Page 63 of Wicked Beautiful (Wicked Games 1)
Right now, I don’t give a shit about his secrets. I’ll worry about them later.
Right now, I just want him to fuck me into next week.
Parker kicks open his bedroom door, crosses to his bed in a few long strides, tosses me down on the mattress so I bounce, once, and then swiftly crawls over me so he’s hovering inches above me, his bent legs on either side of my hips, his arms braced beside my head.
Looking into my eyes, he says, “No more bullshit. No more games. No more of this Luciano Mancari crap. I want you so fucking badly I’ll do almost anything to have you, and I think you want me the same way. But I won’t beg. I won’t be lied to. And I won’t be led around by my balls. I want it only if it’s real. So decide right now if you can give me real. Yes or no.”
My breath is ragged. I feel as if I’m standing at the top of a high, windy cliff, looking down to waves crashing over rocks far below. “Parker—”
“Yes or no.”
His intensity scares me. So does the knowledge that he can’t be manipulated. He sees right through me. If I’m going to do this thing, if I’m really going to move forward with my plan for revenge, I have to accept the possibility that it might cost me a hell of a lot more than I’ve bargained for.
It might cost me what’s left of my cold, dead heart.
What the hell. I’ve lived through worse.
In the faintest of whispers, I say, “Yes.”
Parker’s reaction is instantaneous. He breathes, “Thank fuck,” and crushes his mouth to mine once more.
I pull him down atop me. He gives me his weight. I wrap my legs around his waist. One of his hands slides up my thigh, pushing my skirt to my hips, and I flex my pelvis, wanting, wanting, wanting. A moan escapes my throat.
Parker rears back and rips open my blouse. I gasp in shock as buttons go flying.
“No bra,” he growls, and then cups both my bare breasts in his hands, latches onto one of my rigid nipples with his gorgeous, hot mouth, and sucks.
The sound I make is purely animal. I arch into his hands, my head thrown back, my eyes closed, lost.
He pinches the nipple he’s not sucking on, rolling it between his fingers. I grind my pelvis against his, feeling the length of his hard cock, desperate to have it inside me. “Please, Parker,” I whimper. “Please.”
Instead of giving me what I want, he breaks away from my breast, shoves my skirt all the way up to my waist, yanks aside my panties, and buries his face between my open thighs.
When his lips close over my swollen clit and he suckles it, hard, I cry out. My body bows against the bed.
“Yes. Give it to me,” he murmurs, and then sinks two fingers inside me and goes right back to sucking.
I.
Am.
On.
Fire.
I moan wantonly, brokenly. His name escapes my lips over and over as I writhe against the delicious heat of his mouth. I sink my fingers into his hair and pull, grinding my hips into his face, pleasure building and building, coiling, tightening, all my muscles clenched and my nipples throbbing.
“Oh, God. Parker!” I gasp, stiffening, my eyes now open wide.
In convulsions that shake the whole bed, I come.
He makes a noise deep in his throat, a humming that reverberates through my core, making me shudder even more. The orgasm lasts and lasts, explosive, ripping through me like a detonation. It’s a high, brilliant peak, a breathless, intense blast of pure pleasure.
I lose all track of time and place, all memory or comprehension. I am a creature, ravenous and wild, unashamedly reveling in the best damn orgasm I’ve ever had.
When it subsides and I’m left a limp-noodled mass of arms and legs, Parker turns his head and gently sinks his teeth into the flesh of my thigh.
“Fucking beautiful,” he whispers. He pulls my panties down my legs, tosses them aside, and then rips open the fly of his jeans. His cock—big and stiff—springs free. He pulls a condom from his back pocket, tears the foil open with his teeth, rolls it down his swollen length, and positions himself between my legs.
