Page 67 of Wicked Sexy (Wicked Games 2)
I bolt upright in bed. It takes a moment for me to recognize the unfamiliar room and for my heart to slow from a gallop to a trot. I drag my hands through my hair, rub my eyes, get up, and use the toilet, brush my teeth. When my stomach starts to make angry growling noises I realize I’m ravenous. I think I had only one or two bites of the sandwich at the commissary at the studio before what Harry was saying made my stomach turn sour and my appetite flee.
I order room service and then take a shower, wondering where Connor is. He left me at my door with a promise that if I tried to run away, he’d find me, and then I slammed the door in his face. According to my watch, that was six hours ago.
Six hours of tossing and sweating and nightmares I thought I’d outgrown.
But no. Once horror sinks its claws into you, it never lets go. I should have known better.
The hotel’s robe is one of those poufy white terry cloth affairs that are totally impractical but highly comfortable. I put it on, turn on the TV, and wait for room service to arrive.
When I hear a noise outside my door, I cross the room and open it.
And find Connor asleep on the floor.
He’s sitting upright, back against the wall, arms hanging over his bent knees, dark head bowed, breathing evenly. I don’t know whether to knock him over or go back inside and call hotel security. It might be fun to see him try to explain himself.
Unmoving, he says, “If you kick me I’ll take you over my knees, woman.”
His voice is scratchy with sleep, low and impossibly sexy.
Irritatingly sexy.
“It’s princess,” I say impulsively.
Connor looks up at me. He blinks slowly several times.
“Not woman or baby or sugar or any of that other stuff. And especially not sweet cheeks.” My face is red, I can feel it. “I like princess, because it’s ironic. Okay?”
A smile tugs at the corners of his lips. He nods. He needs a shave and to run a comb through that dark mop on his head, but he still looks so goddamn handsome, I feel sorry for the rest of the men on earth.
Then I feel sorry for myself. I’m beginning to realize just how much it’s going to hurt when all this is over.
At the end of the hall, the elevator opens. A uniformed waiter gets off, pushing a rolling cart. I lift my hand and wave.
“Down here!”
The guy—grinning and tanned, has the look of an aspiring actor—waves back. In the blink of an eye, Connor is on his feet. He stretches with his arms over his head. His black T-shirt is so tight, I can see every ridged outline of abdominal muscle through it.
I can see his nipples through it.
I find myself wondering if it’s only the thought of food that’s making my mouth suddenly water.
“Got a lot for you here, miss,” says the waiter cheerfully. He glances at Connor and comes to an abrupt stop. “Should I set it up inside?”
I notice Connor staring hungrily at the cart. From beneath the domed silver plates, delicious scents waft up: cheeseburger and fries, chicken wings, mac and cheese, nachos with the works. I couldn’t decide what I wanted so I ordered everything that looked good.
It’s more than enough for two.
I wave the waiter in. “Yes, please. On the coffee table is fine.” When he rolls past me into the room, I sigh and tighten the belt on my robe. “All right, soldier, you can come in for a minute. But just to eat, okay?”
Connor looks at me from under his lashes. “Roger that.”
How he manages to make that sound so perilous, I have no idea. I decide to stay as far away from him as possible and get him out as quickly as possible because, judging by the tingling happening throughout my body from his look, I’m in serious danger of making a bad decision if he stays too long.
Another bad decision.
Shit.
The room service guy sets up the food, silverware, and a carafe of water on the coffee table, then has me sign the bill. He leaves, closing the door quietly behind him, and then Connor and I are alone.
