Page 109 of Wicked Beautiful (Wicked Games 1)
Warmth, throbbing, a spreading shock of pleasure—my orgasm hits just after his.
He holds my neck while I come, his grip tight. Dominating. The look in his eyes is dominating, too, a look of gotcha that shou
ld frighten me, but thrills me instead.
I don’t want to know why. I don’t want to examine my emotions. I just want to relish this last bit of paradise before I burn it to the ground.
When I collapse bonelessly against Parker, he carries me into the bedroom with me still impaled on his cock. When he stops abruptly a few feet from the bed, I lift my head and look at him.
Wide-eyed, he’s staring at the nightstand.
“Oh, that.” I chuckle. “My good luck charm. Cute, isn’t it?”
Slowly, oh, so slowly, Parker turns his head and shifts his gaze to me. “Someone recently told me cats are basically cute serial killers.”
I smile drowsily. “No wonder I like them.”
A muscle in his jaw flexes. “You love to play with fire, don’t you?”
I trail my fingers over the jumping muscle in his face. “Darling, I don’t play with fire; I am the fire.”
“Yes,” he murmurs, “you definitely are.”
He plants a rough kiss on my neck, closes the distance to the bed, takes us down to it, and proceeds to demonstrate to me once again what exactly I’ll be missing when this house of mirrors comes crashing down.
* * *
A few orgasms later—five, dear Lord, I didn’t even know that was physically possible, the man is a sexual savant—Parker and I sit outside on the candlelit lanai at a table filled with the remnants of our meal, watching thunderclouds billow in from the sea.
The steaks were perfectly grilled. He prepared a simple green salad to accompany the meat. We’ve enjoyed an exceptional bottle of Syrah, a dessert of pineapple marmalade with soft cheese, honey, and figs, and easy conversation filled with infrequent but comfortable silences. We’ve talked mainly about our businesses, travel, hobbies, safe topics that flow easily from one to the next without requiring anything in the way of real self-disclosure.
Which makes his question all the more stunning when it comes.
“Do you want children?”
“Children?” I repeat the word as if it’s one I’m unfamiliar with, a word from a foreign language.
Parker glances over at me. His face reveals nothing. “You said small children terrify you, which I took to mean you didn’t want any. But I know it’s never smart to assume, so I’m asking.”
My mouth is the Sahara Desert. The breeze riffles through my hair, swirling it around my shoulders. I stare at the dark horizon, at the stars being slowly obliterated by clouds, and long for them to obliterate me.
“I wouldn’t be a good mother.”
“Why do you say that?”
When I look at him from the corner of my eye, I can tell he isn’t being sarcastic. He actually seems surprised by my statement. As if it isn’t obvious.
“In case you haven’t noticed, Mr. Maxwell, I’m not exactly the nurturing type.”
“Most men aren’t, either, but no one considers it a negative for them.”
“That’s because they typically have a partner who is.”
“So if you had a partner who was nurturing, the problem would be solved?”
This conversation has taken a turn I don’t like. I shrug and gaze stoically into the distance. “I’ve never really thought about it.”
“You should.”
