Wicked Sexy (Wicked Games #2)(24)
Looking at my expression, he says flatly, “Ten.”
When I wordlessly turn and run away, Connor doesn’t follow.
Ten
Connor
Ignoring the fire alarm and the fact that the hotel might soon be engulfed in flames, I trudge back up the stairs to the bar, willing my feet to climb instead of running after Tabby like they want to.
She needs space, not pressure. Though I’m almost positive I could convince her body to push past the constraints of her mind, it’s obvious that would only serve me in the short run.
I’d probably wake up tomorrow morning with a hatchet buried in my skull.
If I woke up at all. Can a man die from too much pleasure? Because if the little taste of Tabitha West I just got is any indication, climaxing inside her might send me straight into cardiac arrest.
Sweet. Everything about her is sweet. Beyond that thorny wall she hides behind is the f*cking Garden of Eden.
I want her so much, it’s like holding your breath for too long under water and needing a big gulp of air. That desperate ache. That painful demand. I want to apologize to my cock for what he’s going through, but it seems my heart is first in line for any mea culpas, because you could drive the Hummer through the hole in my chest.
The horror on Tabby’s face when she broke away from me was like…a grenade. Right in the heart.
So my plan now is to finish my scotch, take a shower—if my room isn’t on fire—and get some shut-eye. Tomorrow we can both pretend nothing ever happened. And after the job is finished and we return to New York, I’ll try again. Only maybe with a little less waving my hard dick in the poor girl’s face like it’s a trophy for best in show.
Finesse, right?
The bar is deserted except for an old Native American janitor sweeping the floor. He has a gray braid that reaches his waist, tied at the end with a thin piece of leather. I make my way to the table where Tabby and I were sitting and down the glass of scotch I’d left behind.
“Kid at the pool pulled the alarm,” says the janitor, his eyes on his broom. His voice is smooth and smoky, like good whiskey. “Third time it’s happened this year. There’s no fire, in case you were wondering.”
Except for the one in my pants, I think.
The intermittently ringing bell abruptly stops, punctuating the old man’s words with welcome silence. He squints up at the dark sky. “Electrical storm comin’ tonight.”
I follow his gaze. I see sapphire sky pricked with the glimmer of stars, but the mountains in the distance are blanketed with thunderclouds. As if on cue, a streak of lightning cuts a jagged white path through a cloud bank.
“Gonna be a big one,” he says, and chuckles. When I glance over at him, he isn’t looking at the sky or the mountains. He’s looking at me. “Just remember to keep yourself grounded so you don’t get electrocuted, son.”
I frown at his back as he turns and disappears, still chuckling, through the patio doors.
Back in my room, I strip and take a long, hot shower. My thoughts are too scattered to focus on any one subject for long, and the attempted distraction is useless anyway. All I can think of is her.
My sweet, vicious, passionate, distant, marvelous, maddening riddle. If she’d let me, I’d spend a lifetime trying to figure her out.
Catching my own thoughts, I groan.
Ridiculous romantic notions like that tell me exactly how much trouble I’m in. If I ever repeat anything remotely similar to Tabby out loud, I’ll have to send out a search-and-rescue team for my manhood.
It’s tempting to relieve the ache in my groin, but my heart is too heavy to bother. So I ignore my erection—the f*cking thing is becoming a cliché—and just let the water pound me. After ten minutes with my head bent under the spray, some of the tension in my shoulders is gone, but none of the ache in my chest. I figure it’s about as good as it’s going to get, so I turn off the water, dry off and brush my teeth. Sleep is the only thing that’s going to help me now.
If it even comes.
Towel in hand, I push open the bathroom door—
And freeze.
“Well,” says Tabby, reclining on my bed with her arms behind her head and her booted ankles crossed, “I must say my timing is excellent.”
Her voice is tranquil, bordering on disinterested. Her expression reveals nothing. The lines of her body are completely relaxed. Only her eyes show anything other than perfect composure. They glitter in the low lamp light, edgy and steely, like the flash of knives in a cave.
After the moment it takes me to overcome my surprise, my voice comes out roughened. “You’re angry.”
She ignores that. Her gaze drifts down my chest, over my abdomen, lingers on my groin. Still with that disinterested tone, she says, “Perhaps you should seek treatment for that. It seems to be a chronic condition.”
I move to cover my erection with the towel, but Tabby says sharply, “Don’t.”
My fingers curl around the towel, bunching it in my fist. I hold still as she inspects me minutely from head to foot.
I deserve this. For her hotel room in DC, for her house in New York, for everything I saw without permission, I deserve this. So I hold still and allow it, watching her face as she looks with cool composure at my naked body. I feel equal parts unsteady, uncomfortable, and fantastically alive.