Wicked Sexy (Wicked Games Series Book 2) (24 page)

Connor rises. He sets my ankles on his shoulders and pulls me down to the edge of the mattress so his cock is pressed against my pussy. I feel it twitch and pulse.

I rock my hips against his hard length, loving it when I hear him hiss out a sharp breath. He turns his face to my leg and bites me on the ankle.

“You good?”

His voice is gravelly with lust, but also soft with concern, and that shatters me. I open my eyes and look at him. He’s flushed, breathing hard, the muscles in his chest and arms are corded and tense. Gorgeous.

When I nod, he bites me just a little harder. He watches me lick my lips. Trailing his hands down my calves to my thighs, he rocks his hips so that his cock slides through my wet folds, back and forth, slow and torturing.

My head tilts back. My eyes slide shut. I moan.

“Gonna fuck you now, princess.”

“Thank God.”

His laugh is soft and pleased. Then the engorged head of his erection presses into my heat.

He slides in agonizingly slow, so I feel every inch, until I’m so full, my moans are broken. When he stays like that, hot and throbbing inside me, unmoving, just running his hands up and down my legs and over my hips, I tilt my pelvis and whimper. “Now now now now
now
!”

His laugh is soft and dark. He slides halfway out and then grips my hips and plunges deep inside me.

I cry out his name. He starts to fuck me with short, hard strokes, his fingers digging into my flesh, grunts of pleasure torn out of him with every thrust. He’s talking too, words of adoration whispered in his rich, husky voice, but I lose the shape of them beneath the crashing of my heartbeat in my ears, and just let myself fall deeper.

My legs slide off his shoulders. He falls on top of me, kissing me savagely on my belly and breasts, biting, licking, sucking, all the while grunting and panting, sounding wild. He rears up on his elbows and grips my head, pulling my hair, manhandling me, rough and tender at the same time. His chest is slick with sweat. My legs wrap around his waist.

My pussy clenches around him, and I arch, moaning, lost to the sensation. I’m close again.

He says hoarsely into my neck, “Not yet. Tabby—I can’t—hold on—”

He shudders and groans, his words cut off, and I know he’s about to come too.

I turn my face to his ear and plead, “I need you somewhere else.”

He stills, lifts his head, looks at me. When I bite my lip, his dark eyes flash. He slides his hand down my ribs, over my hip to my ass. I feel a press and a stroke between my cheeks, a gentle push, and I gasp when he sinks his finger deep—

“Here?”

I mew, rocking against his cock and his finger, wordlessly begging.

He exhales a slow, ragged breath. His brows draw together. “Are you sure?”

I can see exactly how much he wants this, which makes his hesitation all the more sweet. I drop my bound arms around his shoulders and give him a long, passionate kiss.

“Yes,” I whisper, nipping his full lower lip. Then I roll onto my stomach, spread my legs, arch my back and glance at him over my shoulder. “I’m sure.”

He looks down at me, presenting myself for his eyes to feast on. His lips part. His nostrils flare. A sharp tremor runs through him. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he whispers, his voice throbbing with desire.

With simple honesty, I say, “I want you to come inside me. Like this.” When he hesitates, his body radiating ambivalence, I add, “
Soon
.”

His eyes flash to mine. With my demand so clearly articulated, Connor can’t find another reason to delay.

He runs his hand up my back, tangles his fingers into my hair. He presses himself against me for a moment, inhaling against my skin, letting me feel all his jumbled emotions through the wild pounding of his heart. Then he releases my hair, drags his hands down my ribs and over my waist, and with his hands flat on the small of my back, presses me against the mattress.

“Open your legs wider,” he says, his tone full of command. My arms over my head and my face pressed to the blanket, I close my eyes and do as he asks.

He slaps my ass. Surprised, I yelp and jerk.

He smooths his hands over the sting, softly stroking, crooning words of praise. Then he slaps me again even harder on the other cheek, making me moan. After eight more sharp slaps alternating back and forth from left to right cheek, he whispers, “So fucking wet. Look at you. All down your thighs.”

I can’t help myself. I rock my hips wantonly, canting my ass in the air, desperate to have him inside me.

“God, Tabby. You’re so—” His voice breaks.

“Hurry,” I whisper, looking up at him. “Connor. Please, hurry.”

His hand trembles when he curls it around my hip. His knees nudge my thighs farther apart. Then I feel his hardness, his insistent heat, sliding gently up and down over my tight, puckered bud. He licks his fingers, wets the head of his cock, gently moistens me, then positions himself.

With the head of his cock fisted in his hand, Connor slowly presses forward and enters me.

I shudder, groan, grip the blanket. When he freezes, I whisper, “Don’t stop.”

His hand tightens around my hip. He flexes his pelvis, sliding deeper inside me. With his other hand, he reaches around and softly strokes my pulsing clit.

I buck back sharply, taking him to the hilt.

The moan that breaks from his chest is loud, broken, totally undone.

I love that sound.

The thought rips through my mind as pleasure rips through my body. I’m bound, and he’s enormous, but the control is all mine. And all I want is to force that helpless sound from him again. I tilt my hips and find a rhythm, fast and hard, because we’re both so close and I can’t hold on much longer.

With every flex of my hips, he whispers, “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck,” an incoherent chant of bliss. His strokes on my clit get rougher, faster, pinching and sliding. I cry out, losing it.

He grabs both my hips and drives into me so hard, I feel bent in two. Then he bellows and comes, holding me against him as he empties himself in wild, jerking pulses that shake the whole bed.

So good. So good. So fucking good.

I listen to him roar in pleasure as my own pleasure crests over me, erasing all other thoughts. My cries are torn out of me, muffled by the blanket I’m biting down on.

Connor slows. His grip on my hips gentles. He lowers himself on top of me, taking us both down to the bed, covering me with his strength and heat, panting into my ear.

We’re quiet for a while, just letting our breathing slow. I feel boneless and overwhelmed, the intensity of what just happened eclipsing anything I might say.

He kisses me on the shoulder, brushes my hair off my face, kisses me on the neck. “Tell me you’re not hurting,” he rasps.

I whisper, “I’m good. Better than good.”

He reaches above me, unties the belt from my wrists, throws it away. He massages my wrists and arms, and then very carefully eases out of me.

We both softly moan.

He rolls to his side, curling me up against him, the length of our bodies pressed together. He wraps his big arms around me. They’re shaking.

“That was…”

“Intense,” I whisper. “I know. I wish we could do it every night for the rest of our lives.” As soon as it’s out of my mouth, I freeze in horror.

Dear God. The man just fucked the truth right out of me.

U
nderstanding
I’m utterly dismayed about what just left my lips, Connor clears his throat.

“I’m not saying anything.”

“Good.”

I’m surprised he’s letting it go, and also relieved we’re not going to have a conversation about the future, or commitments, or any of the other million off-limits topics about our relationship. Or whatever this thing between us is called.

Enemies with benefits?

After a moment, Connor adds, “But if I were to say something—”

“I knew it!”

“—it would be that you just made me really goddamn happy. That’s it.”

He peppers sweet, reverent kisses all over my neck and shoulder.

“You’re a romantic, you know that?”

Connor chuckles. “And you’re the only woman who’d accuse a man of that in a surly tone of voice.”

I grunt. It sounds surly.

He turns me over so I’m forced to look at him. “C’mon. Admit it. There must’ve been a time when you weren’t quite so…”

I narrow my eyes. He has the good sense to look wary.

“If I say ‘cynical,’ will that be the last time I’ll ever see my dick?”

“Probably. Tread carefully.”

He cracks a cocky grin. “We’ve already had the conversation about how good I am at that.”

“Hmm. You’re right. You admitted in your letter that you only had one speed. Full steam ahead.”

Connor takes that as a license to bulldoze away. “Yep. And since we’re on the topic, why have you never had a drink before today?”

“We weren’t on the topic.”

“I’m full steaming here. Go with it, woman.”

“Just out of curiosity, how can people who aren’t having sex with you stand to be around you for more than five minutes?”

“Because of my good looks and charm, obviously. Answer the question.”

“Connor—”

“You’ve had my cock in every orifice in your body, Tabitha. Answer the question.”

We stare at each other until finally I say, “Please, for the love of all that’s holy, never,
ever
say the word ‘orifice’ to me again.”

He smirks. “Start talking, princess, or it’s ‘orifice orifice orifice’ until the cows come home.”

I flop onto my back and stare at the ceiling. “God, why do you hate me? Seriously, what have I done to offend you so deeply that you’d burden me with this ridiculous—”

“Ahem. Heroic,” Connor interrupts.

“—egomaniacal—”

“Brilliant.”

“—
delusional
—”

“And yet somehow always right.”

“—insufferable, asinine, jockstrap of a man?”

After a moment, Connor says, “Jockstraps are very useful, so I’m taking that as a compliment. And I happen to know that you don’t believe in God, so cut the theatrics and answer the question.”

“I don’t believe in the traditional definition of God,” I answer. “The Biblical God who throws tantrums and demands sacrifices and basically acts like a spoiled five-year-old who needs a time-out, but I do believe in…something. Some sexless, formless, benevolent energy that watches over us and lets us flail away in ignorance until we finally get old enough or lucky enough to figure out that all we basically should be doing is being kind to each other and to every other sentient being on the planet.

“That’s all. Just be kind. Help old people. Help the weak. Don’t be an asshole. And stand up to bullies, no matter the cost.”

I count the cracks in the ceiling. There are seventeen. It seems prophetic, somehow, that number. Seventeen was the age I was when all my deepest cracks began to form.

More softly, I say, “That’s the most important thing. Stand up to bullies. Even if you accomplish nothing else with your life, standing up to a bully is enough. Bravery is an end to itself. That’s what God or the universe or the sacred sparkle pony or whatever you call it wants. For us to learn to be brave and to do the right thing. In my humble opinion, that’s the real meaning of life.”

After a moment when Connor doesn’t say anything, I add sheepishly, “Sorry. I’m always tetchy right before I get my period.”

I get a big, warm hand on the side of my face, gently pressuring me to turn. When I meet Connor’s eyes, the look in his is breathtaking.

He says quietly, “You are the most interesting, thoughtful, beautiful, weird, and perfect soul I’ve ever met, Tabitha West. It’s an honor to know you.”

My throat tightens. When I inhale, it’s with a little, hitching breath that makes it sound like I might be about to cry.

I AM NOT ABOUT TO CRY.

“Don’t try to butter me up so I’ll answer you stupid questions.” I sniffle, blinking hard.

“Just the one question,” he corrects. “And you know you’re going to answer it, so just get it over with already.”

I look at the ceiling again. Connor moves his hand to my belly, where it spreads open, warm and strangely comforting.

“Like a flesh blanket,” I say, sighing.

“Um. What?”

“Oh. Sorry. I was just thinking out loud. Disregard.”

“Uh-huh. I did include ‘weird’ in that list a second ago, right?”

“You did. And I keep telling people I’m not weird, I’m limited edition.”

Connor chuckles. “Sweetheart, they broke the mold with you.”

That makes me smile. “I know.”

He leans in and softly kisses my shoulder. He nuzzles my neck, tickling me with his beard.

“Okay. Here’s the answer to your question. Are you listening?” I ask when he starts to nibble on my earlobe.

“Mmhmm.” Nibble. Nibble.

Enjoying the feeling of his lips on my skin, I close my eyes. “My dad used to drink a lot.”

Connor abruptly stops nibbling. I feel him looking at me but don’t open my eyes.

“It wasn’t tragic, he didn’t beat us or break things in drunken rages, but he just…anesthetized himself. That’s how he dealt with stress. He’d come home from teaching and pour himself a big glass of gin and sit in front of the TV until the gin was gone, and then he’d pour himself another. And another. It made my mother really sad that he was so distant. I don’t know what the problems were in their marriage. They never fought in front of me. But I remember very clearly him drinking gin every night until he quietly passed out, and my mother being lonely and depressed. So I decided when I was six years old that I’d never drink because I’d rather feel everything, no matter how painful, than nothing at all.”

The pause that follows when I stop talking is what you’d call pregnant. Third-trimester pregnant. It makes me edgy.

“Don’t feel sorry for me!”

Connor props his head on his hand and stares down at my face. Heat begins to suffuse my cheeks.

“You’ve been alone your entire life, haven’t you?” he murmurs. “Even when your parents were alive, you were alone.”

Awash in some weird half-breed emotion that’s part regret, part shame, part longing for something I’ve never had, I laugh. Even to my own ears, it’s ugly.

“That’s why it was so easy for Søren to manipulate me. I wanted so badly—”

I stop abruptly. When I make a move to rise, Connor throws his leg over me and pins me down.

“No way,” he says softly. “You’re not running away from me, Tabby. Not anymore.”

I close my eyes and turn my head.

“Don’t hide from me,” he urges, squeezing me. “Tell me what you wanted.”

I’m breathing fast and hard, choking on so many feelings, it’s hard to decide which one is worst. And maybe because I know in a few hours it’s possible that this chapter of my life will finally be closed, or because I’ve been slowly revealing myself to Connor, one crumb at a time, tiny truth-chunks that he’s always gobbled up, but I don’t want to hide from him anymore. At least, not right now.

Right now, I want there to be no walls between us.

For this one wild moment, I want to let him in.

I look at him. I let him see everything. All the pain and confusion, all the hope and tenderness and absolute terror of getting too close. In a raw, shaking voice, I say, “I just wanted to belong to someone.”

Connor’s face goes through a dozen expressions before it settles on adoration. He breathes, “And now you do.”

He kisses me so passionately, I’m stunned.

I flatten my hands on his chest and push him away.

We break apart and stare at each other in throbbing silence, both of us breathing raggedly. Finally, I whisper, “What did you say?”

Connor’s Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. “You heard me.”

“Say it again.”

Connor wraps his hands around my wrists. He carefully peels my hands from his chest, lowers them to the pillow above my head so he’s on top of me, his chest pressed to mine, his nose inches from mine. Staring into my eyes, he says firmly, “You belong to me. You belong
with
me. You’re mine, and I’m never letting you go.”

There’s a long, tense silence.

Then I burst into tears.

“Goddammit!” I sob. “You asshole! Look what you did!”

Connor kisses me all over my red, wet face, murmuring soothing words that I only catch snippets of because I’m bawling like a damn baby. He releases my wrists, and I fling my arms around his broad shoulders and bury my face in his neck.

“Love your tears, princess, ’cause I know you’d never give them to anyone but me,” he murmurs into my ear. For once, I don’t mind that he used that forbidden four-letter word.

I let him hold me and listen to his sweet, beautiful words, wondering through my tears and hiccupping breaths if this is what religion is like for some people, all this awe and mystery and the feeling of having found your way home.

Sometime shortly after my tears slow to sniffles, we fall asleep in each other’s arms.

And sometime after that, I wake up sweating, with a pounding heart and an awful premonition that something is terribly wrong.

On the table beside the bed, Connor’s cell phone rings. He’s awake instantly, snatching it up.

“Talk to me,” he commands.

He listens. After a moment, he wordlessly ends the call. When he looks at me, I know. I already know.

“Søren,” I whisper, my heart in my throat.

Connor’s body is completely still. In the shadows, his eyes shine with a strange, deadly light. “The team in Miami that went in to get him…” He hesitates. “It was an abandoned house. The place was rigged with explosives.”

Horrified, I gasp. I bolt upright and clutch his arm. “Oh my God. How many were hurt?”

“Nine agents went in.”

“How many came out?”

Connor says simply, “None.”