Page 17 of Wicked Games (Fallen Royals 2)

I cry out, but the sound is strangled. I’m strangled. I push him, but he doesn’t budge. It’d be like trying to move a boulder.

“Wet,” he says. It sounds like an admonishment. “Kiss me, Margo, and I’ll leave you alone. For the night, anyway.”

Tears run down my face. I hate that I want him to keep touching me. That my hips move forward the slightest bit when his nail scrapes my clit. His fingers plunge back into me, stroking a spot deep inside me.

He kisses my cheek, his tongue darting out and catching my misery.

“You fucking love this,” he says. “Don’t pretend otherwise. Don’t pretend that you don’t wish it was my dick inside you. Maybe next time, I won’t send them away. They’ll get a live show—”

I grab his face and pull him to me. Our lips are magnets.

Make it a good one.

I taste my own tears as I part our lips, sliding my tongue along his. He takes over, slamming me back. My head thumps against the wall. His teeth tear at my lower lip.

He’s still toying with my clit, alternating between rubbing and dragging his nail across it.

That, the kiss, his hand at my throat…

An orgasm comes out of nowhere.

I groan into his mouth, and he takes it all. The orgasm, my noises, the kiss. My anger. My frustration.

His hand loosens on my throat, sliding down. His palm stops on my chest, over my heart.

“Well?” I manage.

His dark-blue eyes watch me. “It’s a start.”

He backs away, his gaze lingering on my face. It seems like he’s disappointed. I’m so glad there’s a wall at my back, because my legs would’ve given out otherwise.

He leaves. It isn’t what I was expecting, although it is what he promised.

Hate him, Margo, I tell myself. I pull up my pants slowly. My muscles ache.

Hair in place, hoodie straightened. Piece by piece, I reassemble myself. Caleb’s a hurricane force, and I’m supposed to withstand him, and everything he brings with him.

I’ve got to be stronger.

I walk into the kitchen and almost jump out of my skin.

“That was quite the performance,” Ian says, lifting his cup. He sways a bit. “I can see why he’s into you. The noises—”

“You were listening? Did you see—?”

He snorts and waves. “God, no. Caleb would’ve probably murdered me. Although I’m sure he realized I was there… I dropped a bottle.” He points to a shattered beer bottle on the floor in front of the fridge.

“I didn’t—”

“You were a little preoccupied.” He winks. “And wearing my hoodie, too. See?”

I roll my eyes. “See what?”

He raises the cup to his lips, then smirks at me. “You’re not the sheep everyone thinks you are. You’re devious.”

“Ugh.” I shake my head. “You said whatever I felt was a manipulation. You were right.”

“Was I?”

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