“Delicious,” he said, and the sensuality in that single word had my body clenching. It took everything inside me not to yank him close and beg him to please, please just fuck me because nothing else could douse this building heat and bank the fire that was threatening to turn me to ash.

“But this,” he said, as he used the tip of his finger to dab at the stray juice on my mouth, “this is even more delicious.”

I swallowed, anticipating the pleasure of watching him slide his own finger into his mouth and then sucking the juice off. Or, perhaps he would surprise me and slide that finger into my mouth, and I could curve my lips around his finger and lose myself in the cherry-coated taste of him.

That, however, wasn’t what he had in mind.

Instead of pressing his finger to my mouth, he brought it to my clit, sliding his hand down between my parted thighs. I gasped as thought abandoned me.

And then, as he slowly—so devilishly slowly—teased and played, all rationality and reason escaped me as well. I was nothing but sensation. A human-sized collection of atoms that existed solely to shimmy and buzz in pleasure.

Then he pulled away. I whimpered, desperate for him to finish what he’d begun.

“Shhh,” he murmured, as he placed his hands on my hips to keep me from writhing in silent demand.

“Tyler—” My voice was raw, ripped from me. “Don’t. Let me—”

“Hush,” he said again, keeping me motionless. Worse, keeping me unsatisfied. “I think there’s a bit of cherry juice in a very sweet spot.” His eyes flicked up to mine, hot and hungry, and my sex clenched in anticipation of what was coming. “And I want just a little taste.”

Yes, yes, oh sweet Jesus, yes.

As if he purposefully set out to torment me, he trailed kisses up the inside of my thigh, driving me just a little wild. I wanted to writhe, to twist my body in time with the sensations that were pounding through me, but he held me fast. I couldn’t move. And somehow my immobility made the pleasure that much keener.

With the tip of his tongue, he teased the soft skin at the juncture of my thighs. I drew in a shuddered breath and arched back, trying to breathe as sparks of pleasure shot over my body, so delicious and yet at the same time not enough. I wanted the explosion.

“Please,” I begged, then cried out in triumph when he shifted his attention to my clit, his tongue finding that most sensitive part of me. His tongue laved me, teased me, and my body trembled with the pressure of a building explosion that never quite seemed to come.

I arched my back, my eyes squeezed tight, as if by sheer force of will I could make myself go over. I was close, so damn close …

“Tyler,” I murmured. “Tyler, please …”

Gently, he pulled back, then tilted his head to look up at me as I fought back a cry of protest. “As I said, delicious.” He leaned over and picked up the glass of champagne. “Drink,” he said, and I gratefully took the glass, gulping down a swallow of the cool liquid that was painfully insufficient to quell the heat that raged inside me.

“Save a bit for me,” he said, then gently took the glass from me. He sipped too, then used his hands to ease my thighs wider than before—thank god—and then lowering his mouth to my sex once again.

I’d expected the pleasure. I hadn’t expected the mind-blowing delight that came from the combination of his hot mouth, clever tongue, and the cool, sparkling champagne. The bubbles fizzed against my already sensitive clit, the sensation almost too much to bear. A million little pops and trills, all promising something bigger, something wilder and hotter.

And yet none of them were quite enough to take me there. I needed his touch, his tongue. Needed it right there, but though I shamelessly shifted my hips, he never quite stayed on the sweet spot long enough to take me that final distance.

“Please,” I begged.

But he wasn’t interested in my demands. Instead, he shifted his attention, trailing kisses along my trimmed line of pubic hair, then up to tease my navel with his tongue.

Every touch was erotic, sending heat swirling through me. But it wasn’t the heat I wanted but the explosion, and as I moaned in both pleasure and protest his mouth closed hard over my breast and his teeth teased my erect nipple.

“You’re tormenting me,” I whispered, when his hand slipped between my thighs. I gasped as he slid a finger inside me, then stroked me in long, slow movements designed to let the pleasure build and build—but never quite reach the pinnacle. “You bastard,” I moaned. “You’re doing this on purpose.”

“Clever girl.” He cupped his hands over my breasts, then brought his mouth to my neck. His kisses along my neck were a different kind of torture, and I instinctively tilted my head to one side. “But is it really torment?” he murmured, his lips brushing my skin with each soft word, and sending shockwaves rippling through me. “Or is it heightened pleasure borne from anticipating what’s yet to come?”

“Torment,” I said firmly, making him laugh. “And here I was starting to think you were a nice man. You’re not.”

He eased back so that I could see his face. Desire and heat and a feral ruthlessness that cut straight through me. “You’re right,” he said. “I’m not.”

While I worked hard to keep myself from whimpering, Tyler rose to his feet. He held out his hand, and I took it with both curiosity and anticipation. I hoped he was leading me to the bedroom; I hoped he intended to finish what he’d started. I feared that he had something else in mind, though—and, damn the man, I couldn’t help that sizzle in my blood that came from the mixture of curiosity and, yes, anticipation.

Without a word, he led me into a short hallway, then through yet another formal room.

To be honest, I was swimming in such a sensual haze, it’s a wonder I noticed anything at all. But small things jumped out at me. The paintings. The molding. There were antiques tucked into every corner, yet the room still looked elegant, not cluttered.

We moved down yet another hall, and I entertained the insane idea that all he was really doing was walking me in a circle. More torment. More anticipation.

When I said as much, he laughed. “I’m not that cruel. The place is just huge. You could get lost in it. I do sometimes.”

“Really?”

“No, but it makes a good story.”

“Is that what you do? Make up stories when the truth isn’t good enough?”

The corner of his mouth twitched. “Absolutely.”

“Well,” I said. “That’s a conundrum.”

“What is?”

“You’re being honest about being dishonest.”

“Maybe I’m just trying to keep you interested,” he said, a hint of heat returning to his voice.

I didn’t quite meet his eyes. “I don’t think you have a thing to worry about there.”

We’d reached the open door to the master bedroom, and I was surprised to see the contrast between its interior and the rest of the penthouse. This room contained the modern furniture that Tyler had said he preferred. Sleek lines that accentuated function over form, but nonetheless suggested money and taste.

Interesting. It told me that he was a man who was willing to compromise—but not on the things that were personal and important to him.

There were a pair of closed French doors on the far side of the room, behind which I assumed was a bathroom. A huge bed dominated the space in front of the windows, beyond which the lights of the city twinkled like surrogate stars.

I expected we’d move to the bed, but instead Tyler led me across the room toward those double doors. As we moved across the space, I focused on the details, looking at the room as I might look at a crime scene, trying to discern whatever I could about the man who occupied this space. The dresser—with his personal items laid out precisely on top—suggested organization even while the clothes tossed carelessly across the back of an armchair showed that he didn’t take it to the level of obsessiveness.