Page 15 of Wicked Sin

And I don’t want to think about that, so I drop my bag on my sofa and go to the hall closet where I keep my suitcases.

He clears his throat and shakes his head no when I reach for the biggest one.

“What?”

“An overnight bag will suffice.”

“Are we going to be only gone overnight?”

He gives me a pained look. “The small suitcase, then. Something reasonable.”

I don’t even know what that word means, but okay, sure.

In my bedroom, I try to ignore him as he watches me pull out jeans, leggings, t-shirts, and a hoodie. Then I go to my dresser, and I don’t need him watching me pack my thongs and bras, so I wiggle my fingers at him. “Shoo.”

He doesn’t go anywhere.

I shift gears, going into the bathroom instead to grab my makeup bag and toiletries. When I come back, I pull open my top drawer—universally known as the keeper of lace and things, is it not?—and give him a pointed a look. “Can I have some privacy, please?”

“I’ve seen lingerie before. I need to make sure you aren’t packing anything electronic. No cell phone. Nothing trackable.”

I hold up the velvet pouch I’d been looking for—and wouldn’t be going anywhere without. “Do you think someone’s planted a bug in my vibrator?”

He holds out his hand. “Let me see it.”

“What? No. Don’t be a pervert.” The accusation tumbled out before I could think of a better way to establish the boundary of no; he can’t touch my sex toy. Oh well. I stand by it.

“Then you can’t bring it with you.”

“Nobody bugged it.”

“Bet you didn’t think anyone would have planted a bomb in your car, either.”

All the sass drains out of me, and I hand it over. Instead of taking it, his fingers wrap around my fist. His gaze locks on my face.

“I’m sorry, that was out of line.”

“You aren’t wrong,” I mutter. “Check it.”

He squeezes my hand then takes the pouch. He doesn’t have any smart-ass comments about the palm-sized clit sucker, so either he knows about the newest trend in sex toys, or he’s decided discretion is the way to go here. Turning it over in his hand, he inspects the USB charging port and the soft, malleable tip.

Heat crawls up my neck, and I turn around, giving my attention to my shoes stacked in a custom shelf beside my dresser. “Do you want to check these over, too?” I ask crisply, holding up a pair of wedge heels.

It takes him a moment to reply. “Do you own any shoes that are easy to run in?”

And the smart-ass comments are back. Fine, let’s do this. “Nope,” I toss over my shoulder. “I don’t break a sweat for anyone.”

“Not even your little friend here?” He reaches around me and dangles the velvet pouch in front of my face. “It looks fine. You can pack it.”

Snatching it from his hand, I shove it in my suitcase then pull my gym bag out from under my bed. Of course, I own shoes I can run in. This body doesn’t just magically keep itself looking the way it does.

He doesn’t say anything as I finish packing.

My last stop is the safe in my closet. My heart pounds as I grab cash. It’s just a reflex, something I’ve seen my parents do many times when they are leaving an off-the-books this or that.

We never asked any questions. But children see everything, and internalize the weird, probably criminal tics their parents have.

Okay, maybe most people just learn to yell or be passive-aggressive.

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