Page 66 of Wicked Intentions (Wicked Games 3)
anything.
He leaves. I let my eyes drift shut and listen to the sound of running water. Then his footsteps return, along with him, bearing a wet washcloth.
He begins to clean my face.
“This is too much,” I protest, but only half-heartedly, because the warm, wet cloth feels delicious on my dirt-caked skin. “Ryan. I don’t think I can handle this…whatever this is. Us. You’re giving me a mental breakdown.”
“Nah, you’re doin’ that all on your own, darlin’. Just go with it. I promise it’ll all work out. Jesus, what is this, like, industrial-strength dirt?” He scrubs harder.
“Had to make sure…you know…disguise.”
“Yeah, well, you get a gold star for effort. When you wake up, I’m gonna have to throw you in the shower to get the rest of this shit off.”
“Throw?” I say, drifting off to sleep. “Sounds a little aggressive, cowboy.”
He sighs, stirring my hair. “Always focusin’ on the wrong things,” he mutters to himself.
I fall asleep to the sound of his breathing and his hands gently caressing my face.
* * *
I dream of burning buildings and firetrucks with ladders too short to rescue people hanging from windows on upper floors. When I wake, I bolt upright, sweating, heart thundering, with no idea where I am.
Then I see the polished bulk of the ridiculous grand piano, the all-black everything else, and realize there’s only one place on earth besides Dracula’s castle that I could possibly be.
I rub the sleep from my eyes, throw off the covers, and pad into the adjoining bathroom. My bladder isn’t so much full as it is ready to burst. I use the toilet, then wash my hands and face and brush my teeth because my breath is poisonous. When I realize I’ve used Ryan’s toothbrush without a second thought, I have a lot of second thoughts, and stand there staring at it in my hand.
From the doorway comes his amused voice. “I can see the smoke pourin’ from your ears, Angel. Don’t pop a blood vessel over there.”
I glance at him. He’s shirtless and barefoot, wearing only a pair of faded jeans, leaning against the doorframe with his arms folded over his chest and a wry smile on his lips.
As always, he’s beautiful. A big, muscular, tattooed, golden beauty of a man who claims I’m his.
My heart feels like it might explode.
“I’ve never used anyone else’s toothbrush before,” I say quietly.
“I’ve never let anyone else sleep in my bed before.”
That gives me a start. He sees my surprise and drawls, “Nope, not even the vampiresses. I kick ’em out right after I play Rachmaninoff. Come here.”
Moving at the speed of refrigerated molasses, I return his toothbrush to its small glass tumbler and walk toward him. He holds a hand out, wiggling his fingers.
“Any slower and I’ll be an old man by the time you get here.”
“Give me a sec. I’m trying to control my freak-out.”
“Over how spectacular I look without a shirt?”
I step into his arms and hide my face in his chest. “Over how spectacular you are in general.”
He wraps his arms around me and pulls me in tight. I’m engulfed in warmth and the scent of a male in his prime: clean skin, warm musk, and a delicious, indefinable something that’s so damn sexy I make a little noise deep in my throat.
Ryan nuzzles my ear. “You’ve got it bad for me, don’t you, Angel?” he teases, a chuckle rumbling through his chest.
That sound coming from my chest is a whimper.
In one smooth motion, he bends and picks me up in his arms. He heads toward the glassed-in shower on the opposite side of the room.
