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About The Heat Seekers
Product Description A hot and sexy novel from the bestselling author of Addicted about the volatile, sensual escapades of two unforgettable pairs of lover. They're sisters of the soul, two girlfriends hitting the clubs in search of that oh-so-rare commodity: single guys. Tempest sports a modest suit, while Janessa runs wild in a skintight minidress—but they both want the same thing: the heat, the passion, the spark to ignite the sensual fires inside. It takes time and patience to find such a special lover. But somewhere among the losers they know there's a match for each of them. The last thing Geren wants is a relationship—most women can't see past his money and his good looks. But when Dvontè—Geren’s best friend and total womanizer—talks Geren into going clubbing, fate leads them to Tempest and Janessa. Attractions flare, connections are made, lives are changed, and secrets come to light. Together, they are the heat seekers, four daring hearts willing to play with fire—and take the risk of getting burned. About the Author Zane is the New York Times bestselling author of Afterburn, The Heat Seekers, Dear G-Spot, Gettin’ Buck Wild, The Hot Box, Total Eclipse of the Heart, Nervous, Skyscraper, Love is Never Painless, Shame on It All, and The Sisters of APF; the ebook short stories “I’ll be Home for Christmas” and “Everything Fades Away”; and editor for the Flava anthology series, including Z-Rated and Busy Bodies. Her TV series, Zane’s Sex Chronicles, and The Jump Off are featured on Cinemax, and her bestselling novel Addicted is a major motion picture with Lionsgate Films. She is the publisher of Strebor Books, an imprint of Atria Books/Simon & Schuster. Visit her online at EroticaNoir.com. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Chapter One: the seekers tempest My hand hovered over the lighted dial pad of my cordless phone, debating about calling another sorry mofo. The first one wasn't home, and it was just as well. Giorgio was this brotha I met while I was in line at Starbucks waiting on a mocha cappuccino. He was attractive, nice and the perfect gentleman. We kicked it a few times together. Everything was kewl until I found out the nucca had six toes on his left foot. Yes, I said six damn toes. He had this miniature one hanging off the side. I discovered it one night when he treated me to a foot massage, and I decided to return the favor. Normally I would never venture to caress a man's feet, but I was being daring that night, and the shit will never, ever, ever, ever happen again. It freaked me out, that sixth toe, and it reminded me of that Stephen King flick, The Dark Half. I came to the conclusion that Giorgio had been genetically conceived as a twin but somehow swallowed his other half. For days after the gruesome discovery, I had nightmares about marrying him, waking up one morning, and seeing him standing there with a hatchet in his hand and grinning like Jack Nicholson in The Shining. No, that nucca had to go. I know it sounds shallow, but I would rather be safe than sorry. I flipped through my version of the little black book, a tattered and worn four-by-six-inch plastic pink phone book with a black poodle on the cover. The only letters left from the word address were the a, the r, and the e. As I eyed the pages, a feeling of disgust overwhelmed me. So many names, so many sorry-ass mofos. And to think, I had allowed these nuccas inside my world, catered to their every desire and even performed on the parasites all the fellatio techniques I learned from that Monica chick's book, The Complete Guide to Tongue and Jaw Maneuvering. Let me break it down for you. Sorry mofo number one: Trent, a twenty-six-year-old systems analyst. Fondest memory: practicing tantric sex with him and basking in the afterglow of the numerous earth-shattering yoni (clit) massages he bestowed upon me. Most traumatic memory: walking in on him bestowing the lingam (dick)
