes, I should have known the thin, slinky fabric could easily part down the middle as I was reaching for the sugar (I have an insatiable sweet tooth, don’t you know).

  And therefore, yes, I may have given the poor, elderly dear glaring at me right now a br
ief snapshot of nipple while I was pouring said sugar.

  It isn’t as though I did it on purpose!

  “I, for one, am perfectly willing to chalk this whole mess up to a simple wardrobe malfunction.” I wave my hand in a lah-dee-dah manner, as if the matter is already settled.

  “You call that a wardrobe?” the woman scolds. “Perhaps in the back rooms of a bor-dello.”

  “Why Mrs.,” I chide, giving her an admonishing look. “How would such a fine, upstanding lady such as yourself be so knowledgeable about the goings-on in the back rooms of a bordello? Specifically what sort of attire is common in such an establishment,” I add in a confidential tone.

  “Don’t you try to embroil me in your deviance! I’m not the one dressed like a French prostitute!”

  I know I’m supposed to be offended, but I take it as a compliment. I was born in Georgia, the part that my folks back home affectionately call the Dirty South. As such, comparing me to a French anything makes me tingle with delight.

  Still, I resent the undertone of condemnation toward my fellow female, particularly those “embroiled” in the world’s oldest profession.

  “I should point out that I’m showing far less skin than you are right now.” I firmly clutch my long robe around me with my free hand. My eyes wander down to the hem of her below-the-knee skirt. I linger on the nude support hose beneath that hemline and raise one eyebrow in judgement. “Really! The amount of leg you’re revealing is positively scandalous.”

  Her mouth opens and closes in flustered indignation. She looks so much like a blowfish, I almost break character by coughing out a laugh.

  Oh, this is too much fun!

  “Miss Dewberry, please,” Eugene sighs, inserting himself back into the conversation.

  “Honey,” I say, batting my eyelashes just enough to make him wonder if I’m telling him to call me by my first name or addressing him with a term of endearment.

  Obviously Honey isn’t my real name. Nor is Dewberry my last. But they both fit together so preciously.

  Certainly better than my real name.

  If Norma Jean can become Marilyn Monroe, certainly Albertha Dixon (can you even imagine?) can become Honey Dewberry.

  Based on the snort of Mrs. Lemon Lips—which is how I shall henceforth refer to her, considering the present state of her mouth, now puckered with displeasure—she is not impressed.

  “There should be rules about this sort of thing,” Mrs. Lemon Lips demands.

  She eyes me with narrow-gazed contempt.

  “Oh, but there are rules about this sort of thing,” I quip, brightening up. “According to New York State law, it’s perfectly legal for women in this state to go topless.”

  “Those laws do not apply in Norton Place, Miss Dewberry,” Eugene says, ignoring my insistence that he refer to me by my first name. “We do have rules against nudity.”

  “Ah, but I wasn’t nude. Trust me, I know how to keep the goodies covered.” I throw my hand in the air and add with flourish. “Leave them wanting more, I say!”

  Mrs. Lemon Lips harrumphs in apparent disagreement.

  Eugene sighs for the umpteenth time. “Please, Miss Dewberry.”

  “Yes, yes,” I concede with a pert smile reserved just for him. I clutch the opening of my robe even tighter before continuing. “As God as my witness, I shall never provoke another ménage à trois—” I toss a sparkle-eyed gleam to Mrs. Lemon Lips. Those lips pucker even more. “— in my fellow residents.”

  “Well, I can’t say that I’m entirely pleased with—”

  “Thank you, Miss Dewberry,” Eugene says before Mrs. Lemon Lips can continue her complaints.

  “Always, for you, Eugene,” I say in such a charming manner he actually blushes.

  I think about adding something for Mrs. Lemon Lips but my Monday morning has already been brightened enough.

  “Ta-ta!” I chime as I sashay back toward the elevators.

  It doesn’t take long for one to arrive. Once I step in and the doors close, I release my laughter.

  Oh, but I do love to tease!

  When the elevator opens on the 23rd floor my smile brightens even more.

  This has to be the fiftieth time we’ve happened to meet each other at the elevators since he moved in across the hall from me a year ago.

  Each and every time, I greet him the same way as we switch places.

  “Hello, neighbor. Going down?” I purr.

  A humorless smile appears on his handsome face as he responds. “Amusing as always.”

  I laugh lightly, enjoying his dry sensibilities.

  You can call me Jesse. That’s what he said the first time I introduced myself to him.

  I prefer Clark Kent, at least in my head. Jesse (no last name) is far too pedestrian for a man like this. I just know there’s something super hiding underneath that smart suit, those dark-framed glasses, and one very serious demeanor.

  He doesn’t even look like a Jesse. A face like that, all chiseled cheeks, a sharp jawline, intelligent eyes as dark as molasses, and a long, proud nose?

  No, something as boring as Jesse just doesn’t cut it.

  Since that first introduction, all further communication has been limited to our morning tête-à-tête as I return from getting my latte at the same time every morning. I work nights and that first cup of something strong and milky once the sun rises for some reason seems to settle me.

  Clark Kent’s face is almost as enjoyable as the cup of Joe in my hands.

  “Have a lovely day, Jesse,” I say chirpily, waving my fingers as the doors close on him.

  “The same to you…” He pauses, clearing this throat as though preparing it for something he still can’t quite work his mouth around. “Honey.”

  Chapter Two

  Giuseppe

  Honey.

  Not just Honey, but Honey Dewberry.

  Even now, a year later it still sounds ridiculous.

  Miss Pink is what I’ve always called her in my head, certainly a more than apt name considering it’s the main, if not only color I ever see her in.

  She’s like a walking, talking cotton candy factory. Or perhaps more like a feather pillow factory, considering how often I see those pink feathers from her robe randomly floating along our hallway.

  The contrasting rich brown color of her skin somehow seems to highlight the pink even more.

  The mix of the two is like some confounding confectionery concoction that leaves me spinning with a sugar high.

  Still, she does have a way of perking one up in the morning, I’ll give her that.

  That wavy bob framing an adorable face. Those brown eyes, surrounded by lashes in a permanent state of flirtatious batting. That wide mouth perpetually spread in a smile that seems to take up most of her face.

  It’s…not terrible.

  I let out a long, slow breath as the doors open on the first floor, and reprogram my brain for another day of work at Abbott, Bradford & Carmichael, or ABC as it’s known in the legal world.

  ABC is one of, if not the top law firm in New York, and thus the country. If you look up white-shoe firm in the dictionary you’d find their logo, and probably a picture of the founders from 1895.

  Having graduated in the top five percent of my class at Harvard, I was an obvious fit, at least on paper. I’m well aware that my blue-collar upbringing is a sharp contrast to the blue-blood that flows through the veins of most of the partners. Still, I’d like to think that my intelligence, hard work, and more importantly, billable hours have made up for it.

  When I exit Norton Place, I head for the subway. I could take an Uber or taxi or even a hired car downtown from the Upper West Side apartment, but I take the 1 train instead.

  I spent the first few years out of law school sending money to my parents and siblings, studiously paying off student loans, and saving up enough so that I can buy in when ABC finally offers me an equity partnership.

  Now, all but the first—which I’ll never stop doing—have been ta
ken care of, so I can afford to treat myself.

  However, either old habits die hard, or I find the idea of paying for a car ride grating on my lingering lower-middle-class sensibilities.

  Besides, it’s enough of a splurge to rent an apartment at Norton Place, which (just barely) has the right zip code for a future partner at ABC, at least those who haven’t moved on to custom homes or stately manors out of the city limits.

  That has my mind wandering back around to Honey, which it does more often than I’d care to admit.

  I have no idea what she does for a living, but if she can afford an apartment at Norton Place, then it must pay well.

  I do know that she always seems to be coming when I’m going, and vice versa. Though on occasion, if I stay to an absurdly late enough hour at the office, we sometimes arrive together, well after midnight.

  The places that takes my mind, I’d rather not dwell on.

  By the time I get to the office, I’ve dropped her from my thoughts.

  The official start time at ABC is nine-thirty. I’m usually the first senior associate to arrive, well before that time.