Wicked Sexy (Wicked Games #2)(17)

I’ve already seen how easily this particular woman can snap my self-control. The kiss in the restaurant was proof of that. I’ve never done anything remotely like that before, suffered an instantaneous, lust-fueled brain blackout, and I should be worried about it.

I should be, but I’m not.

Which is a problem.

Watching her walk through the sliding doors of the hotel, I resolve that there will be no more flirting. Until this job is over, I’ll be strictly professional. I can’t afford to be otherwise.

Now I just have to convince my dick to get with the program.





Seven





Tabby




At five a.m., I finally give up the battle with insomnia and rise from bed.

I go for a run, trying to wipe all thoughts of the past from my mind and focus on the task at hand. Finding S?ren Killgaard. Or, more precisely, getting him to find me. It won’t be hard. But Connor isn’t going to like what I have in mind.

Not that I’m going to tell him what it is.

There’s only one thing in this world I value more than my privacy, and that’s my sanity. It took me years to regain my mental footing after what happened between S?ren and me, years of therapy that forced me to take a hard look at myself and the way I’m wired, but it only took Connor Hughes a single evening to unravel all those years of work.

It only took him a single kiss and I was undone.

In front of everyone in that restaurant, in front of those two ridiculous, simpering girls staring at him from the bar, undone.

And I don’t even like him.

I don’t understand it. It makes no sense. There’s no logic to what happened to my body when he put his mouth on mine, the sheer electric jolt of pleasure I felt, right down to my toes. It was only a moment of utter madness, but I was shaken to my foundations, and still am.

“Stupid,” I mutter. I pump my arms and legs faster, driving myself hard until I’m drenched in sweat.

By the time I return to the hotel, the sun is rising, the birds are chirping, and I’m slightly less inclined to take off someone’s head. I go around the back, skirting the main lobby because the rear stairs are a more direct route to my room, and pass the pool. Someone else is up early, swimming laps with powerful, efficient strokes that make hardly a ripple in the surface.

When the swimmer ascends the pool steps and rises from the water, I stop dead in my tracks.

It’s like porn. There’s no other way to properly describe it. It would only be more perfect if I were watching it in slow-mo and there were a cheesy soundtrack playing in the background.

The swimmer is very muscular, broad through the shoulders and back, but with narrow hips that highlight the bulk of his upper body and thighs. On anyone less well-proportioned, his substantial muscle mass would make him look thick and ungainly, but with his height and that tapered waist, the overall effect is one of balance. Power, perfectly aligned with grace.

Water runs in rivulets over acres of tanned skin, streaming down his back and legs. His wet black swim trunks cling to his spectacularly perfect ass. Even his bare feet are perfect, masculine and brown as a nut against the pale concrete coping.

He reaches for a towel tossed casually on one of the chaise longues that line the pool and proceeds to dry himself, supple as a cat. I watch in fascination. He has no tattoos, no scars, no visible body hair. His virgin skin is completely unblemished, gleaming like rubbed wood in the morning light.

My brain and my ovaries are in total agreement: This man is stunning.

Then he turns around, catches me staring through the wrought iron fence that surrounds the pool, and calls out, “Morning, sweet cheeks. You’re up early.”

Of course. Of course it’s Connor. The universe has decided it would be amusing to watch me grapple with a sexual attraction to a man I want to slap most of the time. When I’m not wanting to roll my eyes in disgust or douse myself in antibacterial spray so I don’t catch one of the virulent strains of STD he’s probably carrying.

The way the blood rushes to flood my face is actually a relief, because it’s diverting some of the blood that was throbbing between my legs.

“Good morning, Marine,” I say coolly. “Just getting in from the strip clubs? Needed some chlorine to get rid of all that rainbow glitter and dime store perfume?”

He grins, slings the towel over his shoulders, and ambles closer to the fence. The light catches the silver chain around his neck, glinting off his dog tags. I try not to look at his abdomen, because I’m pretty sure he’s got an eight-pack—not that it’s even physically possible—and I don’t want to stare.

Any more than I already have.

Don’t notice his hard nipples, don’t look at how perfect and brown they are or how there isn’t a single stray hair on his entire gorgeous chest.

There’s a border of low shrubs planted on the inside of the fence. Connor stops just in front of it. He runs a hand through his wet hair, pushing the dark mass of it off his forehead. I stifle the urge to laugh because I find the simple motion completely erotic and I’m the biggest idiot to ever walk the face of the earth.

His gaze flicks over the length of my body, my sweat-drenched T-shirt and little nylon jogging shorts. His grin dies. A muscle in his jaw flexes. In a different tone than moments before, he says, “We should be on the road within the hour. I’ve spoken to Miranda. She’s expecting us by—”