Page 57 of Only the Wicked
His lips purse, and he shakes his head. “I don’t lose. Period.” He shifts against the doorframe, his grin shifting into a devious smirk. “Though Miles pointed out that coming here instead of working might actually be me losing the bet in a different way. Said I’m substituting one obsession for another.” His eyes meet mine. “Not sure he’s wrong.”
The arrogance playing across those refined lips should not turn me on, and yet…
“Kept thinking about what I could do to distract myself—answer emails, catch up on reading. But the thing is…” He steps closer, and I catch something almost uncertain in his expression. “There’s only one thing I actually want to do. And it has nothing to do with work or any of the shit that usually consumes my brain.”
He steps into the room and kicks the door closed. His dark eyes shift from humor to downright predatory as his gaze rakes over me, but there’s something almost...surprised in his expression. Like he’s caught off guard by his own reaction.
For a moment, he just looks at me, and I see something flicker across his face—like he’s processing something unexpected. “You know what’s weird?”
“What?”
“I haven’t thought about work—really thought about it—since this morning. That hasn’t happened in…” He trails off, shaking his head. “Years. Maybe ever.”
He steps closer, and my breath quickens.
“You haven’t showered.”
“Nope.”
“What were you doing?”
“Called a friend.”
“Huh.” He scratches his jaw, but the smirk is softer now, almost self-deprecating. “Well, since I’m apparently terrible at both working and not working…” His voice drops lower. “Care for assistance in the shower? Might be the one thing I can actually focus on properly today.”
Chapter
Sixteen
Rhodes
I didn’t come here planning to maul her, but now that I’m here…
My fingers itch to tug that shirt over her head and to unclip the bra I watched her put on an hour ago.
Her eyes widen and a smile plays on her lips.
With each step backwards, expectations rise that she’s going to turn this into a game.
She’s going to run.
My skin tingles. I actually feel the tips of my fingers, my toes curl, prepped to kick off my flip-flops and leap. The mountain air tastes different—sharper, cleaner—like it did when I was twelve and spent summers here with my grandparents.
Why am I feeling like this?
Maybe because she stripped and stood on Hangman’s Rock and torpedoed down.
My pulse thrums. I haven’t felt this energized since my first successful funding raise.
It’s Sydney. She’s spunky. Feisty. A live wire whose spark lights a fire I forgot I possessed.
When our eyes meet, something shifts. The playfulness remains, but underneath it, something deeper. Something that makes my chest tight.
She squeals.
Twists.
Yes!
