Page 86 of Wicked Beautiful (Wicked Games 1)
I exhale in a loud rush. “I’m thinking black on black. With the blacked-out rims.”
Parker slides halfway out and then stops. I bite my lip harder.
“Done. Anything else?” He peppers sweet, reverent kisses over my cheeks, my jaw, my nose, my lips.
I tilt my hips up, but he won’t let me gain the upper hand. He simply withdraws in the exact amount I advance, keeping just the tip of his cock inside me. Frustrated, I pound the sheets with my fists.
“I want my own island! In the Caribbean!”
“Mmm. I’m on it. What else?” He lowers his head again and sucks even more aggressively on my nipple. His hot mouth draws hard. His hand is firm and possessive around my flesh.
I pant, straining to maintain control, but ultimately crumble. The words tumble from my lips in a wanton rush. “I want you to please make love to me Parker please oh please oh God please.”
A tremor runs through him. He raises his head, looks at me, and whispers, “Hearts can’t lie, baby.”
“Shut up with that crap.”
He laughs. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone you just fell in love with me.”
“I hate you.”
Parker flexes his strong pelvis. His glorious hard cock sinks all the way inside me. He says roughly, “Sweetheart, if this is hate, I don’t want to feel anything else ever again.”
Then he gives me everything I’ve asked for, everything I need, and drives a stake straight through my chest when he climaxes, calling out my name like it’s a hallelujah.
* * *
Hours later, Parker sleeping like the dead beside me, I rise from his bed and creep through the dark rooms, until I stand in front of his closed office door.
TWENTY-FIVE
~ Parker ~
Once again, I wake alone.
My disappointment turns quickly to pleasure, however, because there’s a note on the pillow beside me. It reads:
I promise I’m not running away. But you, sexy beast, sleep like a coma patient, and I really did have to be at an early meeting this morning. There’s a fresh pot of coffee in the kitchen, and I might have made you French toast.
Don’t let it go to your head.
Last night was…a game changer. (One more thing not to let go to your head.) I’ll be thinking of you all day.
I can still taste you.
Victoria
She signed her name with little hearts for dots atop the two i’s. I stare at them for minutes, grinning like a crazy person. The last time I felt anything close to this—the only time—I was a teenager, deep in the heady flush of first love.
I leap from bed, shower, brush my teeth, and dress. In the kitchen, there is indeed a fresh pot of coffee. A plate in the oven holds three thick slices of French toast. I didn’t even know I had the makings for French toast in my kitchen.
Wait—she said she couldn’t cook.
I shrug that thought away. I doubt frying bread in a skillet qualifies as cooking.
I drizzle the buttered toast in syrup, wolf it down with a cup of coffee—which may be the best coffee I’ve tasted in my life, because she made it—and, whistling, rinse my dishes in the sink. When the kitchen is clean, I head to my office to get my briefcase. I’ve also got a meeting this morning, though I’ve got plenty of time—
I stop dead at the end of the hallway.
