Page 53 of Wicked Beautiful (Wicked Games 1)
I sneer. “Nice name. Did you pick her from the French section of the kiddy porn catalog?”
His laughter dies. “That’s not funny. She’s like my little sister.”
“That’s disgusting!”
He stares at me a beat. Then he says firmly, “Right.”
He grasps both my wrists in one of his big hands, turns, and marches over to the velvet sofa with me in tow, ignoring my howls of protest. He sits down on the sofa, hauls me facedown over his lap, and, before I have time to realize what he’s doing or even catch my breath, he drags my dress up over my legs, exposing my bare bottom.
He smacks me smartly on the ass with his open palm.
I jerk. My eyes fly wide open. A scream lodges inside my throat. I turn my head and glare at him over my shoulder.
I will murder you where you sit.
Seeing the look on my face, Parker’s expression hardens. He says, “You should know: you really deserve this.”
In quick succession, he rains down four more sharp, stinging smacks on my behind.
Livid, I squeal and buck, trying to squirm free, but he’s got one hand flattened across my shoulders and holds me in place with surprising ease. The other hand—the traitorous, hateful hand that just smacked me and that I’ll be cutting off at the first opportunity—tightens around my hip.
He flips me onto my back.
Blood pounds in my head, in my face, in every limb in my body. Parker leans over, presses his weight into me, and takes my face in his hands. He slides a leg over both of mine so I’m pinned.
I hiss, “If you try to kiss me right now I’ll bite off your goddamn tongue!”
He’s breathing hard. I can’t tell if he’s furious, excited, or both.
Like me.
“You didn’t like that?”
“No!”
“Good. You weren’t meant to.”
I close my eyes. My breath is ragged; I can hardly drag enough air into my lungs to keep my head from buzzing. “No one has ever done that to me before. Not even my father.”
He whispers, “I’m sorry.”
I open my eyes. Parker stares at me. I have to admit, he does look sorry.
Slowly he moves one of his hands from my face. It drifts over my shoulder, down my bare arm, over my waist to the top of my thigh—exposed by the stupid, ginormous slit in my dress—and then gently slides up and around. He cups my bottom. I gasp as he strokes my stinging behind with the softest of touches.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers again.
“No, you’re not.”
Why am I not pushing him away? I should be pushing him away. But the way that feels, oh, Lord…
He’s silent a moment, caressing my burning skin. “I’m mostly sorry.”
We’re both still breathing heavily. I become aware of his growing erection, pressing into my thigh.
“Should I kiss it and make it better?”
“No. I’m too busy hating you at the moment.”
