Wicked Games (McCade Brothers novella)

by Samanthe Beck

  …

  Ian didn’t miss Stacy’s quick inhale, or the way her eyes took a leisurely tour of his body. Then she smiled up at him. A slow, sexy smile that grabbed him by the balls even as he fought the impulse to give her hell for unleashing it on someone who, for all she knew, was an ax murderer.

  “I’m way better than okay,” she replied, still working the naughty-girl smile.

  He didn’t trust himself to reply. His temper already hovered at the top of the red zone from watching her flirt, flaunt her traffic-stopping body in the scrap of a costume, and command the attention of every guy in the club. When they’d first met, she’d been a stripper, yet strangely, the fact that she’d earned her living dancing next to naked had never bothered him. Why? He’d known she wanted him, and only him. But now, irrationally, he felt jealous of himself, because she stood there sending him an open invitation while assuming he was a stranger.

  Apparently she wasn’t looking for the strong, silent type tonight. She took a step back, and reluctantly, he dropped his arms.

  “Thanks for the save, Mystery Man.”

  “My pleasure, Angel.”

  She tipped her head to the side and stared at him. “It could be. We’ll see.” Then she frowned a little. “What the hell are you supposed to be, anyway?”

  He closed the distance between them and brought his mouth down next to her ear. Her familiar scent immediately teased his nose. Even the ski mask couldn’t protect him. “Cat burglar.”

  “Mmm. A bad boy.” Her lips moved provocatively to form the words. He imagined lifting his mask, pressing his lips to hers, and sucking her breath right into his lungs. “Guess I’d better keep an eye on you, so you don’t run off with anything I don’t want you to have.”

  “You can try, but I’ve got very”—he ran his fingers up her bare arm, over her shoulder and along her collarbone to the sensitive spot where it dipped into the hollow of her throat—“quick hands.”

  His touch provoked a small, involuntary shiver. Maybe her reaction unsettled her, because she danced a few steps away. “Sometimes I prefer slow hands,” she said, and shot him another lethal smile.

  Some jerkoff in a caveman costume danced up behind her. She turned. As she did, her skirt flared out and offered anybody with sharp eyes a glimpse of the most luscious ass he’d ever had the pleasure of sinking his teeth into. He looked around and discovered that practically every man in the vicinity had sharp eyes. Then she did a fascinating swishing move with her hips. His attention zoomed in on that mesmerizing ass again. He narrowed his eyes. Could he…? Was that her thong he could see through the gauzy skirt of her outfit?

  Caveman ran his meaty paws over her hips and around to rest at the small of her back, his fingers riding the swell of her backside. Fuck it. He was going to arrest this guy…

  Before he could stalk over and break up the grope-fest, Stacy went low, ducked out of Caveman’s hold, and swiveled up to dance with Old Spice. Old Spice actually had some real dance moves—moves that didn’t involve running his hands all over his partner. Ian experienced another flare of jealously as he watched them fit their bodies together and execute a fluid groin-to-groin dirty dance, even as he recognized they connected on an artistic level—one dancer to another. He wasn’t exactly hip-locked, but he couldn’t compete with Old Spice’s talent.

  Suddenly, he deeply regretted the “wait her out” plan he’d subscribed to for the last six weeks. He’d wanted to take their relationship to the next level. What if she’d been testing his commitment by breaking up with him? A very possible scenario, considering her upbringing had taught her to question everyone’s motives. Instead of going after her balls-out, he’d responded by diving headfirst down the exit chute she’d opened…at least as far as she could see. And what, exactly, had she been up to in the meantime? Had she found other playmates to keep her occupied? The thought twisted his guts like an invisible fist.

  G.I. Joe reappeared with another drink. She trailed her fingers along the edge of Old Spice’s towel, and then turned and smiled at G.I. Joe. He handed her the drink. Everyone watched as she tipped her head back and indulged in a long sip. Her cammie-clad lackey wrapped an arm around her waist and tried to pull her close. Stacy kissed his cheek and slithered out of his grasp. She hooked her arm around Ian’s neck and swayed into him.

  “Hello again, Mystery Man.”

  “Hello, Angel.” He brought his arm up and splayed his hand across the base of her spine, just below her wings. His touch remained light, but he knew damn well the gesture looked proprietary to their audience of hopefuls dancing nearby. He felt proprietary, and protective, and possessive as all get-out. But she was enjoying the dance and all the attention. If he got too territorial she’d shake him off and move on to the next guy.

  Keeping her arm around his neck, she turned so her wings pressed against his torso and his hand spanned her waist. Her head brushed his chest as she finished her drink. G.I. Joe hustled over, hips leading, and attempted to draw her away under the guise of taking her empty glass. Stacy relinquished her glass but stayed where she was. He couldn’t help smiling beneath his increasingly hot, itchy ski mask. Take a hike, Joe.

  “What do you think, MM? Spotted anything you’d like to get your quick hands on?”

  Was she all talk, or was she seriously looking to hook up with a complete stranger tonight? He fought the urge to rip off his mask and ask what the hell she thought she was doing. Instead, he flattened his hand against her stomach, spreading his fingers so his thumb brushed the swell of her breast and his little finger rested south of the subtle indentation of her belly button. “Something might have caught my eye.” He swept his thumb over her breast, as far as he could reach, coming dangerously close to her nipple.

  She sucked in a fast, shallow breath as her nipples tightened to stiff little points beneath the flimsy fabric of her costume. The swift, involuntary sign of arousal pleased him to no end, even as he wondered how she could allow a random guy on a dance floor to put his hands all over her.

  Then she returned the favor. She rocked her hips back into the cradle of his, humming with satisfaction when the hard ridge of his deliriously happy cock nestled against her ass. She tipped her head back and looked up at him. “Might? You don’t sound too sure.”

  “Could be I need a closer look.” His dick throbbed, and he battled the pure, animal instinct to lay claim to the snug valley between her cheeks. Instead he contented himself running his thumb over the soft, yielding curve of her breast. He held his breath, hoping she’d take the bait and offer to go somewhere more private. Then he’d read her the riot act, about…everything.

  “Tell you what, MM. You look to your heart’s content. Let me know if you reach any conclusions.” With that, she slipped out of his hold and sashayed over to Ariana. Lee Ann backed in from the other side, and the three of them proceeded to seduce every man in the vicinity with a hot, girl-on-girl-on-girl bump-and-grind. His aching privates gave the act a standing ovation.

  He couldn’t take much more. Six weeks without so much as a handshake from Stacy had drained his strength and weakened his willpower to the breaking point. Add in the skimpy outfit, the pulsing music and the sensuous dance moves…hell…every man had his limits. When Old Spice gyrated over to get in on the action, Ian decided he’d had enough. He caught Stacy’s arm and tugged, bringing her around to face him.

  She bumped into his chest and put her hands on his biceps to steady herself. “See something you like?”

  “Yeah. I like the way you dance.”

  A satisfied grin curved her lips. “I dance even better in private.”

  His reply popped out of his mouth before he thought things through, and it had nothing to do with keeping her safe. “Show me.”

  Chapter Four

  Oh, she’d show him, all right. Stacy led Ian off the stage and through the throngs of guests partying it up on the dance floor. Who did he think he was fooling? Did he honestly believe she hadn’t realized who he was t
he minute he’d caught her and held her against him? The scent of his soap, the way their bodies fit together, the timbre of his voice—even if he was trying to pitch it lower to fool her—all gave him away. For one moment her moronic heart had leaped at the possibility he was here to fight for her and convince her to give them another chance.

  Then reality crashed over her like a bucket of cold water. He wasn’t here because he’d finally surrendered to an overpowering desire to see her. The damn letter accounted for his presence, because neither he nor Trevor thought she was capable of handling one crackpot pen pal on her own.

  She intended to show him exactly what he could do with his overbearing, cocky, Neanderthal mentality. She’d handled her stalker, and now she would handle Ian, too. He’d get no glimpse of her still-aching heart. Instead, he’d see a carefree woman looking for a no-strings-attached good time with a handy stranger. By the time she finished, he’d be wondering if she even remembered his name. She’d take him on the ride of his life. Show him what he’d been missing.

  Immature? Probably, but wounded pride spurred her on. Just don’t get sentimental. Don’t say or do anything to clue him in. And don’t flip your damn hair, she coached herself as she pushed through the mobs of people loitering in the hallway leading to the private VIP rooms.

  She glanced back at the tall, dark figure behind her. Maybe being with him one last time would bring her some closure and enable her to move on. Something had to, because three drinks hadn’t helped. Prancing around and partying like she’d done in her wild-child days hadn’t helped. For the last six weeks, she’d waged an internal war to stop herself from running to him, telling him she’d made a terrible mistake, and asking him to forgive her. Every single day. She had to make it stop.

  She reached the first VIP room and realized the door might be locked. A weak part of her whispered that might be for the best, but luck was on her side. The knob twisted under her hand and the door popped open. She smiled and led Ian into the private room. He closed the door behind them and the sounds of the party immediately receded to a muted chaos punctuated by the relentless, pumping bass lines. Perfect. Not so quiet as to facilitate, God forbid, conversation, but not so loud it felt as if they still stood in the middle of the dance floor.

  Her hands wanted to shake, so she propped them on her hips and took a moment to look around the once-familiar space. Not much had changed. The small, softly lit VIP room served one main purpose—to give clients a place to sit back and enjoy a private dance with the entertainer of their choice. A costly indulgence, at an upscale gentlemen’s club like Deuces, and the decor, while restrained, acknowledged the price of the luxury. A comfortable dark leather chair sat in the middle of the room, centered on a splashy black-and-red Oriental-style rug. Large, gilt-framed bordello mirrors graced the walls, to provide the client with multiple angles of viewing pleasure. Sturdy, architecturally styled bookshelves lined the wall behind the client chair, and held a sound system and a private bar. Way back in a shadowy corner stood a stool where the bouncer would sit during an actual private dance, to ensure the client remained a gentleman at all times.

  Tonight the corner stool sat blessedly empty, and Stacy knew Ian would not be a gentleman. She’d make sure. Down and dirty—that’s how they both liked it.

  She guided him to the chair and gestured for him to sit. “Ever had a private dance before?”

  “Never.”

  “Sit back, sweetheart. You’re in for a treat.” She reached behind him for the sound system’s remote, and programmed what she’d liked to call the “soft-core playlist” back in her Deuces days. Unobtrusive, sexy music streamed from hidden speakers, further muffling the noise from the party.

  “Any rules I should know about?”

  “Normally yes, but not tonight.” She stepped up until she stood over his lap, with her hands on his broad shoulders and her breasts close to his masked face. “Tonight there are no holds barred. Nothing off-limits. Think you can handle it?”

  Trap set. Ian never backed down.

  “Don’t you worry, Angel. I can handle whatever you throw my way.” He reached around, under her skirt, and palmed her bare cheeks, left vulnerable by her thong. “Quick hands, remember?”

  She remembered, and forced herself to hold back a shiver. His voice held a note of something she couldn’t readily identify—challenge, maybe. Like he wanted to push her and see how far she’d go. Best to keep that analytical, intuitive mind of his occupied. Leave him no time to go all psychological on her. She rotated her hips slowly, giving his hands a nice, thorough tour of the hills and gully they’d laid claim to. Rough palms slid all over her smooth, sensitive skin. Her nerve endings sat up and whimpered for more.

  She lowered her arms and shrugged out of her wings.

  “A fallen angel,” he murmured and traced his fingers along the front of her dress.

  Her nipples contracted again, almost painfully tight this time. She imagined the feel of the knit ski mask rubbing against her breast as his tongue teased the hard, hypersensitive point. She bit back a moan. “I’m no angel.”

  Maybe she arched her back, or maybe he simply read her mind, but he reached up, yanked her dress down her shoulders, and popped her breasts free of the thin, sheer bustier she wore beneath.

  The condom fell into his lap.

  “You come prepared,” he rasped, sounding urgent—almost angry—and pocketed the foil square.

  Perversely, her nipples tightened even more, which activated some part of her nervous system with a direct connection to all parts south of her navel. A deeper, more intense tightness coiled between her legs. Her thighs quivered. She dropped her hips closer to his lap and connected with the rock-hard bulge testing the limits of his button fly. Heat shot straight to the point of contact. She had to get herself under control if she expected to keep the upper hand. “I’m not sure you meant that as a compliment.”

  “It’s a fact,” he growled, but the words trailed off in a groan when she ground her crotch against his. “Christ almighty.” He clapped one big hand over her butt and brought the other up to lift his ski mask.

  Oh shit. Not yet. “Don’t!” she said quickly. “Leave the mask on.”

  “I plan to. I just need…” In lieu of an explanation, he shoved the mask up above his mouth and grazed his lips over an extremely grateful nipple. She cupped her breast and held it for him, fighting back a moan. He spread his hand across the center of her back and brought her even closer, but instead of teasing her with his tongue, as she’d expected, he covered her with his entire mouth and used bone-dissolving suction to draw her in deep.

  This time there was no muffling the moan. The needy sound poured from her throat and filled the small room. Then his teeth and tongue joined the fray. She arched closer, letting him devour her, while her hips rocked back and forth, back and forth, in a steady rhythm she couldn’t have stopped if her life depended on it.

  Apparently satisfied she wasn’t going anywhere, he moved the hand at her back around to the front, switched his mouth to the other breast, and cupped the one he’d just set free. Not gently, but not too rough, because he knew exactly where she drew the line and he hit it, perfectly. Sweet Jesus did he hit it.

  “Oh, God, that’s good,” she babbled, running her hands over his shoulders, his chest, everywhere within her reach. The straps of her dress and lingerie hindered her, so she shrugged her arms free and pushed the clothes down around her waist. He kept busy alternately squeezing and soothing her damp, swollen breast while working the other to the same agonizing state. Every kiss, every tweak, every carefully controlled bite sent a bolt of heat straight to her core. The pressure built to a critical mass. If she didn’t stop him soon, she’d go off like a cherry bomb, right there on his lap, which was not her plan. She mustered up her willpower and pulled away.

  He lowered his mask back into place and then looked up at her. She wished she could see his expression, but the room wasn’t exactly lit for gazing intimately into the c
lient’s eyes. The ski mask didn’t help either.

  “Done already, Angel?”

  There it was—the note of challenge again. Her thighs clenched and she held back a thrilled little shiver. “I’m just getting started.” She knelt between his parted legs and undid the first button of his jeans.

  His hand covered hers and for a minute, she thought he intended to stop her. Time to issue a challenge of her own. “No rules, remember? No holds barred? You handle whatever I throw at you.” She popped the next button. The smooth, wide head of his dick surged out the top of his black boxer briefs. Her fingers shook a little as she hurriedly undid the last three buttons and shoved his shorts out of the way. Then she held on to his thighs for balance and sat back on her heels to drink in the sight of him.

  “I can handle it,” he said quietly. “Question is, can you?”

  Was he playing with her mind, using reverse psychology, or did he honestly believe he still had her in the dark? The answer didn’t matter. She’d make him plead, either way.

  She licked her lips, suddenly hungry for the taste of him, anxious to feel the hard, hot length of him filling her mouth, straining her jaw as she took him in as far as she possibly could. An answering hunger echoed between her legs at the thought of him stretching her, filling her, plunging deep until she couldn’t feel anything, think of anything, except his body moving inside her.

  Her mind screamed hurry as she leaned in, but her languorous body preferred slow motion and wouldn’t obey. His ragged curse reached her ears a few seconds after she swirled her tongue over the tip of his glorious cock. She licked her way down, down, down his shaft, provoking a few more of the uncensored sounds, and then slowly worked her way back up. His fingers dove into her hair, holding her head down and her lips against him, as if he worried she might abandon the job before she’d even really gotten started. She smiled and took him into her mouth.

  “Christ, I’ve missed yo…a good blow job.”