Page 92 of Wicked Sexy (Wicked Games 2)
“Well, at a thousand bucks a glass it should be.”
I freeze, horrified, and stare at him with my mouth open.
He’s unmoved by my shock. “It’s been a strange day, princess. You deserve a treat. Drink up.”
His cell rings. He fishes it from his pocket, answers it with a gruff, “Talk to me,” listens for a while, and then grunts. “Roger that.” He disconnects the call and looks at me. “That was Ryan. O’Doul and the agency have put together a local team in Miami to get Søren. Go time is zero six-hundred hours tomorrow.”
I check Ms. Kitty on my wrist. It’s eight minutes to seven p.m. on the west coast, which makes it almost ten p.m. in Miami.
In eight hours, the FBI will raid Søren’s hideout. With any luck, in eight hours Søren will be in the custody of the United States government. In eight hours, I’ll be able to breathe again.
Connor and I stare at each other. I feel every single throbbing beat of my heart.
“So what’re we going to do for the next eight hours, jarhead?”
Connor downs his glass of champagne in one gulp. He looks at me, licks his lips, and growls, “Everything.”
Then his mouth is against mine.
Even if I wanted to protest, I couldn’t, because the man tastes better than a thousand-dollar glass of champagne.
Twenty-Five
Tabby
“I can’t drive with you doing that, princess,” Connor says, breathing raggedly, his hand fisted in my hair.
His hard cock is in my mouth.
I’ve just unzipped his pants and gorged myself on it, because I couldn’t stand one more second of rubbing the pulsing length of it through the fabric as Connor tried to kiss me and concentrate on the road at the same time.
“Then pull over,” I mutter, and take him all the way to the base. I fondle the heavy, velvet warmth of his balls, and he sucks in a breath.
The Hummer zigzags. A horn sounds. Someone yells a curse.
I slowly draw up, savoring him like a lollipop, my other hand curled around his girth, stroking my thumb up and down the thick vein on the underside of his erection. I slide my tongue over the slit in the head. Connor moans softly. His big hand spreads out to cradle my skull as he flexes his pelvis, wanting more.
“You like my mouth,” I whisper, feeling powerful.
“Princess,” he pants, driving so erratically, the car is swerving all over the place, “I love your mouth.”
I falter for a s
econd. There’s that word again. But it only gives me a moment’s pause before I go back to worshipping his cock.
When I fumble with my zipper and slide my hand into my pants so I can stroke myself while I suck on him, Connor almost drives off the road.
“Fuck,” he says between gritted teeth, straightening the wheel. The car slows down and turns. My fingers are already slick with my own wetness. I rub my clit, making circles in tandem with the circles I’m making with my tongue. It feels so good, I moan and rock against my hand.
After a few more turns, the truck slows to a stop. Connor turns off the engine, pulls my head up with both hands, and kisses me so hard, it takes my breath away.
When he breaks the kiss, he demands, “You want my cock or my mouth first?
“Decisions, decisions.” I slowly stroke my hand up and down. “Are we back at the hotel already?”
“Yes. Answer the damn question.”
When I take too long to answer because I’m preoccupied with stroking him, Connor puts his mouth against my ear.
