His Wicked Games (His Wicked Games #1) (20 page)

“And your arms,” he says, taking me by the
wrist and lifting my arm from the sheets. “Such long, lovely arms,
with soft, perfect hands.” He raises my fingers to his lips and
kisses them one by one.

“They look so innocent,” he continues, “but I
know very well what pleasure and what pain they can cause.” He
brings my fingers around to his back, placing them on the scratch
marks I made this morning. Was that only this morning? It feels
like a lifetime ago.

I look up at Calder. How many days have I
been here now? Two? Three? They're all running together. I hardly
know this man, and what I do know isn't particularly good, but I
feel something when I look at him, when he looks at me—it's
strange. There's
something
, some understanding, some
connection that I don't think either of us could put a name to,
even if we tried.

“And your legs,” he says, sliding further
down my body. He takes a single finger and traces me, light as a
feather, from hip to ankle, and then back up again. It tickles, but
I don't feel the urge to laugh. I feel like a blade of grass
shaking and helpless beneath the wind.

Calder leans down and kisses my toes, one by
one, as he kissed my fingers.

“Every inch of you is beautiful.”

I close my eyes for a moment, letting his
words wash over me, but I don't let myself enjoy them too long.

“That's a pretty line,” I say, eyes still
closed. “But you don't have to try so hard. I'm already at your
mercy.”

He doesn't say anything for a moment.

“It's not a line,” he offers finally. His
hand sweeps over my throat once more. “Do you think I'm
exaggerating?”

I peer up at him through my lashes. “Maybe.
Maybe not. I think you're a man who's had a lot of practice
charming women into bed with him.”

My bluntness seems to surprise him for the
briefest of moments.

“I've been with other women, of course. But
I’m here with you now, and every word I speak is the truth.”

I raise my eyebrow. I don't think I'm
unattractive, by any means—in fact, I've always been a little proud
of my figure—but I know better than to trust the compliments of a
silver-tongued billionaire playboy, especially one who’s admitted
to romancing starlets and supermodels.

“You hardly know me,” I say.

“And that means I can't think you're
beautiful?”

I suppose it doesn't.

“Besides, it's not fair to compare yourself
to any other women anyway.” His thumb roams lazily along the line
of my jaw. “I've never had a woman force her way onto my property
before, and I've never had to tackle one in the mud.”

I roll my eyes, but he catches me by the chin
and forces me to look up at him.

“And I've certainly never had so much fun
playing hide and seek with one. You're something else
completely.”

My neck and cheeks go hot at his words, but
he still has me by the chin and I can't look away.

“You're something else yourself,” I manage
after a moment.

His eyes darken at my words. “Oh?”

Where do I begin? He's the most infuriating
man I've ever met—and the sexiest. In any given moment I can't
decide whether I want to scream at him or stick my tongue in his
mouth.

I reach up and place my hands on his bare
skin. He's propped on his arms, leaning over me, and all the
muscles of his chest are firm, contracted. I slide my hands down
his belly, reveling in the hardness of his body.

Then, without warning, I give him a shove. He
topples off me, landing on his back beside me, and before he can
recover I've sprung up and reversed our positions. Now I'm leaning
over him and he's helpless beneath me.

“You don't always get to be the one in
control.” I gaze down the length of him, taking in every delicious
inch of his body. “I think it's my turn to explore you.”

The hunger on his face is unmistakable, but
he makes no move to stop me as I sidle up his body and place my
finger on his collarbone, exactly where he began his inspection of
me.

He truly is spectacular. I’m getting turned
on already, and I haven't even moved past the PG section of his
body. His skin is soft and warm beneath my touch, and I brush the
pads of my fingers lightly down his chest. I glance up at his face,
and I find him staring down at me, his eyes dark and half-lidded.
His breathing is heavy.

I continue my exploration down over his ribs,
across his stomach. I want to feel every muscle, to know the power
of his body beneath my fingers. This body could hold me down, take
me again and again until I begged for mercy.

His arms come next, and his warm hands. I
close his fingers in my own, marveling at the calluses I find:
stories, each one. Where did this rough patch on his thumb come
from? How did he earn this mark on his palm? They're the hands of a
man who's done things.

It only reminds me how little I know about
this man in front of me. What was he doing, a week ago from now? A
year? Five? He has a life outside his business with the Center. A
life outside his interactions with me.

There's another mark on his left hand. A red
streak on his palm.

“What is it?” he asks when he notices me
lingering.

I flip over his hand and trace the scar with
my finger. “What's this from?”

He gives a chuckle and twists his hand
slightly in my grasp, stretching the scar and making it stand out
all the more against his golden skin.

“I was nineteen when I got that. I was an
idiot. Got a little over-zealous trying to fix the rudder on our
boat.” He flexes his fingers. “My father said I was trying too hard
to impress my date.”

“I didn’t realize you had a boat.” Not that I
should be surprised. He probably inherited an entire fleet. My mind
automatically tries to calculate the value of a boat compared to
the size of his father’s pledge, but I suppress the thought. I
don’t want to think about it.

“Not anymore,” Calder replies to my question,
suddenly somber. “I sold it a couple of months ago.”

Oh.
A “couple of months” means he
probably got rid of it shortly after his father died. Maybe he
thought he’d never use it himself, or maybe it reminded him too
much of his dad. I don’t know what to say. I didn’t mean to bring
up memories of his father, especially not while we’re here in bed
together. His eyes are distant, sad, and I reach down and touch him
gently on the cheek.

His gaze snaps to me, and the melancholy
disappears as quickly as it appeared. In its place is something
akin to annoyance.

He bats my hand away. “I'm fine.”

I sit back, startled at his sudden shift in
mood.

“You don't seem fine,” I say carefully.

“Don't start that.” He twists away from me
and throws his legs over the side of the bed. He pauses for a
moment—just long enough to sweep his hand across his face—then
rises and goes back to the cart of food.

I remain frozen, stunned. I was only trying
to offer my compassion, but if he doesn't want it, then fine. I
won't pretend to give a damn.

I force myself to unclench my fists and sit
back on the bed. I'm not his girlfriend. I'm not even his friend.
We even said it out in my car—after this weekend, we'll probably
never see each other again. There's no reason for me to get worked
up over his moods or try to help him with his daddy issues.

Still, I can't help but feel saddened at the
pain he's clearly suppressing. I watch him out of the corner of my
eye as he resumes the task of laying out the food. His shoulders
are stiff, his normally sensual mouth drawn in a hard line. I can't
read the expression in his dark eyes, but he looks like he's about
to explode with some dark emotion.

I sigh and close my eyes. Who am I to judge
how someone deals with the loss of their father? I'd be a mess,
too.

I know better than to raise the issue with
him again, but I don't think it's a good idea to let him stew on
his feelings, either.

“What did Martin send?” I say pleasantly.

It’s a risk. For a moment he doesn't respond,
and I wonder if I crossed the line, but then he lets out a slow
breath.

“Oysters,” he says casually. “And pasta in a
light cream sauce.” He moves the trays over to a small table set
against the wall. “I hope you're hungry?”

“Starving.”

When he looks up at me again, all hints of
his previous surliness are gone. Instead he smiles at me, and the
expression makes my insides twist.

“Good.” He holds out his hand. “Come on.
You'll need your energy if you're going to survive the night ahead
of you.”

I don’t believe for a minute he’s forgotten
all his emotions of a moment ago, but if he wants to pretend that
he’s not hurting, then fine. I’ll play along. It’s not like I’m not
suppressing my own tumultuous feelings about Calder’s role in the
current state of the Frazer Center.

No, tonight isn’t about delving into our
emotions. It’s about forgetting about the troubles of the outside
world and focusing on the joys our bodies can bring each other.

And honestly? One look at the wicked
expression on Calder’s face, and I’m perfectly okay with that.

<<>>

If I thought Calder was magnificent before,
it doesn't take long before I'm convinced he's a genuine sex god. A
couple of hours after dinner, we lie tangled among the rumpled
sheets, sticky with sweat and breathless from our exertions.

“Wow,” I whisper into the darkness.

Calder chuckles and pulls me closer to him.
My arm rests across his chest, my leg across his thighs. I feel his
lips press against the top of my head.

“I'm glad you enjoyed yourself,” he murmurs
against my hair. He runs his hand up my arm.

I give a contented sigh. My entire body
aches. Calder bent me into positions I've never even imagined
before, let alone attempted, and my arms and legs feel like jelly.
He brought me to the peak of ecstasy and back again, and my flesh
still quivers at the memory.

“You're a feisty thing,” he tells me. “Anyone
who sees my back will think I was attacked by an animal.”

I start to pull away, embarrassed, but he
laughs and grabs me closer again.

“That's a good thing. I like a woman who's
not afraid to get wild, and you, sweet Lily, are the wildest one
I've ever met.”

Now it's my turn to laugh, and he grabs me
and kisses me. I draw him closer. Maybe this is just sex. And maybe
I don’t really know him that well. But there's a part of me, deep
down, that knows I've glimpsed a deeper side of him, however
briefly, and I know I've exposed a bit of myself to him, too.

And that terrifies me.

“Go to sleep,” he says, and kisses me again.
“I plan to wake you again in an hour.”

I bite my lip, and he gives a low chuckle and
closes his eyes. In minutes he's asleep, his chest rising and
falling steadily beneath my arm. I'm exhausted, too, but I know
slumber won't come for me anytime soon. I've got too much on my
mind.

I wait for a few more moments, just to make
sure he's completely out, before I slowly ease my way out of his
arms. There's just something too…
intimate
about lying
entwined while we sleep. This is just sex. Just a few crazy days of
indulging some wild lust. After I leave this place, I'll never have
a reason to contact Calder ever again, and he has no reason to
contact me either. I need to remember that.

I climb out of bed and fumble around in the
darkness for my jeans. I finally find them in a rumpled pile at the
foot of the bed, and I reach in the pocket and pull out my
phone.

My heart almost stops when I see the number
of missed calls. I thought I heard my ringtone go off a couple of
hours ago, but Calder and I were a little preoccupied at the time.
Now I wonder how I managed to miss it ringing
eight
times
over the course of the evening.

All of the calls are from Garrett.

I panic. Has something happened at the
Center? Or to Dad? I click into voicemail and hold my breath as it
connects.

“You have eight new messages,” the automated
voice tells me.

“Hey, Lils,” Garrett's message begins. He
sounds perfectly calm. “Just wanted to check in, since you haven’t
returned my last couple of calls. I talked to your dad, and he says
you’re stuck in Barberville because of the weather. I'm worried
about you. Give me a call, okay?”

In the next one he's starting to sound a
little agitated.

“Hey, Lils, it's me. I haven't heard from
you. I just want to make sure you’re okay. Will you call me and let
me know where you are? I have the Jeep, remember? I can probably
manage the roads. But I need to know where you are. Now's not the
time to be stubborn. You asked for my help with the Center. I'm not
going to let you shut me out again. Call me back.”

With each subsequent message I can tell he's
getting progressively more frustrated, and by the sixth he's
starting to sound livid.

“Dammit, Lils, don’t leave me hanging,” he
says. “I know you’re up to something. I don’t know what you’re
trying to pull, but this is ridiculous. Where the hell are
you?”

But it’s the next one that really ticks me
off.

“What the fuck is going on? Fuck this! I'm
not your fucking puppet! You can't just expect me to do you favors
and then fucking blow me off. I deserve some basic fucking respect.
Excuse me for giving a fuck.”

It makes me so angry that I almost don't
listen to the final message, but it starts before I can hang
up.

“Look, Lils, I'm sorry,” Garrett says. He
sounds defeated. “You just drive me crazy, you know that? Call me,
please. Please. I promise I'll do what I can for the Center. Just
call me and tell me what you're doing. I know you, Lils. You get
these crazy ideas in your head sometimes. I just want to make sure
you're safe.” There's a long pause, and then he sighs deeply.
“Please, Lils. I miss you. I still—”