Wycked Escape (Wycked Obsession Book 3)

by Wynne Roman

It’s even worse for me, because I know what it’s like to have this man make love to me.

  I force myself to look anywhere else and end up staring at the glass he cradles in his large, square hands. It looks almost tiny in his grip, nothing like the way the same tumbler appears to be almost too much for my small hold.

  How can he make me feel so feminine by just being here?

  “Cheers,” he says and holds up his drink like he wants to toast.

  I clink the edge of my glass against his without thinking. Thank God for the interruption. I can’t let myself get all caught up in ideas about his body or the memories of him. Of the way he kisses, how he touched me. How—

  I toss back every drop of whiskey in my glass. It burns going down, but I don’t care. In fact, I like the warmth that spreads through me.

  Noah grins and does the same, but his smile dies when I don’t return it. I’m almost afraid to, but he doesn’t have to know that.

  “Hold on.”

  He’s up, across the room, and back with the bottle of Crown before I can think of anything to say. He refills both glasses and then places the whiskey on the coffee table. He holds up his glass. “You wanna make the toast this time?”

  “Nope.”

  I restrain myself to sipping this time, knowing better than to down a second double shot of whiskey this soon after the first. I haven’t eaten since lunch, except to snack on a few chips at The Bridge’s family event, and too much booze too fast will knock me on my ass.

  Noah nods, sets his glass on the coffee table, and leans against the back of the sofa. “You wanna talk about it?”

  I look at him, blink, chug the Crown, and then refill my glass a third time. The heat shoots straight to my head, and I really don’t give a damn. My wise words of only seconds ago were pure bullshit. I don’t give a shit about drinking in moderation, either.

  Right now, at this very moment, nothing matters.

  No more thinking. Actions only.

  “No.” Finally, I give him a sharp, one-word answer.

  “You planning to get drunk?”

  “Maybe.” I take another drink. “Yes.”

  “Okay.”

  Neither of us says anything more—what’s there to say, really?—until he asks, “You hungry?”

  “No.” I shake my head. “I . . . no.”

  “You sure? When’s the last time you ate?”

  I wave my hand at him. “Don’t worry. The thought of food right now . . .” I shake my head again, short and definitive this time. I’m a little lightheaded, but I kind of like the feeling. More than the thought of food. “No.”

  He nods. “All right.”

  He reaches for his glass, takes a healthy drink, and watches me the entire time. Those blue eyes are as piercing as I remember, especially now when there’s nothing to distract his attention from me. I want to squirm under his gaze, but I force myself to hold still.

  Eventually, he blinks and places his tumbler on the coffee table. What’s he thinking? I can’t tell, and then he reaches into his pockets, twisting his hips in that same damn seductive way. He retrieves my phone, then his, and deposits mine on the table.

  He messes with his for a few seconds, and then music fills the silence. Otis Redding, Sittin’ On The Dock Of The Bay.

  I move my head in rhythm, but just a little. The lightheadedness persists, thanks to the whiskey, which I know very well, but, again, I really don’t give a damn. My lips twist to form a small smile. “You still listen to the oldies?”

  He shrugs. “Grandparents.”

  That reminder again. I nod. Noah moved in with his mother’s parents, Lolo and Pops, when he was twelve. They changed his life, gave him the gift of music, and so much more, he always claimed, although he would never say exactly what.

  I can respect that. Some stuff you just don’t want to talk about.

  “I still have my Motown playlist,” I admit.

  He shakes his head with a grin. “Sweetness, how many times do I have to tell you? Those aren’t all—”

  “I know, I know. They aren’t all Motown songs. But I still think of them that way.”

  “Whatever. You’re entitled, I guess.”

  We listen to the song for a few bars, and then he says, “I’m glad you didn’t . . .” He pauses, gestures with a wave of his hand. “You know. Turn your back on everything after . . .”

  “We broke up.” Might as well say it.

  “Yeah.”

  I think about that for a minute. As much as I’m able, anyway. My brain is starting to feel a little wonky with my light buzz.

  I like knowing that. Defiantly, suddenly more cheerful than I should be, I take another healthy drink of Crown.

  It doesn’t burn at all anymore, and that’s a good thing. In fact, I’m pretty sure I could solve the world’s problems right now.

  The idea pleases me, and I polish off the rest of the whiskey in my glass. I nod once in Noah’s direction. So what if the room sways a little with it?

  “It wasn’t all bad.”

  “Our time together?”

  “Yeah.” I nod with my answer.

  I keep nodding, just a little. This time it’s in sync with Otis’s crooning, and I lean back against the sofa with my eyes closed to let the music wash over me. I like it, the familiar feeling of being here with Noah and listening to the bluesy oldies that mean so much to me.

  To us.

  Am I pissed? Hurt? Embarrassed?

  Yeah, and a bunch of other things that I can’t identify at the moment. I’m not going to try to figure it out right now, either, because I really don’t care. The whiskey relaxes me, surrounds me with a bubble of. . .I don’t know. Protectiveness? Whatever it is, I feel surprisingly safe, and I’m not going to let anything ruin it.

  I can just sit here and drink, listen, not think, and nothing can touch me.

  Otis’s voice fades, and the next song jerks me out of my trance.

  “Oh, my God!” Eyes wide open, I sit straight and grin at Noah. “My favorite song!”

  “Still?”

  “Are you kidding? Al Green? Let’s Stay Together? What could be better?”

  He nods. “You got a point.”

  I sway from side to side, close my eyes again, and listen to Al’s smooth voice. Staying together, loving each other, feeling brand new. It’s all there—and I have none of it. There’s such hope in his song and I . . .

  Well, have I ever known that?

  I blink, reach for my glass. Disappointed to find it empty, I grab the Crown and take a drink straight from the bottle. A long one.

  I don’t feel anything this time, and that seems about right. With a sigh, I flop back on the sofa.

  Noah says nothing, just watches me silently, and I look back. Finally, I’m the one who breaks.

  “What’s wrong with me, Noah?”

  Not sure where the question came from or why I’m asking it now, but I let it stand.

  “What?” His brows draw down. “Nothing.”

  “No, that’s not right. You know it as well as anybody else. Be honest with me.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Me!” I smack my open palm against my chest. My heart. “There’s something wrong with me! Something that makes men want to cheat on me. Like they feel I deserve it, or at least they can get by with it.”

  His expression . . . I can’t quite read it. Is he that good at concealing himself, or is the alcohol messing with my ability to interpret things?

  Maybe both.

  “Paige . . . baby—” he starts, but I cut him off.

  “What? Tell me! It’s true, and you know it. Alone, I wasn’t enough for you, and you needed Marlie. My boyfriend in college cheated with my roommate. Now Drake.”

  I shake my head, trying to pretend the room doesn’t swim, but I have to prop one hand against the seat cushion to hold steady. I glare, or think I do, as I try to make my point.

  “So tell me, Noah. Just what the fuck is it about me that
makes me so damned worthless?”

  Chapter Four

  Noah

  Fuck me to tears.

  I wasn’t enough for you. My boyfriend in college. Now Drake.

  Paige is listing the men who screwed her over—me, first in line, if you don’t count her asshole of a father—and the words sound so sad. Confused. I don’t miss the uncertainty and insecurity that flicker in her gaze, or her struggle for control. Is she trying to restrain her emotions? Hide them? Bury them so deep she won’t have to face them?

  She’s probably done it before. She’s had enough shit in her life to teach her how to do it, even besides me. What I did fucked her over in a big way . . . at least at the time. I know it now, and I knew it then. Worse, it wasn’t too long after her old man cheated on her mom. Things went to shit between us, Marlie told a shit-ton of lies, and then she made it worse by making sure every bit of it went public.

  Goddamn you, Marlie. You bitch!

  I never called her on her shit. Just walked away, ignored her, and then moved on after high school. Wish now I’d handled it differently. She should have been held accountable, but I didn’t think like that in high school. I just wanted to get on with life. Now, the regrets are shitting all over my life—and Paige’s.

  I have to answer. “You’re not worthless, sweetness.” The words come out harder than I mean them, but I don’t apologize. I need to be sure she believes me.

  She shakes her head, swaying a little. I reach out, balance her with a hand on her shoulder, and she stares at my arm.

  “You have tattoos now.”

  “What?”

  I glance down and spot the Thor’s hammer replica that Bree suggested I get. She’s almost part of the band—Knox’s baby sister and Ajia’s girlfriend—and she used to tease me about my biceps, the way my arms and hair fly when I really find my groove. She called me Thor once too often, and I made it permanent.

  “Tattoos.”

  “Yeah?” I agree, but it’s more of a question.

  “You didn’t have them in high school.” She looks up at me, blinks a couple of times, and I can tell she’s not completely here with me. Maybe that’s . . . better?

  “You pierced your ears, too.”

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s . . . good.”

  I hold my smile. “Thanks.”

  “Makes you look like a rock star.”

  “Can’t say I’m a rock star.” I shake my head, some of my amusement at her drunken observations fading. The name doesn’t fit. Not me. “That’s for frontmen like Ajia or guitarists like Knox.”

  “No.” She shakes her head again, her ponytail taunting me as it swings from side to side, and then she flops back against the sofa cushions behind her. “You’re hot. Rock-star hot. Too hot for me.” She blinks, levels a baffled if somewhat accusing eye on me. “That’s why you brought Marlie into things.”

  Fuck. She flipped again. Back to total seriousness.

  “Forget about Marlie. She’s nothing.”

  “No. You’re lying.”

  Paige’s bottom lip pops out, and goddamn but I want to bite it. Suck it. Soothe it with my tongue and then do it again. My cock stirs.

  “Sweetness—”

  “You need to tell me.” She frowns. “It’s important. You needed more than just me—”

  “It wasn’t that!”

  “And now Drake does, too.” She doesn’t pause for my interruption. “So either I’m a total loser or she’s the perfect fuck.”

  “She’s not the perfect anything.”

  “She’s something.”

  That lip’s back out, and my dick notices again. Likes it again. Wants more again. Like her mouth hovering over my cock, licking my crown before she takes me deep, sucks me all the way down, just like I taught her.

  Jesus. I swallow a groan.

  “Forget her.” My voice sounds a little hoarse, but I ignore it. Hope Paige is drunk enough to miss it, too.

  “I can’t do that!” She sounds disgusted, but her expression appears more confused than anything. “You picked her. Drake picked her. Todd was the only one who didn’t.”

  “Todd?”

  “My boyfriend in college.”

  “He cheated?” She said something like that earlier, but I don’t know any details.

  She sighs, deep and long. Her chest rises, offering her tits front and center. I curl my fingers against my palms rather than reach for her.

  “Kind of,” she finally says.

  “Kind of?”

  Isn’t that like being a little bit pregnant? I don’t ask the question. God, no. Pregnancy isn’t a joke to me right now—but I’m not thinking about my problems tonight. This is about Paige.

  “He was a flirt.” She turns her head to scowl at me, like it’s my fault. “Got carried away at a party. Forgot she was my roommate. Sent her dick pics later that night.”

  Dumbass. I want to snort a laugh at the guy’s stupidity, but I’m sure it hurt her so only ask, “What happened?”

  “She showed ‘em to me.”

  “And you?”

  “Broke up with his ass.”

  “Well . . . yeah.”

  She grins, even if it is crooked. “I outed him. With her standing next to me, waving her phone around, showing off the evidence to anybody who wanted to look. Embarrassed the hell out of him.”

  “He deserved it.”

  “Yeah, he did. Never talked to me again, and I swore off men for a while. Then . . .”

  “Then?”

  “Drake.”

  “Shit, sweetness! You waited for him?”

  “No!” She shoots straight up, wavers, balances herself with hands on either side but lists seriously in my direction. Somehow, she’s steady enough to reach out, snatch the bottle of Crown, and take a healthy drink.

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah.” She nods once. “Fine.”

  “If you’re sure . . .”

  “I didn’t wait for him. Don’t like him.”

  She clunks the whiskey bottle back onto the coffee table, then points a finger straight at me, like she’s telling me something seriously intense. It makes her tilt even more to the right, but she doesn’t seem to notice.

  I reach out to help her straighten, but she pulls back. It’s almost like watching in slow motion as she just sort of collapses on the couch. That produces a giggle but not much else.

  “You okay?” I ask again.

  She nods without sitting up. “Drake. That fucker. He had the best lie. Convinced me to give him a chance.”

  “Damn.”

  “Right. So tell me . . . How’s it work?” Her hazel eyes are big, pupils dilated, and, again, I can’t decide if the expression is sad or confused.

  “He did it,” she adds before I can choose an answer. “You did it. Why? Once you got me, wasn’t I as good as you expected? Wanted? Or—”

  “Fuck, sweetness, just shut up, will you?”

  I scoot across the sofa, drag her up a little, and then pull her against me. I settle her tucked under my arm, but she’s boneless like a stuffed animal. I tilt her head back with one finger under her chin.

  “Baby, we’re gonna talk about this. All of it. I promise. But not now.”

  “Why?” Fuck me if that bottom lip doesn’t come out again.

  “Because you’re not gonna remember enough of it tomorrow. When we go there—and we will—I want you to remember everything I have to say.”

  “I . . .” She blinks again. “But, Noah?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I don’t feel so good.”

  I usually like mornings. I get a few minutes to lay in bed, relaxed in that space between being awake and asleep, and I can imagine anything is possible. That life is good, that everything is working out just like it’s supposed to, and that my life isn’t littered with mistakes I can’t fix.

  And then there’s something else I can always depend on. Morning wood. I mean, who doesn’t like to wake up with a hard on?

&nbs
p; This morning is different. Oh, my cock is hard as a rock. Actually harder than a normal morning, and my hips flex in automatic appreciation. A nanosecond later, it all makes sense.

  A nice, shapely ass presses back against my crotch. I notice then that I’m cupping a perfectly-sized breast with one hand, while a nipple pokes against my palm with naughty insolence.

  Paige.

  I don’t sleep with women. Ever. By that, I mean sleep, sleep. I just don’t bring them home with me. If we have sex, it’s somewhere anonymous, where I have an excuse to get out of there when we’re done, or we’re at their place. Even if we’re at a hotel on the road, I always have a good reason to ask them to leave. Bottom line, we’re never at a place that I consider mine, and no matter where it happens, I never spend the night with them.

  But here I am. In my bed. With Paige. Snuggled up next to me.

  I don’t move. Don’t want to wake her. Yet, anyway. I need to think. And maybe I even want to stay like this for a few minutes, enjoy the feel of having her next to me and in my bed.

  Well, hell.

  No. Absolutely fucking no. Those feelings are a bunch of bullshit. They have to be, because I don’t think that way. I fuck girls, don’t cuddle in bed with them.

  But she was so fucking cute last night. Well, the situation wasn’t—that asshole Drake tore her up—but the booze made her increasingly adorable. Once she announced she didn’t feel good, things moved ahead double time. I barely got her into the bathroom before she puked, and from there, everything became my call.

  I got her to rinse with mouthwash once she finished. Yeah, it made her gag, but she was a trooper. I convinced her to take off her sundress and put on one of my T-shirts, and I was a perfect gentleman about it.

  Did I look? Hell, yeah—and I’d do it again. In a heartbeat.

  Her body is amazing, so much more beautiful than when she was a teenager. Her tits are bigger, enough to completely fill my hands, and her nipples have darkened to a deep rosy color that I’m dying to taste. Her waist is still small, her stomach flat, and her hips and ass are the perfect accent to it all. Nothing like an hourglass figure, but not too slim or boyish, either. Perfectly round in all the right places.

  My dick has been in full I-want-this-woman mode for hours, but I haven’t acted on it. Not certain I ever will, and I sure as hell wasn’t doing anything about it last night. I did my best to ignore it and instead pulled a Wycked Obsession tank top over Paige’s head. It covered up those amazing tits, but it also gave me the good sense to leave her mouth-watering thong panties in place . . . and pour her into bed before I could get either of us into any more trouble.