Page 43 of Wicked Beautiful (Wicked Games 1)
This time, he breaks away first. We’re both panting, hungry, clutching each other like a pair of horny teenagers.
I groan at the loss of his mouth. “Why’d you stop?”
His lids drift open. His voice comes out gruff and intense, more intense even than the look in his eyes. “Because I was about to do something so dirty to you on this counter it would make your friend Gloria Tartenberger issue a permanent shutdown order. I’d have to tear down the entire restaurant and rebuild.”
Delighted, I laugh. I maintained my control this time, and, inch by wicked inch, he’s losing his. “Now I’m intrigued. Give me a hint.”
He lowers his mouth to my ear. “Do you know what tastes even better than a spoonful of four-thousand-dollar beluga caviar?”
“No, what?”
One of his hands drifts from my waist, cups my ass cheek, and squeezes. “A spoonful of four-thousand-dollar Beluga caviar eaten out of a freshly waxed pussy.”
His words are so carnal, his voice so hot and dark, my breath catches in my throat. My fingers dig into the muscles of his shoulders. A shiver of desire runs through my body.
He chuckles. “I see you like the idea.”
No—I capital L-word the idea. I’m veering dangerously close to coming right out and asking him for it, so I keep my tone light and playful to throw him off.
“It sounds a little unhygienic, actually. I don’t think my gynecologist would approve. Besides, how do you know I’m not rocking some major seventies bush beneath my panties?”
In one swift, heart-stopping move, his hand slides lower, slips beneath the hem of my microscopic skirt and pulls it up, exposing my naked bottom. Above my tailbone, he slides a finger between my thong and my skin.
“These panties, you mean?”
He jerks on the silk. It rubs against the most sensitive part of my body. I jump¸ gasping, my eyes wide.
His hot breath fans over my neck. His lips move against my earlobe when he speaks. “These wet panties I’ve been wanting to bury my face in since you walked into the kitchen at your house?”
He jerks on the fabric again, dragging it right over my clit, eliciting a low moan from me. I struggle to maintain my breathing, my sense of control. “They’re not wet.”
A deep, dangerous sound rumbles through Parker’s chest. “No more lies, Victoria.”
I close my eyes. Then I whisper, “It’s not a lie. My panties aren’t wet; they’re soaked.”
With that, I pull away.
He allows it, but I’m not convinced he won’t lunge at me. The look in his eyes is nothing short of ravenous.
I turn and casually retrieve my glass of cabernet from the counter. Then I stroll back to the table, sit down, cross my legs and take a swallow of the wine, looking at him over the rim of the glass with big, innocent Bambi eyes.
His smile is amused. “You like to play games, don’t you?”
“Only games I can win.”
Parker runs a hand through his thick hair. That vein in his neck is throbbing wildly again. He doesn’t answer me. Instead he turns back to the pan of olive oil and garlic on the stove and relights the burner. I spread a chunk of triple crème Saint-André on a rosemary cracker and take a bite, all while trying valiantly to corral my hormones. This is about as effective as trying to herd cats.
The man is. Smoking. Hot.
I push away the whirlwind of memories crowding my mind. I push away the desire crashing through me, heating my blood, making it pulse, scalding, through my veins. I push away all thoughts of how big his back and shoulders are, how strong, how much I’d like to peel that shirt off him and sink my teeth into his flesh.
Instead I sit, poised, for all outward appearances unruffled, munching calmly on a cracker and sipping a fine cabernet, while inside I’m a boiling vat of noxious chemicals.
My talent for maintaining a false tranquility comes from years of practice. It’s second nature now.
As is my talent for deception.
Watching Parker calmly stirring his browning garlic, I’m beginning to realize he and I have much more in common than I thought.
