Wicked Sexy (Wicked Games #2)(20)
Slowly, Connor turns and looks at me, only now the aggravation is gone, replaced by a sly gotcha! smugness.
He drawls, “Hot?”
Oh shit.
I attempt an attitude of nonchalance. “It’s good manners to be polite to your elders.” When his look of smugness only deepens, I hastily add, “Actually, I think your hearing aid is malfunctioning. I didn’t say ‘hot,’ I said…um…something else.”
Nonchalance = epic fail.
“Oh, I must have misheard!” says Connor, all wide-eyed, blinking innocence. “This pesky hearing aid is always malfunctioning on me. Let’s see, what rhymes with ‘hot’? ‘Trot’? No, that doesn’t work. ‘Cot’? Hmm. ‘Badass Cot Guy.’ Unlikely. What could it be, what could it be?”
He pretends to think hard, while I slide lower in the seat, trying to make myself invisible.
He keeps guessing all the way into Albuquerque, gleefully torturing me with words that rhyme with “hot” while I keep trying to steer the conversation back to Miranda, until finally I give up and sit with my arms crossed over my chest and my eyes closed he as proceeds to shove a giant fistful of crow down my throat, and all I can do is swallow.
Bastard.
Eight
Connor
So getting my dick on board with my “strictly professional” plan with Tabby is a spectacular failure, evidenced by the way it reacted when I saw her at the pool in her running outfit, and in the car on the way to Albuquerque when her voice was breathless with stifled laughter and she looked at me as if she actually liked me.
In the second case, not only did my cock get hard, my chest went tight and my throat felt like I’d swallowed a rock. All from a look.
Imagine what might happen if she looked at me like that while she was naked. I could spontaneously combust.
And then she said I was hot, and my dick got so excited, I was worried I’d make a mess in my pants if I drove over a stray bump in the road. It’s like I’m a teenager again, all boner and no brains.
I can’t stop thinking about it. I can’t stop thinking about her. I’ve already jacked off twice since we checked into the hotel, and if I don’t figure out a way to manage this soon, I’m in big trouble.
Unfortunately, I know of only one way to satisfy an itch.
Scratch it.
Nine
Tabby
The Hotel Andaluz is a vast improvement over the Best Western in Tulsa. I appreciate the Spanish-inspired décor, the russet pavers underfoot, the dark wood ceilings and bisque stucco walls. My room is lovely, spacious and quiet with a claw-foot bathtub big enough for two that keeps leering at me. I wonder if it’s coincidence the room is called the Romance Suite.
Connor was the one who arranged the rooms with the front desk, and hell if I’m about to ask him.
I take a shower, change into a pair of black leggings and my favorite travel top—a body-skimming, tie-dyed, one-shouldered number in brilliant blues made of some kind of space-age knit that folds to the size of a hankie and never wrinkles—and slip on my casual shoes, the ones with only a four-inch heel.
Then I get a text from Juanita: Hey. Can I use ur shower? Water is out at my house.
“Oh God,” I mutter. “Did your mother forget to pay the water bill again?”
I answer: Yes, of course. I’m on a job for a few days. Clean up after yourself, plz.
She responds: Suck a bag of dicks. With a minion emoji flipping me the bird at the end.
I reply: Charming. I’m sure Sister Mary Claire is so proud of you.
Two seconds later: Sister Mary Claire can suck a bag of dicks.
I chuckle. We really need to get Juanita a new catchphrase.
I’m starving, so I decide to go up to the rooftop bar, order some tapas, and enjoy the view of the mountains.
Unfortunately, my travel companion has had the same idea.
Connor spots me the second I walk out onto the patio. He’s sitting across the bar at a long, raised stone table with a fire glowing in a low trough down its center. He lifts a hand as if he’s been expecting me.
Which he shouldn’t be, because we left each other in the lobby with a “See you at six a.m.”
Feeling self-conscious, I make my way slowly across the patio toward him, weaving through tables. He watches me, his gaze contemplative and intense. The firelight lends his face a soft, pleasing glow. I wonder cynically if that’s why he chose that particular seat.
Yes, I’ve noticed the knot of girls at a table on the other side of the patio who are gaping at him over their margaritas. This fool has groupies everywhere.
“Great minds think alike,” he says as I stop beside him. He gestures to the next seat.
“Let’s not get carried away.” I lower myself to the stool.
He smiles. Catching the eye of the waiter who’s making the rounds, Connor calls him over with a crooked finger.
“Yes, sir?” asks the waiter.
“Johnny Walker Blue and an ice water with lemon.”
The waiter gives a short bow and retreats.
Now my self-consciousness turns to irritation, because if those girls don’t stop staring and whispering, I’m going to go over there and smack the giggles right out of their stupid little mouths.