Wicked Intentions: The Wicked Games Series, Book 3

by Geissinger, J. T.

  “Wrap your legs around my back,” I say, panting, “and tell me how much you hate me while I make you come.”

  Her thighs become a vise around my waist. Her eyes burn. “I do hate you.”

  I flex my hips, and her lashes flutter. “I do,” she whispers.

  Her breasts are smashed against my chest. Our skin is slick with sweat. We’re both breathing hard. Our hearts are pounding in tandem, and the electricity between us is gathering into a crackling, dangerous whirlwind, like the vortex of a tornado just before it touches the ground and destroys everything in its path.

  I kiss her, biting her lips. Then I taste blood. Desperate for release, she sobs against my mouth. I know she can’t hold back any longer.

  “Yes, Angel,” I whisper. “Now.”

  Her back bows. Her neck arches. Her fingers claw into my ass.

  Then, with a groan and a tremor that racks her entire body, she’s over the edge, taking me with her as her pussy throbs rhythmically around my cock.

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

  I’m aware that I’m grunting the word repeatedly, but my thoughts are incoherent. A white-hot ball of energy gathers at the base of my spine, pulsing, getting hotter and more unstable with every breath. The pleasure is almost unbearable. It’s the most exquisite sort of pain.

  Then she screams my name, and I lose it. I bite her on the shoulder and come so hard, the room dims.

  I collapse on top of her, take a moment to get my bearings, then strip off my pants, shoes, and the gun strapped to my ankle, and start all over again.

  * * *

  Rain falls steadily outside in the humid night. Crickets sing. Frogs croak. Somewhere off in the distance, a dog barks. We listen to the symphony of nature in silence as sweat cools on our skin.

  “You okay?” I murmur into her hair.

  Angeline is lying on top of me, using my body as a pillow, her head tucked into my neck. She sighs in contentment, nods, and burrows closer.

  For the past ten minutes, I’ve been combing my fingers through her hair, stroking my hands over her skin, memorizing every curve and plane of her body that’s within reach. She’s a delicious weight: warm, soft, and feminine. I’d like to keep her like this forever.

  “Who knew Mr. Happy would be such an amazing hate fuck?” she says sleepily.

  I pull a face. “Mr. Happy?” I repeat in disgust.

  “Yeah. Because you’re such a shiny, perfect golden boy. Always smiling like you don’t have a care in the world.”

  She makes me sound like a golden retriever. I don’t know whether to be amused or insulted. “Excuse me, Angel, Mr. Happy is what some guys name their dick. And secondly, that wasn’t a hate fuck. That was…”

  Before I can come up with something that can accurately describe the sexual gymnastics we just engaged in, Angeline interrupts me. “Guys have names for their dicks?”

  “Of course. You don’t think we’d leave our most cherished body part anonymous, do you?”

  She lifts her head and gazes at me. Her eyes are soft. “That must be an American thing,” she says, kissing my chin. “You’ve all seen too many Arnold Schwarzenegger movies.”

  I stroke a lock of hair away from her cheek. “On behalf of Arnold Schwarzenegger, I’m insulted. Not once has he ever named his dick in a movie.”

  “So you’ve obviously seen them all.”

  “I fail to understand the correlation between the two.”

  She smiles. “That’s because you’re a man.”

  “Wait. You’re telling me women don’t have names for their unmentionables?”

  She laughs, shaking us and the bed. “Unmentionables? Been reading one too many Victorian romances, have we?”

  I purse my lips, assuming a prim librarian’s expression. “I also enjoy needlepoint and decoupage, dearie.”

  “Sure you do,” she says. “In between target practice and shopping for hotel room security devices.”

  “Thought we weren’t gonna talk about work, Angel,” I murmur. When she heaves a sigh that sounds almost regretful, I add, “Unless you’re ready to tell me what you really do for a living.”

  “Mon Dieu,” she mutters. “Could you please stop being so observant?”

  I chuckle. “So don’t be sweet, and don’t be observant. You want a clueless asshole, that it?”

  “They’re generally a lot easier to handle,” she grouses.

  “But much more boring.”

  “And far less dangerous.”

  That gives me pause. When I speak, my voice comes out husky. “You’re not in danger from me in any way.”

  She turns her face to my neck. “Silly man,” she whispers. “You’re the most dangerous thing I’ve run across in years. Maybe ever.”

  Pressure swells inside my chest. A sensation of warmth spreads through my limbs. I close my eyes and smell her hair because I can, because she’s lying naked in my arms, probably more naked than she allows herself to be with anyone else.

  I feel privileged. And I want more.

  “So when I visit you in Paris—”

  She laughs softly. “You’re unbelievably stubborn.”

  “As I was saying, when I visit you in Paris, the first place I wanna take you is this bistro on Rue Vertbois that has decaying nineteenth-century décor, incredibly snobby waiters, and the most indecently huge portions that they don’t allow you to share.”

  “L’Ami Louis,” says Angeline, nodding. “I love that place. The confit de canard can make you cry.”

  I smile at the ceiling. For the same reasons I don’t believe she’s a writer, I don’t believe she lives in Paris, but only someone who’s spent a lot of time in the city could nail that description. And her Parisian accent, which only rarely slips.

  Most notably when crying out my name when she comes.

  When my dick stirs at that thought, she laughs. “Have you eaten a large quantity of oysters lately?”

  “Hmm?” I’m distracted, smoothing my hands down her back. Her skin is smooth as glass.

  “Never mind.” She abruptly changes the subject. “I’m curious about the girl who was with you at the pool. Juanita.”

  I tilt my head on the pillow but can’t see the expression on her face. “What about her?”

  After a long silence, she replies. “She reminds me of someone I used to know.”

  I wait but she remains quiet, so I decide I have nothing to lose by telling her Juanita’s story. And judging by the odd tone in Angeline’s voice, I might have some valuable information to gain.

  “She’s Tabby’s neighbor. The youngest of seven kids who all still live at home. Mother always working, no dad in the picture. Tabby sort of took her under her wing. Believe it or not, they have a lot in common.”

  “Because they’re both prodigies.”

  My inner antennae twitch. “Yeah…but how could you know that? You only talked to Tabby for like an hour, and you didn’t even meet Juanita.”

  “I didn’t have to. Geniuses always exude a certain darkness. They don’t fit, they know they don’t fit, and being an outsider to the rest of the human race molds them in a way normal people can’t understand. If you know what to look for, you can always see it.”

  Now I’m fascinated. “How?”

  Angeline hesitates, thinking. “It’s mainly in the eyes. Even when they’re right in front of you, they’re far away. But also it’s a strange sense that they’re…” She struggles to find a word. “Other. Almost like an alien. It’s in everything they do. Once you’re attuned to it, it’s unmistakable.” Her laugh is subdued. “Like knowing when someone’s a killer.”

  Now my antennae are going crazy. “Oh really,” I drawl, trying to sound nonchalant. “Known many killers, Angel?”

  Because our chests are pressed together, I feel the way her heartbeat doubles in the space of two seconds.

  Bingo.

  In one smooth motion, I roll her over, throw my leg over her body, and capture her face in my hand. “I promised we wouldn’t tal
k about work tonight, and I’m gonna keep my word. But tomorrow’s a different story. Once the sun rises, all bets are off.”

  She swallows. In the low light, her eyes shine. “Yes,” she whispers. “Once the sun rises.”

  I nod.

  “But for now, you’re going to tell me more about Juanita while I get something to drink. My mouth’s a desert.”

  I kiss her softly on the lips. “Why’re you so interested in Juanita?”

  She rolls out from under me, sits up on the edge of the bed, and stretches her arms overhead. “I told you. She reminds me of someone I used to know.”

  I admire the way her long hair cascades down her back, a sleek brushstroke of mahogany against the golden canvas of her skin. “One more thing we’re gonna talk about in the morning: who.”

  Angeline drops her arms and glances at me over her shoulder. Her eyes are unreadable. “Whatever you say, cowboy.”

  She rises from the bed and makes her way across the room toward the small refrigerator under a console near the television. I cross my arms under my head and indulge myself in the sheer pleasure of watching her nude body move. Poetry.

  When I say, “She was kidnapped,” Angeline whirls around and stares at me with a horrified look. She clutches her throat.

  “Kidnapped! By who?”

  “A psychopath. It’s a long story.”

  She’s beginning to look a little green. “That scar on her back…”

  “It’s a long, ugly story,” I say flatly.

  She passes a hand over her face and exhales a hard breath. “Oh God, that poor baby.”

  There’s so much more to her reaction than just average human empathy at hearing a terrible story about someone you don’t know, but I won’t be able to uncover it tonight. So I just add it to the list of things I’ll get to tomorrow.

  “Anyway, me and Connor and the crew found out where she was and went in and got her—”

  “You rescued her?”

  Angeline’s eyes are wide. We stare at each other from across the room. “It’s what I do, Angel,” I say softly. “It’s the job. I find people.”

  For some bizarre reason, she looks like she might throw up.

  Abruptly, she turns away and goes to the fridge. She yanks open the door, grabs a bottle of orange juice, slams the door, savagely unscrews the cap, and chugs half the bottle without taking a breath.

  I lie still, giving her space for this newest freak-out, because I know instinctively that making any kind of sudden move will result in her running out the door. She stands with her back to me for several long moments until finally she draws a breath and turns back to me with a shaky smile.

  “That must be very gratifying work.”

  “Almost as good as being a travel writer.”

  She closes her eyes.

  “Sorry, couldn’t resist. Come here.”

  She swirls the bottle thoughtfully. “Only if you promise to be nice.”

  I sit up and smile at her. “I’ll be as nice as you want me to be. You know I’m good for that.”

  An attractive blush darkens her cheeks.

  I hold out my hand. “Angel. Come here.”

  She approaches slowly, still swirling the bottle, holding my gaze with a wary look like she’s not entirely convinced I’m not going to suddenly pounce. When she’s close enough, I reach out and grasp her wrist. I pull her between my legs and nuzzle her breasts.

  “You hungry?” I murmur. “I can order room service.”

  “In a bit.” She taps me on the shoulder with the bottle. “You must be dehydrated.”

  “Yeah, I am, actually. Thanks.” I take the bottle from her and swallow the rest of its contents. It’s cold and deliciously tart. I set the empty on the bedside table, lie back on the bed, and pull her down on top of me, because it’s my new favorite thing in the world. I wrap my arms around her and inhale the fresh, peppery scent of her skin.

  “So you rescued Juanita,” she says against my neck. “And now she’s on vacation with you?”

  “Her and Tabby are inseparable now. Oh—I didn’t mention—we rescued Tabitha, too. Same psycho had both of ’em.”

  When Angeline raises her head and stares at me, I shrug. “Like I said, long story. The upshot of it all is that the two of them somehow convinced Juanita’s mother and psychiatrist that it would be good for Juanita to get away on vacation for a while, so here we are. One big, happy family.”

  My left ear starts to buzz like it does at high altitude when it needs to pop. I work my jaw, but no luck. Why are my lips tingling?

  “I envy your happy family,” Angeline says gently. She presses a tender kiss just below my earlobe. Her voice drops. “And I want you to know this was never the plan. I meant it when I said I don’t do one-night stands. I never mix business and pleasure. Well…until you.”

  Business?

  The bed does a lazy roll, like we’re riding a wave on a boat.

  Heart pounding, I jerk upright. Angeline leaps off me and backs away, keeping a watchful eye on my face. When I try to stand, the room slips sideways. I look at the empty orange juice bottle, her small handbag on the console above the fridge, and, with a bolt of horror, realize what happened.

  “Angel! You didn’t!”

  “I’m sorry, Ryan. I’m so, so sorry.”

  She sounds like she actually means it.

  I walk toward her, but in two steps, my balance fails me. I stumble and crash to a knee. The room spins wildly and begins to darken. Everything gets fuzzy around the edges. Indistinct. A sudden hot rush of anger is the only thing keeping my eyes open.

  “What is it?” I demand, furious to hear my words slur.

  “It’s potent but not harmful, I promise,” she says, wringing her hands. “You’ll wake up with nothing but a headache. There are no lasting effects.”

  With the last of my willpower, I force myself to lift my head. I focus on her face. Her beautiful, lying face. “Oh there’s gonna be one lasting effect,” I growl, teeth gritted against the encroaching darkness. “And the next time I see you, woman, I’m gonna tell you all about it.”

  She has the good sense to look afraid.

  Her face is the last thing I see before the room fades to black and I slump to the floor, unconscious.

  Eight

  Mariana

  Even passed out, he’s attractive.

  I roll him onto to his back and check his pulse. Normal. His breathing is deep and even. His mouth is slack. Those beautiful lips beckon me to kiss them, so I do.

  Gently brushing a lock of gold hair from his forehead, I whisper, “Lo siento, mi amor. Sleep well.”

  It’s a relief to drop the fake French accent.

  I tuck a pillow under his head because I don’t want him waking up with a crick in his neck to add to everything else he’ll be mad about. Then I stand and look down at him.

  He looks boyish and masculine. Sweet. But with all those muscles and tattoos, and his manhood resting against his thigh, impressively large even when not erect, he looks…

  Heartbreaking.

  I press a hand over my chest, blink away the moisture in my eyes, and take a deep breath.

  There’s no time for regret. For wondering about might-have-beens. It’s time to get to work.

  From his drawers, I select a black T-shirt and a pair of his briefs and quickly dress. The gown I wore to dinner isn’t made for climbing balconies, but it does have its purposes. I retrieve it from the floor and rip out the section of hem where I sewed the micro compass. I place it carefully in my mouth, tucked between my cheek and teeth.

  I don’t bother with the handcuff key or the razor blade sewn into different spots in the lining of the dress. Neither safeguard has become necessary. I do need the map with my bug-out route through the hills, however, so I find my heels and crack the left one sharply against the wall. The platform sole breaks off. The little folded map flutters out like piñata candy.

  I tuck the map into the waistband at the small of my back. I
t’s not snug enough. I’m wearing men’s underwear, after all—they’re not exactly made for curves. The only other place the map can securely travel during a climb in my present garb is my mouth or my crotch.

  I head to the minibar, open a small packet of nuts, dump out the nuts onto the counter, and wrap the plastic packaging around the map. Then I stick it between my legs.

  I’m nothing if not resourceful.

  In the closet, I pull out two pairs of Ryan’s dress shoes. I swiftly remove the laces and tie them into square knots. Wrapped around the drainpipe that runs the length of the building next to the balconies, they can then be tied into Prusik knots, the kind rock climbers use. They’ll slide up a line, but downward pressure will cause them to lock.

  Perfect for scaling walls.

  I look at Ryan’s laptop on the coffee table for a moment, but decide he’ll have too much security on the device to make it worth an attempt at snooping. I’d never get past the login screen. Besides, my curiosity about him is useless.

  No matter what he said about finding me, this is the end of our road.

  I leave my handbag behind. Like all the clothing, cosmetics, and fake IDs in my hotel room, there’s nothing in it of value to me anymore. I take one last look at Ryan, sleeping peacefully on the floor, and allow myself a final twinge of regret.

  It’s surprisingly painful.

  Adios, beautiful stranger. Maybe in another life.

  Then I step out onto the balcony into the warm evening rain, and look up.

  Nine

  Ryan

  A fist pounds on my hotel room door. Over and over, as relentless as the thudding inside my skull. The two are so perfectly in sync, in fact, that it’s entirely possible the pounding fist is in my imagination.

  Until I hear the muffled shout.

  “Ryan! Brother! Open the goddamn door before I kick it down!”

  It’s Connor. He sounds pissed.

  I open my eyes…and I’m looking at a smooth white ceiling. For some reason, I’m lying on my back on the floor. And Connor is pounding on the door, shouting like a maniac.