Wicked Sexy (Wicked Games #2)(69)

I stop speaking abruptly when the waitress arrives with a bottle and a pair of champagne flutes. My face burns so hot, it might burst into flames.

The waitress sets the glasses down and presents the bottle to Connor. Without looking away from my face, he says gruffly, “Just pour it.”

We stare at each other across the table as she removes the foil cap and the wire muselet, uncorks the bottle—the pop it makes is loud and cheerful—and pours a measure into each glass.

“Shall I put the bottle on ice?” she asks Connor.

He doesn’t answer. He’s staring so hard at me, it’s like she doesn’t even exist. He hasn’t once shifted his gaze away from my face.

“Um, I’ll just go ahead and do that, then.” The waitress discreetly removes herself.

Connor extends his hand across the table, palm up. I hesitate but then reach out and rest my hand in his. His warm fingers curve around mine. He gently squeezes.

“Do you have any idea,” he says softly, “what that means to me?”

With my free hand, I cover my face. “You promised you wouldn’t say anything.”

He squeezes a little harder. “I know the word you’re looking for, in case you’re interested.”

“No. I’m not. Please stop talking now.”

He strokes his thumb back and forth across my knuckles. “I’ll stop talking on one condition.”

I peek at him between my fingers.

He says in voice thick with emotion, “Come sit next to me, princess.”

“Are you going to keep your hands to yourself?”

He says instantly, “No,” and I can’t help but laugh.

“Well, all right, then. Move over.”

I stand. Mercifully, the ground feels solid under my feet. Connor slides over in the booth and reaches out. I take his hand, slide in next to him, and he immediately engulfs me in a giant bear hug. He buries his face in my neck.

“Goddamn you,” he whispers.

“I know,” I whisper back, my eyes squeezed shut. “I’m sorry.”

We stay like that with our arms wrapped around each other, just breathing, for what seems like a long time. When the waitress returns with the champagne in an ice bucket, we reluctantly break apart. She makes an apologetic noise and quickly leaves.

I weakly laugh. “It’s like we have a bet on how many poor waitstaff we can embarrass across the continental United States.”

Connor slides a hand under my hair, wraps it around the back of my neck, and settles it there. He picks up one of the flutes of champagne and presents it to me. “Here. This will make you feel better.”

I take it, hold it under my nose, and sniff. I get a fragrant whiff of fruit and flowers, along with a little zing of effervescence. “It smells good.”

“Wait until you’ve got it on your tongue.”

Our eyes meet. I know I’m not the only one who found that offhand comment enticingly sexual. Holding his gaze, I take a sip…

And groan in pleasure. “Seriously? That’s like drinking happiness!”

Connor smiles. “You like?”

“Wait, let me be sure.” I take another sip, and then an even bigger swallow. I nod enthusiastically. “Yep. It’s official. This stuff is great.”

“Well, at a thousand bucks a glass it should be.”

I freeze, horrified, and stare at him with my mouth open.

He’s unmoved by my shock. “It’s been a strange day, princess. You deserve a treat. Drink up.”

His cell rings. He fishes it from his pocket, answers it with a gruff, “Talk to me,” listens for a while, and then grunts. “Roger that.” He disconnects the call and looks at me. “That was Ryan. O’Doul and the agency have put together a local team in Miami to get S?ren. Go time is zero six-hundred hours tomorrow.”

I check Ms. Kitty on my wrist. It’s eight minutes to seven p.m. on the west coast, which makes it almost ten p.m. in Miami.

In eight hours, the FBI will raid S?ren’s hideout. With any luck, in eight hours S?ren will be in the custody of the United States government. In eight hours, I’ll be able to breathe again.

Connor and I stare at each other. I feel every single throbbing beat of my heart.

“So what’re we going to do for the next eight hours, jarhead?”

Connor downs his glass of champagne in one gulp. He looks at me, licks his lips, and growls, “Everything.”

Then his mouth is against mine.

Even if I wanted to protest, I couldn’t, because the man tastes better than a thousand-dollar glass of champagne.





Twenty-Five





Tabby




“I can’t drive with you doing that, princess,” Connor says, breathing raggedly, his hand fisted in my hair.

His hard cock is in my mouth.

I’ve just unzipped his pants and gorged myself on it, because I couldn’t stand one more second of rubbing the pulsing length of it through the fabric as Connor tried to kiss me and concentrate on the road at the same time.

“Then pull over,” I mutter, and take him all the way to the base. I fondle the heavy, velvet warmth of his balls, and he sucks in a breath.

The Hummer zigzags. A horn sounds. Someone yells a curse.