Page 49 of Wicked Intentions (Wicked Games 3)
He cocks an eyebrow, drawls a sarcastic, “You think?”
“Yes.” I take a steadying breath. “But I’m just so goddamn happy to see you, I hope you can ignore how mad you are for a second while I do this.”
I stand on tiptoe and kiss him.
He responds instantly, a low groan rumbling through his chest, a big, rough hand digging into my hair. The other hand grips my bottom, dragging me closer. He drinks deeply from my mouth, pressing me against him so I feel him grow hard.
He breaks away first, chuckling. “Guess Tabby was right,” he says in a throaty voice.
“What?”
“Never mind. Listen. Here’s how this is gonna go. I’m gonna get us both naked. Then I’m gonna make love to you. Sweet this time, not rough, ’cause you gave up the right to dictate terms when you pulled a spider monkey and crawled off the balcony and left me feelin’ like a dipshit. Which is a pet peeve of mine, by the way. Then we’re gonna talk—”
“Talk?” I repeat, a note of panic in my voice.
“Talk,” he says firmly. “Like normal people do after sex.”
I laugh a little breathlessly. “You think we’re normal people?”
“Shut up. After the talk, you are not gonna dose me with drugs. You are not gonna disappear. What you are gonna do is tell me who did that to your throat so I can kill him.”
All the air leaves my lungs. We’re eye to eye, so he can see what his words have done to me, how terrified I suddenly am.
“I can’t,” I say, my voice breaking.
He growls, “You mean you won’t.”
I shake my head. “No. I mean I can’t. And that’s not a lie. It’s just…” I blink away the sudden, awful memory of bloodied bodies lying motionless on burgundy carpet. “It’s just that I work for monsters. One of the cardinal rules of monsters is you’re not allowed to tell anyone they exist. And it’s not only my life that ends if I disobey the rules.”
He studies my face in silence. “So, you’re not a thief by choice.”
“I’ve been a thief since I was six years old. It’s what I do. It’s who I am.”
“It’s how you survived, maybe, but it’s not who you are.”
I try to pull away, but Ryan doesn’t allow it. He holds me in place, gently but firmly. “I can help you.”
My laugh is short and bitter. “Don’t be a cliché. I’m not a damsel in distress, and you’re no knight in shining armor.”
“Not to toot my own horn, Angel, but my armor is so fuckin’ shiny, it’d blind the sun. I can help you.”
This conversation is making me emotional, something I detest more than men who wear argyle socks. “I don’t want to talk about this.”
“Tough shit,” he replies, and swings me up into his arms. Then he deposits me on the bed and lies on top of me.
If I didn’t like it so much, I’d fish the other knife from the under the pillow and aerate him.
“Now look,” he says, sounding reasonable. He braces his elbows on either side of my shoulders and props his chin on his hands. “You don’t know about me, but I’m kinda the shit.”
When I make a face, he smiles. I close my eyes and mutter, “Unbelievable.”
“Ahem. As I was saying—I’m kinda the shit. I don’t have my bio with me, but you’ll just have to take my word that it’s real impressive—”
“Oh. My. God.”
“—and my major spec-i-al-i-ty—”
“That word doesn’t have five syllables.”
