Page 67 of Wicked Beautiful (Wicked Games 1)
If I get my way, it will happen every day for the rest of our lives.
“Do you like the view?”
“Mine’s better.”
She says it with such casual disregard, I can’t help but laugh. At least she’s telling the truth. It’s a start.
“I’ll have you know this is the premier unit in this building, Ms. Price.”
“This giant penis of a building, you mean? I’ve never seen anything so phallic. Let me guess: the architect was a man.”
“And what if it was a wom
an? Would it be a tall, ovary-shaped building?”
“Now there’s a frightening thought. Can you imagine a forty-story ovary? Sounds kind of gross.”
I turn her around, gather her in my arms, and press her against my chest. She winds her arms around my waist and tilts her head back, gazing up at me with that faint melancholy smile.
“Why are you sad?” I whisper.
She blinks, and then turns her head, depriving me of her eyes. “I’m not.”
I cup her face. As I’ve had to do many times before—and probably will many times again—I make her look at me. I’m determined not to let her hide. I want no walls between us. “Don’t bother acting tough. I can see you’re sad. Tell me why.”
A long silence follows. Then, instead of answering me directly, she sidesteps, as she does so well. “Why is it that you see me so clearly when no one else does?”
A stray lock of hair is falling into her eyes. I brush it from her forehead. Keeping my voice low, I say, “Why is it that when I’m inside you, I feel like I’m finally home?”
She ducks her head and hides her face in my chest, but not before I see the pain that crosses it.
“Victoria—”
“Please. It’s just a lot. Please, just this once, let it go.”
Her voice is so hollow, so devoid of hope, it makes me fall still. I tighten my arms around her, wanting to comfort her, but for what, I don’t know. She obviously doesn’t want to tell me. I debate a moment, knowing I could get it out of her if I push, but ultimately decide to do as she asks and let it go.
We’ll have plenty of time to work through whatever issues she has. I’m not going anywhere and, if I have any say in this at all, neither is she.
I whisper, “Come back to bed, baby.”
When she nods, I feel a profound sense of relief. At least for now, she’s not running away. I tuck her under my arm and lead her back into the bedroom, and then crawl in bed beside her and gather her in my arms. She’s still wrapped like a little burrito in the cashmere, but I don’t care. She seems to need it, like a security blanket. If it makes her feel safer, she can have it. She can have anything she wants.
Lying beside her in the dark, I listen to the sound of her breathing, feel the gentle rise and fall of her chest. At some point, feeling a contentment I haven’t felt in years, I fall asleep.
When I wake in the morning with the sun streaming through the windows, Victoria is gone.
TWENTY-ONE
~ Victoria ~
When I arrive at my penthouse, Tabitha and Darcy are sitting together at my kitchen table, cackling like a pair of crones over something Tabby’s showing Darcy on her cell phone. Tabby’s wearing a Day-Glo pink tank top with the words “Stop staring at my tits” written across her boobs, paired with a leather miniskirt, an armful of silver bangles, and biker boots. Darcy is wearing a pair of zebra-print stretch pants, a shiny purple top, and gold sparkly sandals with a dangerously tall heel.
“Christ. It looks like there was a sale at the stripper factory outlet in here.”
They look up and see me standing in the doorway.
“Well, well,” says Darcy, eyeing me up and down. “Look what the cat dragged in.”
