Page 107 of Wicked Beautiful (Wicked Games 1)
My voice is surprisingly steady, probably because I’m not looking at him. Note to self: avoid all eye contact for the next forty-eight hours.
“Sure.” His tone is soft again. Caressing. “Dinner will be ready in about thirty minutes. The master’s upstairs at the end of the hallway.” I hear him open a cabinet, remove something, close it. He adds quietly, “Can’t wait to wake up in bed tomorrow morning and find you still there.”
Oh, dagger to the heart. This is why I avoid the truth at all costs: it hurts like a motherfucker. Honesty is just one big cesspool of need and weakness, with the power to strip you bare and leave you whimpering like a baby.
If I ever build myself a Caribbean vacation home, I’m naming it House of Death to Honesty and painting the whole thing black.
I walk stiffly to where Parker left my bags in the entry, pick them up, and go upstairs.
THIRTY-TWO
In the elegant master bathroom, I run myself a bath in the tub that rivals the size
of a spa’s. While it’s filling, I hoist my overnight bag onto the king-size bed and unzip it so I can unpack.
Atop my clothes sits a smiling white stuffed animal with a pink bow perched between its pricked ears. A pink ruffled dress decorates its chubby body.
Touched, I pick it up and squeeze it. “Aww, Tabby.”
This isn’t the first time she’s done this. She is deathly afraid of flying—her parents died in a plane crash when she was little—and has developed all kinds of superstitions around air travel. I suppose a Hello Kitty plush doll is as good as a rabbit’s foot for good luck.
God knows I’ll need it.
I prop the stuffed cat against the lamp on the night stand beside the bed, hang my few dresses and other things in Parker’s cavernous walk-in closet, and head to the bathroom, where I strip, leaving my clothes in a careless pile on the floor. I step into the steaming heat and release a soft groan when my aching feet hit the hot water. I lower myself into the bathtub, stretch out my legs, and close my eyes.
OK, so this hideous House of Truth might have one redeeming virtue.
Rattled from what just happened downstairs, I mentally review my game plan. Unfortunately, it primarily consists of waiting to see what Parker’s got up his sleeve. In the meantime, I’ll continue my nocturnal snoop fests. I’ve got tonight and tomorrow night to see what I can find in this tropical getaway of his. Though I already checked behind all the paintings in the master bedroom for a safe: no luck.
“I thought I’d bring you your wine.”
My eyes fly open.
Parker stands in the open bathroom door, holding my glass of Chablis. His gaze shifts from my face to my breasts—my nipples peaking just above the lapping water—and then travels slowly down the length of my body to my feet propped on the ledge. His eyes cut to mine.
The heat in his gaze puts the temperature of the water to shame.
“Thank you.”
I want to sit up and cover myself, but don’t. The urge is ridiculous—I’ve had the man’s genitals in my mouth, for goodness’ sake—but I feel exposed and vulnerable just lying here, allowing his eyes to drink me in and pierce me through like knives.
He demands, “Tell me what you’re thinking right now.”
My heart flutters. I swear if I survive this weekend I’m getting a transplant.
“It’s more like what I’m feeling.”
“Which is?” He takes a step inside the room.
A flush of warmth spreads up my chest, and I know it’s not from the water. Real, honest-to-God, genuine emotion is coursing through me, which is a disaster in the making. Especially if I admit it.
Distract him. Distract yourself. Get on safer ground—sex!
I lower my voice and say, “Hungry.”
There is a direct, invisible line from his tongue—which travels slowly between his lips—to my pussy. I press my thighs together and hot water sloshes over my nipples, sending another pulse of pleasure down between my legs.
Parker takes another slow step toward me, and then another. He kneels beside the tub and holds out the wineglass. “Me, too.”
