Page 9 of Wicked Intentions (Wicked Games 3)
“Noises?” I repeat, too blissed out to be horrified I might be making some kind of unattractive animal sounds into his mouth.
When was the last time I was kissed like this?
Never.
“Little growly kitten noises.” He kisses one corner of my mouth, then the other. He whispers hotly into my ear, “I wonder what kind of noises you’ll make when I have my face between your legs.”
I summon a vivid picture of myself naked on my back in a bed, Ryan’s golden head between my thighs, writhing and screaming my way through a thermonuclear orgasm. I try not to pant.
He allows me to pull away, but the expression on his face is dark and intense. I think he might grab me at any moment and haul me off into the bushes, caveman style.
Over the roar of my pulse, I say coolly, “Don’t get ahead of yourself, cowboy. You’re still in the friend zone. Any more assumptions about where this is headed and the friend zone is where you’ll stay.”
I amuse him, evidenced by his gruff chuckle and jaunty salute. “Yes, ma’am.”
I toss my hair and rise from the barstool. Instantly, he’s on his feet, too.
“See you at eight,” I say.
He looks crestfallen, like a little boy left alone at the playground. “You’re leavin’ already? It’s not even four!”
Mierde. Why does he have to be so adorable? The contrast between his sweet, boyish side and his macho, mouthy side is maddeningly disarming. “I have some work to finish up this afternoon. My article’s due to my editor today, and I haven’t wrapped it up yet.”
He looks at me for a beat. His expression changes into something unreadable. Gone is the little boy. In his place is a man who is watchful and speculative, his eyes the chilly blue of an iceberg. It’s the wolf I saw earlier, the one lurking behind the swagger and smiles.
“Of course,” he says, without a shred of emotion in his voice. “I understand. Duty calls.”
This time when he smiles, it sends a shiver down my spine.
I dig some cash from the clutch I brought with me to the pool and leave it on the bar for the conch croquettes. Ryan looks skyward and sighs. He picks up the money and waves it in my face. Confused, I take it.
“Don’t insult me, Angel. And before you get any other dumb ideas, I’m buyin’ dinner, too, compris?”
My heart skips a beat. “You speak French?”
His shrug is the picture of nonchalance. “A little,” he says. “Used to date a French girl.”
Sure you did. I narrow my eyes. His cool smile grows suspiciously wider. Suddenly, I feel like we’re in the middle of a film noir standoff, two spies on opposite sides of a bridge waiting to see who’ll draw their gun first.
“See you at eight, Angel.” Ryan kisses me on the cheek, slaps me on the ass, and saunters off, whistling, toward the pool.
I watch him go, convinced I have made a miscalculation.
I’m dealing with something far more dangerous than a wolf.
* * *
Back in my room, I unlock the safe and remove the burner phone I bought at the airport. I dial a number I know by heart. There’s a distant hiss, then a click as the line is answered.
“Reynard,” says a cultured British voice.
“It’s Dragonfly,” I say, relieved. Reynard always answers the line, and he’s as reliable as Big Ben, but there are so few reliable things in this world, I still can’t take him for granted.
“My darling!” he says, pleased. “Have you completed your article already?”
“I need to check a source.”
A short pause follows. “I see. One moment.” Fingers tap a keyboard thousands of miles away. “Proceed.”
