Wicked Sexy (Wicked Games #2)(14)

Her expression is unreadable. “Why do some boys like to pull the wings off flies?”

I say bluntly, “You were f*cking him.”

Something flickers in her gaze, a deep distaste or disappointment. “Not everything is about sex, Connor.”

“Yes, it is. Except sex itself. That’s about power.”

Her head tilts. She appraises me with those beautiful feline eyes, a long, searching look that’s strangely intimate. The distaste in her gaze changes to something else, something warmer. In a husky voice, she murmurs, “Finally, something on which we agree.”

Heat surges through my body.

Desire is a strange animal. Elemental like hunger or thirst, but unlike hunger or thirst, it has the power to rob you of reason with the speed of two fingers snapping, so that you’ll do things so out of character you don’t recognize yourself, the creature you become in service of the primal, irresistible urge to mate.

The tone in her voice, the look in her eyes, the memory of her wet, naked body—all of it conspires to wipe my mind clean of all logic, and suddenly I’m just…gone.

I reach across the table, take her face in my hands, pull her toward me—knocking over glasses and rattling plates—and kiss her.

For a moment, there’s nothing. Resistance, her mouth firmly closed, her lips hard. But then a softening, a quick intake of breath through her nose, and she gives in.

Her lips part. She takes my tongue into her mouth. She makes a sound deep in her throat, a low, feminine noise of pleasure, and my cock instantly stiffens to steel.

She tastes sweet, so f*cking sweet, warm and soft and yielding, like a ripe piece of fruit. A peach, melting in my mouth. Our tongues sweep against each other, delicious sliding and pressure, suction, gliding, easy and perfect, like they were meant for exactly this. Then it’s more urgent, a rising demand, a jolt of pleasure when she nips my lower lip, my hands tightening around her jaw, her hands fisted in my hair, urgently pulling me closer, deeper, my mind fried as my body throbs and pulses, every beat of my heart a roar in my ears, my blood pounding like drums, wanting wanting wanting—Sweet Jesus this woman is heaven—

She yanks away and slaps me.

Hard.

We stare at each other. She’s standing up, I’m sitting down, we’re both panting. Her face is bright red. My cock is so hard, it hurts.

The two girls at the bar are openly gaping at us. So is the waitress, who just arrived to clear our plates.

Tabby staggers back a step. She drags the back of her hand across her mouth. She rips her gaze from mine and looks at the girls at the bar.

“He’s all yours,” she says hoarsely. She spins around and strides away.

“Goddammit, Connor,” I mutter. I throw some money down on the table. Ignoring the titters of the girls, I follow Tabby.



When she walks in the front door of her house, I’m already there, leaning against the counter in the dark kitchen in the same spot I was standing before we left.

She flicks on the light and stares at me. I’ve seen her angry before, but this…

This is something else altogether.

Eyes glittering, she says with dangerous softness, “Don’t ever do that again.”

Not chancing what might come out of my mouth if I open it, I simply nod.

She slowly exhales. “And no more appearing out of nowhere. Respect my privacy or f*ck off. Permanently.”

Again I calmly nod, but my heart leaps with hope. She’s laying down terms, which means she’s still in.

“I don’t travel by plane. Ever. Anywhere. So if the job is in another country—”

“It’s in LA. We can drive. If we leave tonight, we can be there in—”

“Three or four days, give or take,” she says flatly. “I know. I’ve made the trip before. Only not with someone I detested, so I imagine it’ll seem like much longer.”

If a man could be murdered by a look alone, I’d already be dead. I decide to take a gamble and go out on a limb. “It won’t happen again. I’m sorry.”

“Yes,” she replies. “You really are.”

Ouch.

“Give me the contract.”

Earlier I’d left the job contract, along with my standard, ironclad nondisclosure agreement, beneath the laptop on the counter. I retrieve the paperwork and hand it to Tabby. She flips through it, quickly scanning the pages, her mouth tight, her face pale. When she gets to the end, she finds a pen in a drawer, scratches her name on the signature line, and thrusts the contract back into my hands.

“I’ll tell Miranda to wire payment into your—”

“I already told you,” Tabby grinds out through clenched teeth, “I don’t need the money. In this case, I don’t want it.” Her eyes meet mine, and in them I see entire cities burning to the ground. “And no more questions about S?ren.”

I keep my voice carefully measured to hide the unease I feel hearing her say that. “I need to know whatever you know about him. It’s critical information that could have a major impact on the success or failure of the job.”

“There’s a ninety-nine percent probability the job will fail, no matter what you know.”

Her lack of confidence is surprisingly painful. “You don’t even know what it is yet.”

Tabby stares at me, her chest rising and falling in irregular bursts. I feel the tension in her, the weight of it in her body, how much effort it takes to stand motionless when everything inside her is pure violence. I recognize it because it’s something I’ve felt myself countless times, on countless missions. Gun in hand, crouched low against a wall in the dark, counting my breaths as I lie in wait for an enemy.