Wicked Sexy (Wicked Games Series Book 2) (9 page)

Her shy smile is worth more to me than all the gold in Fort Knox.

“Good.” I kiss her softly on the lips. “Oh, and one more thing.”

She drowsily blinks up at me.

“You’re not allowed to come.”

Her eyes snap open. “What? Are you joking? Connor—”

Before she can say more, I sit back on my heels, yank down her zipper, and drag the leather pants down her legs.

“
F
ucking hell
,” I mutter, staring down at Tabby’s spread legs.

“What’s wrong?” she says, panicked. She rears up on her elbows.

Wrong? Nothing’s wrong. Everything in the universe is perfectly
right
.

First, she isn’t wearing panties. It’s an unexpected, thrilling shock to find her laid bare to me like that, open and vulnerable and deliciously pink where only seconds before there was an impenetrable wall of black leather. The sheer decadence of it takes my breath away.

Second, she’s a natural blonde. That’s almost as much of a surprise as the first thing. I reach out and softly brush my fingers over pale gold curls, and hear a choked exhalation pass my lips. Why it should please me so much that she isn’t shaved I have no idea, maybe it’s the animal in me, but I know exactly why I like it that she dyes the hair on her head red, but down here she’s au naturel.

Because it’s a secret. No one else gets to see it but me. It’s a secret I now know, and feel privileged to know, and will always remember.

Third, and perhaps most astonishing of all, her clit is pierced. I’ve never seen that in real life. I stare with my mouth open, drinking her in, loving everything I’m looking at.

Unfortunately, I’m so busy enjoying the visual feast that I’ve momentarily forgotten who I’m dealing with.

Cursing and red-faced, Tabby tries to roll out from under me, but I catch her and press her back down against the bed before she can escape.

“You’re incredible,” I blurt, holding her wrists above her head and gazing into her eyes. “I didn’t mean to scare you or be disrespectful. It’s just…you’re even better than I dreamed.”

She stares up at me, breathing hard, her gaze darting all over my face. “You’ve seen me before, coming out of my shower. You’ve already seen me naked.”

I make my voice as gentle as possible. “I didn’t see all of you. Just, well, your breasts, yes, and the tattoo on your stomach, but lower only—impressions—you covered yourself with your hands before I could see that you were”—my voice turns husky—“blonde. And
pierced
.”

She asks cautiously, “And you…like that?”

I grind out, “I fuckin’
love
it, princess. When I’m eighty years old, I’ll be jerking off to the memory of what I just saw.”

She stares at me a moment, and then turns her head to the side, but not before I see the pleasure flash in her eyes, quickly veiled. “You’re a perv,” she says primly, which makes me grin, because I know we’re past the danger.

“You bring out the beast in me.”

I lower my head and indulge myself by nuzzling her jaw. She lies very still, allowing it, and stays still when I slide my hand down her arm to the collar of her jacket. I tug down the zipper a few inches, exposing pale skin and the pulse beating hard and fast at the base of her throat.

That stops me cold.

A swell of unidentifiable pressure rises from my stomach, spreading through my chest, tightening my lungs. I marvel that the simple sight of the blood rushing through her veins—blood made to rush by
me
—could have the power to strip me of all other thought, even as I lie on top of her, our naked legs tangled together, my straining erection so close to the place I want to bury it.

I stroke the fluttering vein with my finger. Tabby closes her eyes.

Adjusting my weight so I don’t crush her, I carefully rise to one elbow and inch down the zipper again, stopping just below her navel. It’s missing its ornament. I slide my hand inside her jacket, feeling the warmth and silken softness of her skin, and she inhales, her lips flattening. When I gently stroke my fingertips around the outer curve of her breast, her lips part, but she remains silent and perfectly still.

I feel the tension rising in her body like a wave.

This is why I told her she couldn’t come. She’ll repress her own pleasure, think herself out of it, unless I can short-circuit the system by giving her something to distract the problem-solving, frantic part of her brain. Against the wall before the firetruck arrived to spoil the mood, I made her count out loud. But for this, to get her where I want her to go, we have to up the ante.

I nuzzle her ear, lightly take her earlobe between my teeth. “I’m gonna touch you everywhere, Tabitha. Anywhere I want, anywhere it pleases me. And my mouth is gonna go anywhere it wants too. If you want that, say yes.”

Her eyes stay closed. Her breathing is shallow and fast. “Yes.”

The tone is faint but unequivocal. Desire surges through me. “Good. But I want you to remember, you can’t come. The goal tonight is only pleasure, not orgasm. If you feel like you might be getting close to coming, I want you to recite the names of every flower you know.” I pause. “In Portuguese.”

“Wha—”

“Shh!”

She bites her lip, acquiescing. I say a silent word of thanks that her eyes are closed, because if she saw the grin on my face, she’d probably kill me.

I slide the zipper down with exquisite slowness, tooth by tooth, watching arousal and apprehension play over her face. When the zipper reaches the end, her jacket falls open, exposing both her breasts. This woman seriously dislikes underwear. I might be the luckiest man on earth.

Her nipples are already hard, peaked and rosy, fucking gorgeous.

“I love these.” I thumb over them, back and forth from one breast to the other. “I love how responsive they are to my touch.” I lean over and blow on one, and watch it harden even more. I whisper, “And to my tongue,” and suck it into my mouth.

Her gasp is quiet and utterly satisfying.

I take my time with her breasts, gently fondling them, pinching and stroking the nipple that isn’t being attended to by my tongue, holding her lower body in place with the weight of my pelvis, one leg flung over hers. Her hands are still above her head, clenched in the pillow. Her head is turned to the side.

Her cheeks are still stained that appealing, embarrassed red, almost as red as her hair.

I love all her contradictions. I love that she wears sexy, revealing outfits, has tattoos and piercings, swears like a sailor, and knows Krav Maga, but a single kiss can undo her. I love that she’s brilliant and bold and mercilessly independent, but manages to make me feel like a king when she blushes. I love all her sharp edges and all her soft, hidden spots and
if you don’t watch yourself, idiot, you’ll find yourself with a much worse problem than a perma-boner!

Inhaling a sharp breath, I pull away.

Tabby turns her head and searches my face with big, dark eyes. She whispers, “No holding back, remember?”

Jesus Christ. She knows what I’m feeling. I can’t decide which is worse, having the feelings, or having only one night with a woman intuitive enough to guess at them.

Breathing raggedly, I lower my forehead, rest it between her breasts, and close my eyes.

I feel her fingers stroke my hair, and it’s wonderful. Soothing. I turn my cheek to her chest and listen to the wild clamor of her heart. She takes my face in her hands and forces me to look at her.

“Tell me.”

My voice is raw and unsteady when I answer. “I don’t know if I can have only one night.”

She says tenderly, “Don’t wuss out on me now, jarhead, a deal’s a deal,” and kisses me.

I slide my open hand up her thigh, over the crest of her hip, up her rib cage, and over her breast until her jaw is cupped in my hand. My other hand tangles in her hair. We kiss deeply but with no hurry, luxuriating in it, our breathing falling into rhythm, our bodies fitted together. She makes a slight movement with her hips, and I groan, lust flaring hot inside me.

“Maybe I should be the one telling you not to come,” she teases, drawing away with a soft, pleased laugh.

“You could tell me to do anything and I would.”

It’s out before I can stop it, a bald admission made even more plain by the tone of quiet vehemence with which it’s spoken. Tabby’s gentle smile slowly fades. We stare at each other, the moment stretching out past retraction, past any chance of reclamation with forced laugher we can hide behind and tell ourselves it means nothing, it’s only a stolen moment, soon to be forgotten with the morning light.

“Then, do anything,” she whispers, holding my gaze. “Do it all.”

I feel like a flock of birds has taken flight inside my chest. To distract myself from the imminent possibility that I’ll open my mouth and deliver this true but entirely emasculating line, I slide my hand down her body and slip my fingers into the tight heat between her legs.

“Wet,” I growl as she arches, gasping, her eyes gone wide. When I slide my fingers up and stroke them over her swollen clit, she moans.

It breaks the spell I’m under. Her moan takes me from swooning Romeo to snarling caveman in two seconds flat.

“
You will not come,
” I command, slide down the length of her body, spread her pussy open with my thumbs so that glistening pink nub at the top is exposed, and apply my mouth to it.

I suck. Greedily.

Her back bows from the bed. I push her down by her hips and hold her still like that, stroking my tongue over and around, sucking, making a meal of it and not caring at all how carnal it sounds, how loud it is in the stillness of the room. Tabby’s hands fist in the bedspread. Her entire body trembles beneath my hands.

When I feel her pleasure plateau, that inevitable flattening that reveals her brain is in a snarl, I lift my head and direct, “Flowers, Tabitha,” then go back to sucking.

She exhales a long, shaky breath. “
Girassol
,” she whispers.

I have no idea what that means, nor do I care. Here, at the core of her, she isn’t sweet. She’s salty and tangy and a little like the ocean, or grass. Grass drizzled in crack cocaine. It’s fucking intoxicating. I hear myself making animal sounds deep in my throat, like a bear neck-deep in honeycomb.

A delicate shudder works its way through her. “
Tulipa
.”

A sudden dazzling bolt of lightning illuminates the room, and the lights flicker. The sound of thunder rolls through the walls. I slide a finger inside her, feel her muscles contract, add a second finger.

“
Orquídea
.”

With my teeth, I tug gently on the small silver stud in her clit, pressing my fingers deeper inside her, and get the immediate and gratifying feedback of the roll of her hips paired with a long, low moan.

“
Íris, jacinto, ervilha doce
,” Tabby pants, writhing.

“Don’t. Come.”

She makes a small, pleading sound, her lips pressed flat together, her chest rising and falling, her pelvis flexing, riding the strokes of my tongue.

It takes every ounce of self-control I have not to sit up and sink my throbbing cock as far as it will go into her delicious cunt and start pounding. I’m out on the ragged edge of my own restraint, watching her fall apart, stunned by how beautiful she is, how brave, and by the force of how much I want from her.

How much more I want from her than this.

You’re mine
, I want to say, but can’t, because she isn’t.

With deliberation, I suckle her, reach up with both hands, and firmly pinch her nipples.

“Connor,” she says, stiffening.

“Yes, sweetheart,” I whisper, watching her face. I return to my sucking.

She says my name again, a fractured sound, cut off at the end when she cries out, her body taut as a piano wire, her arms outflung, still entangled in her jacket.

With convulsions that shake the bed, she orgasms in my mouth.

Thunder booms. Lightning flashes. The first of the rain begins a soft, drumming song against the roof.

And for the first time in my adult life, I discover the true meaning of the word
yearning
.

This—this moment, this feeling—is everything I didn’t know I wanted or was missing, made all the more agonizing by the freezing realization that it’s precisely this that Tabby
doesn’t
want.

At least not with me, for longer than one night.

She’s crying a soft repetition of
oh God oh God oh God
, still straining against my mouth, her heels digging into the mattress, hands bunching the covers in her fists, and I can no longer wait.

“I need to be inside you,” I say, my voice rough with desire. When she whispers, “Hurry,” her hips still undulating, I don’t hesitate.

My wallet is on the nightstand beside the bed. I reach for it, fumble out a condom, fling the wallet aside. With lightning speed, I roll it down my engorged, aching cock. Then I take my erection in my fist, pull her toward me with my other hand wrapped around her hip, and slide the head between her soaked folds.

I drop my weight to a hand, planted on the mattress beside her. Moaning, she cants her hips higher, using her thighs to lift her bottom off the bed, grabs my ass with both hands, and pulls me inside her body. Deep.

Slick, tight heat, still rhythmically spasming—I can’t help myself. From my throat comes a loud, broken moan.

We stay locked like that for what feels like forever, suspended, unmoving, until finally the pulsing inside her pussy slows to a stop, and she collapses back against the bed, taking me with her.

I adjust my weight so I’m fitted more comfortably against and inside her, push her hair off her damp forehead, and give her a deep, heartfelt kiss. When I break away, she looks up at me through her lashes.

“Oops,” she murmurs, smiling bashfully.

I’m so fucking helplessly charmed I might as well attach some strings and a pair of handles to my back, give them to her, and let her make me dance.

“Good?” I ask.

Her bashful smile takes on a hint of playfulness. “Mmm. I don’t normally kiss and tell. Sorry—
come
and tell.”

“But for me you’ll make an exception.”

Gorgeous, mussed, flush with afterglow, Tabby says, “All right. For you I’ll make an exception.” She looks deep into my eyes. Then, softly, “It was very adequate. Thank you for your services, soldier.”

I chuckle. “Adequate, was it?” Flexing my pelvis, I make a slow circle, feeling that small stud of metal pressed right above where our bodies are joined.