Wicked Sexy (Wicked Games #2)(56)

Tabby smiles, curling her toes around the back of my calf. “Oh, but you would. And worse. And I love every second of it, by the way.”

Love. It hangs in the air for a moment. We look at each other, breathless, and then Tabby looks away.

She stammers, “I-I…um, we should probably get going—”

“Look at me.” When she doesn’t, I take her face in my hand. “Tabby. Look at me.”

The old tension in her has returned with a cold snap. I know she’s hating herself for that slip, hating that we both noticed it, the elephant that’s appeared like magic in the room.

She wants to push the elephant out the window. I want to invite it to stay for a drink.

Or forever.

I run my thumb over her lips. She closes her eyes. “Why do I get the feeling you’re not going to let me pretend I didn’t say that?”

I gently kiss her jaw, her cheek, the curve of her eyebrow. “Because I’m not.”

“It was just a figure of speech. A random choice of words.”

I whisper, “You’d like to think it was, wouldn’t you?”

She’s getting frustrated, fidgeting underneath me like she wants to bolt and run. “Let me up.”

“No.”

“Connor—”

Into her ear, I say very deliberately, “You can love how I talk to you without having to commit the rest of your life to me, princess.”

She stills. The color is high in her cheeks. Her heart is pounding.

My heart is melting like a f*cking ice cube in the sun.

“It doesn’t have to be a four-letter word between us. Okay?”

Her lips twist. “Except it is a four-letter word.”

“Hmm. You’re right. Maybe we should add a letter to get us out of the danger zone if you feel the need to use the word again.”

She glances at me warily, her cheeks still red.

“To describe how you feel about my sexual prowess, of course.”

She groans. “God. I’ve created a monster.”

Ignoring that, I muse, “How about…slove. ‘I slove the way you talk to me.’” Then I make a face. “No. That’s weird.”

Tabby covers her face with a hand. “This is all weird!”

For whatever bizarre reason, this conversation is making me hard again. I guess my dick is as excited about Tabby’s Freudian slip as I am. “What about this: ‘glove.’ That’s an actual word so it’s not as weird. ‘Connor, I absolutely glove that enormous cock of yours! Will you please let me lick it again?’”

In spite of herself, Tabby laughs. She tries to smother it, keep her lips pressed together, but her body shakes with the effort.

“Too obvious? You’re right. It should be something no one else would recognize. Our little code word, don’t you think? Something that won’t give it away if you accidentally slip and say it in front of anyone else.” I think for a moment, and then pronounce, “Loathe!”

Tabby looks at me like I’m a nut job. “What?”

“Loathe. It’s got three of the same letters as love but it’s the opposite, so it’ll make you feel really happy when you’re saying it since you can’t stand me and everything. For instance, ‘Connor, I loathe your sense of humor as much as I loathe your face!’ It’s genius, right?”

Beaming, I look at her for confirmation. She’s doing this adorable thing where she’s laughing and groaning and shaking her head, all at once. “You’re crazy!”

I give her a soft bite on her neck. “I was fine before I met you, princess. Now look at me. I need a straitjacket.”

She freezes.

“What is it?”

She blinks rapidly, swallowing, the color draining from her face. “What? Nothing.”

“Yeah,” I say drily, “I’m calling bullshit on that, sweetheart. Spill.”

With sudden vehemence, Tabby snaps, “We don’t have to talk about everything!”

She shoves me in the chest, hard, and leaps from the bed, leaving me stunned by the sudden change in her mood.

I watch her stalk around the room, snatching up the clothes she’d left hanging over the arm of the sofa and the back of the chair, muttering something under her breath.

“You’re giving me whiplash here, princess.”

“Well, deal with it,” she says, dragging her T-shirt over her head. She stops and looks down at herself, mutters, “Fuck,” and tears the T-shirt off. She storms over to her suitcase lying open on a folding luggage rack against the wall. She rummages through it, tossing clothes aside, and then pulls out a pair of black leather pants I recognize.

I sit up in bed and drag a hand through my hair. “Not the armor again,” I say wearily, watching her get dressed.

She barely glances at me. In less time than I’ve seen some bullets hit a target, she’s dressed and pulling on her combat boots.

And I know our little oasis of happiness has vanished like the mirage it was.

I rise, and dress quickly and silently. Then I hear a small electronic alarm chirping somewhere in the room and cock an ear toward the sound. “What’s that?”

Tabby pulls up short. “It’s my phone.” She bolts over to the dresser, snatches up her cell, and stares down at it. When she looks at me, there’s something wild in her eyes. “The traceback program,” she whispers. “It’s compiled its report.”