Wycked Escape (Wycked Obsession Book 3)

by Wynne Roman

  “Today?” My stomach suddenly goes sour. “What the hell happened today?”

  “You didn’t see it?”

  I shake my head.

  “Elyssa’s interview.”

  “I . . . fuck!”

  “I don’t know how they got the information—not that it was a secret or anything—but the article outed more than just my name. It identified my job and employer, and . . . well, you can imagine.”

  She continues before I can even get out a fuck.

  “A group of reporters and Wycked Obsession fans showed up at work today. Blocked the main entrance and caused some trouble. My supervisor decided a woman who’s identified as a homewrecker and involved with kinky sex may not be the best employee for an assisted living facility.”

  “Homewrecker?” The word explodes from me.

  Paige takes a breath. “Pretty much. Yeah.”

  Elyssa’s interview.

  I drag my phone from my pocket. Five missed texts and two missed calls, all from Baz or London. I muted it during the meeting, and then never thought about it again.

  Son of a bitch.

  I switch the ringer back on and call Baz on speaker.

  He answers with, “You need to give me Paige’s number,” instead of hello.

  “Yeah, okay. Fuck. What happened?”

  “Oliver Clark is some savvy reporter. He timed his release perfectly. Early morning drive time for half the country, first thing at work for the other.”

  “What did she say?” I don’t need to be specific about who. Baz knows.

  “That you were hiding her away until the baby was born. Then you were both going public with the relationship. As a couple. Except now your old girlfriend came out of nowhere and stole you away. She won’t let you take Elyssa’s calls and has convinced you to abandon her and your baby.”

  I’ve been cussing like a madman for most of the day, but I can’t think of one single word right now. I’m literally speechless, even as I look at Paige’s beautiful, stoic face.

  I close my eyes and rub my forehead with one hand. What next?

  What. Fucking. Next?

  This is all my fault. We’re still dealing with old shit from five years ago, and it just keeps piling on and on. Every day is something, and I have no clue how to stop it.

  Even more than that, how am I going to fix it?

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Paige

  I leave Noah talking to Baz and wander into the bedroom. I have no real purpose, just don’t want to listen to any more discussion about Drake or Elyssa or the freaking mess that’s now my life.

  How did it all fall apart? So completely and so quickly? All I wanted to do was surprise Drake at his Thursday Night Football get-together. The next thing I know, my life has imploded. I dumped my boyfriend for cheating, my apartment’s gone, the world thinks I’m a skanky slut, and now I might not have a job.

  Good work, Paige.

  So, what’s next? I can’t even get my brain to settle down enough to think about it. It pretty much shut down after Walter explained his dilemma to me. Like it was worse for him than me or something.

  Irene was there. She escorted me to my desk, I explained briefly to Ruby that I’d be out indefinitely, told her how to access my files, and then I was gone.

  Thank God my car was parked at the back of the employee lot. It allowed me to avoid the front-door crowd and make my escape back to Noah’s apartment.

  I had nowhere else to go—and how sad is that?

  No feeling sorry for yourself! It’s a waste of time and solves nothing.

  That much is true, but . . . damn. Maybe I could steal a couple of hours to figure some stuff out. Doesn’t everybody get days when they just don’t want to be an adult?

  Maybe I need to get drunk again.

  I give a rueful snort as my stomach turns at the thought. It hasn’t been long enough since Crown Royal led me down a disgusting path to puking. Drinking enough to get sick? Ugh.

  No, there’s got to be something else. Some—

  My phone rings from my purse, robbing me of my train of thought. It’s on the floor just inside the bedroom door.

  I check the screen before answering and sigh. Dr. H. Hamilton.

  Shit. It’s my mother.

  If my whole life has taught me anything, not answering will only make things worse. We may not speak often, but when Mom wants my attention, I do not ignore her.

  “Hello, Mom.” I sit on the edge of the bed.

  “Paige! What have you done?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “My receptionist showed me a story online. About you and that boy you used to date in high school. Tell me it isn’t true.”

  Her words mean little. “It isn’t true,” I parrot instead.

  “Don’t be smart!” she snaps.

  I swallow a sigh and switch my phone to speaker. I can’t listen to her angry voice so close to my ear. I already have a headache starting behind my eyes, and her screeching is just making it worse.

  “I’m not.” I keep my voice emotionless. It’s the only way. “Most of what’s online isn’t true.”

  “Most. Not all. What part is true?”

  “It doesn’t matter, Mom.” I know you don’t really care, anyway. But I don’t say that part. “I’m trying to figure things out.”

  “Figure things out? I should hope so! How did they get to be such a mess in the first place?”

  She doesn’t wait for an answer. “What if my patients realize you’re my daughter? And what about your father? Did you think about him? I have a private practice, but what if his partners hold him responsible for your behavior?”

  “I’m sure it will be fine, Mom. You—”

  “Fine? What about this is fine?”

  “You haven’t been identified,” I start again. “I doubt if anyone in your professional life even realizes you have a daughter.” Except her receptionist, apparently.

  What I said couldn’t be truer. Never in my life have I been welcomed at my mother’s medical practice or my father’s law office. It was disappointing when I was little, but it stopped hurting years ago. By the time I hit adolescence, it was a relief. When they were at work, they left me alone.

  Somewhere along the way, my emotions for them simply . . . disappeared. Like completely. In so many ways—ways that should really count—they mean nothing to me.

  Even—or especially—when my father was caught with a mistress. I was seventeen, angry, and a little bit disgusted. The only part that bothered my mom was how it would look if anyone found out.

  Kind of like now.

  She makes an unpleasant sound, one that belongs to only her. “I hope you’re right,” she finally says. I hear some noise in the background, and then she adds, “Just warn me if there’s anything else.”

  “Yes, all right. I—”

  “I have to go. I have a patient waiting.”

  “Of course.” I don’t even argue. I gave that up years ago. “Bye, Mom.”

  But she’s already gone.

  I toss the phone on the nightstand.

  “She didn’t ask where you are or how you’re doing.”

  Startled, I glance up to see Noah standing in the doorway. He leans one shoulder against the frame, and his arms are crossed over his chest. It makes his biceps and pecs look so much bigger, even in a black T-shirt that says Keep Calm and Rock On.

  I shake my head. “She never does.”

  He straightens. “I’ll never understand how you got stuck with Helena and Andrew as parents.”

  I almost smile. That isn’t the first time he’s said that. I’ve never disagreed. This time, though, I remember what he said about his father.

  He used to fuck random women when I was little. Hotel room, piece of shit studio apartment—you figure it out. I was always right fucking there. Watching. Listening.

  How did he get stuck with Jack Dexter as his father?

  “I’m not the only one,” I point out. “We got kind
of a mixed deal.”

  Noah stares at me for a second, and then he snorts a laugh. “Oh, God. I almost wish your mom could meet my dad someday. What a shit show that would be!”

  I give him a wry little smile. Prissy Helena and raunchy Jack? Yeah, I’d like to see that.

  “So.” Noah comes closer, looks at me seriously, sits next to me on the bed. “How you doing? Really?”

  “I’ll be all right.” And I will be. Eventually. I mean, I have to believe that, or I’ll be a total basket case.

  “We’ll get it figured out.” He slings an arm around my shoulders and pulls me close to his side. “Whatever that means. Baz and London are working on an interview deal now.”

  I pull back enough to look at him. “An interview deal?”

  “Yeah. They’re figuring out who to approach. Music or celebrity reporter, or maybe even a mainstream journalist. See who wants an exclusive bad enough, and—who knows? Maybe we can salvage something from this mess.”

  “You’ll do an interview?” I blink, searching his masculine features for any secrets he might want to keep. As far as I know, Noah doesn’t give many interviews. Usually it’s Ajia or Knox who do the talking.

  “We, sweetness. Both of us.”

  “What?” I pull out of his embrace completely and swing around to face him. “I don’t need to do an interview. Nobody cares about me!”

  “That why you had reporters and fans outside your work?”

  “I . . .” Damn. I hate it when he’s so right like that—and when it comes to this, he’ll always be right. I don’t know anything about celebrity.

  “That’s just temporary,” I insist. “They really want to get to you.”

  Honestly, I don’t blame them. A big part of me wants to get to him, too. Big man, killer smile, very talented hands. His hair is down today, earrings peeking out when he moves his head just right, and his torn jeans cup his very ample package perfectly. Especially when he’s sitting so close.

  And his mouth. Lord, what he can do with that mouth! His mouth and hands together? Heat flushes through my body, head to toe.

  He shrugs a muscular shoulder. “I think you overestimate my appeal. Doesn’t matter, anyway. They still need to get a good look at you. Hear you. Know that shit Elyssa said is crap and see you for who you really are.”

  Who I really am?

  A hot mess who screws up relationships without a second thought? Who, it’s beginning to seem, still has a crush on her boyfriend of five years ago?

  A boyfriend who’s had his pick of women. The idea of his fans thinking I’m somebody special is ludicrous.

  “But—” I shake my head “—I don’t know the first thing about doing an interview.”

  He wraps an arm around me again and chuckles softly. “Don’t worry, sweetness. You won’t have to say much, and you won’t be doing it alone. Mostly, you just need to be there and look beautiful.”

  I give a disbelieving laugh. “We’re sunk, then.”

  “What?”

  I pause. Nope. Not getting into that conversation with him. He’s too much of a gentleman—a flirt—for that.

  “Nothing.”

  He gives me a look, his bright blue eyes unusually dark. “You are, you know.”

  “I’m what?”

  “Beautiful.”

  My cheeks heat. Dammit. I really wanted to avoid this.

  I drop my chin to avoid his gaze. “Noah . . .”

  But what can I say? What can I trust myself to say?

  His fingers slip along my jawline, and then he tilts my head back. His gaze catches mine. Holds it. Devours it.

  “Very. Fucking. Beautiful,” he says in a rough voice.

  His mouth descends on mine, his tongue first taking a quick swipe over my lips. Top. Bottom. The seam between them. He licks inside my mouth the same way. Again. He kisses me quick, pulls back, kisses me again. He keeps licking and kissing and tasting, and I really have no choice. I have to do the same.

  My arms twine around his shoulders, and my fingers tangle in his hair. I don’t really think about doing it, realize it only when I feel the strength of him and the softness, and then I want to revel in it.

  Everything about him feels so good.

  He’s moving suddenly, surprising me into grasping him against me, and then I’m on his lap, facing him. My knees are on either side of his legs, and my skirt is shoved up to my hips. The only things keeping my pussy from snuggling tight against his erection are my undies and his jeans.

  “Give me your mouth, baby,” he mutters against my lips, and then he takes it in a long, deep kiss that goes on and on and on.

  I try to give back as good as I get, but my body has gone onto autopilot. All I can do is respond. My nipples are hard, my clit is swelling in anticipation, and my panties are soaked.

  He kisses me again and again—those same long, deep kisses—and when he pulls back, I follow. A distant voice demands I listen, wants to know how we went from talking about . . . whatever the topic was to this, but my focus is gone. I can’t think of anything, and so I swipe my tongue over his and admit the truth to myself.

  I’ve been wanting to do this since I woke up in his bed yesterday morning. I’ve only been pretending that I don’t—or shouldn’t.

  It is a terrible idea. I have to admit that much. It’s such a huge, overwhelming risk, because, yeah, a lot of things have sucked for me over the last few days. My heart hasn’t been broken over any of it, but sleeping with Noah again could make all the difference in that.

  What’s worse? I’m going to do it, anyway.

  He knows nothing of my uncertainties, or if he does, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he drags his hand up over my hip to my chest, where he plucks at the buttons of my blouse.

  “Let me see you?”

  The question sends butterflies soaring through my stomach. The other night was dark and instinctive and no time for finesse. Today is . . . different.

  I bite his bottom lip lightly and then nip a little harder a second time. “Equal opportunity,” I whisper softly. “I want to see you, too.”

  He half laughs, half groans. “Oh, you can see me, baby. Every inch. You can even touch me.”

  We kiss again, his wicked tongue distracting me, until eventually I realize he’s been unbuttoning my blouse the whole time. It falls open, and he pushes the fabric over my shoulders, down my arms until it drops to the floor.

  He stands, cradling me tight against him until my legs are steady enough to stay upright. I stumble as I find my footing, or maybe it’s because he fumbles at my waist until my skirt’s unzipped and shoved down over my hips.

  Automatically, I step from the puddle it makes at my feet. I’m barefoot, having left my shoes inside the front door when I first came in. Standing next to him, I notice again the nine or ten inches he has on me. The way he towers over me makes me feel so amazingly protected, even standing here in my underwear.

  A distant voice warns me that’s not a very feminist way of looking at things, but right now, I don’t care. About anything, except being with this man and getting him naked.

  “Now you,” I whisper, peering up at his hot expression while I tug on the hem of his T-shirt.

  He reaches behind him, grabs the back of his neck, and tugs. His shirt comes up over his head, and he tosses it aside. Muscle and skin and tattoos taunt me with need, but I’m so not wasting time right now. I unfasten his jeans, try to push them down, but they’re tight.

  Damn rock stars.

  I sink to my knees, concentrating on the task at hand instead of giving in to my frustration. I pull the denim with me, and as I get them as far down as his ankles, I realize he’s commando.

  Holy mother of God!

  Jackpot.

  I tilt my head to one side, aware and very appreciative that his dick is right there. It’s hard and long and huge, and briefly I remember wondering if he’d gotten bigger since high school. No doubt about it—but there’s something else, too. I . . .

 
I don’t even think. I wrap my fingers around him and tilt his cock down.

  “Oh, my God! You have a tattoo!”

  I glance up in time to see his naughty smile. “Surprise.”

  I glance back down. Stare at him, actually. Yeah, he’s like freaking enormous, but there’s the rest of it.

  One word in red, styled script. Wycked.

  I swallow. I don’t mean to lick my lips, but I do. His cock jerks.

  “You have the word Wycked tattooed on your dick?”

  “Yep.”

  “I . . . why?”

  “I dunno. Liked the idea.”

  “But, didn’t it hurt?”

  “Yeah.” I think he shrugs, but I’m really not looking. I simply can’t take my gaze from the sight of his cock. It’s beautiful on its own, but tattooed?

  Oh, my freaking God!

  “Wanted it more than I was worried about the pain, I guess,” he adds after a second.

  “But . . .” My Lord, I have so many questions! “Didn’t it have to be hard to get it done?”

  “Yep,” he says again.

  “How could you do that?” This time I do look at him, because I just can’t imagine it.

  He grins down at me. “I’m young. I managed.”

  I start to grin back, but possibilities flood my mind and the smile fades. Hard, with a tattoo gun, needle, and ink driving into his skin? How would he be able to do something like that?

  The answer—or an answer—follows almost immediately. A woman.

  A girlfriend? A groupie? Kissing him? Fondling him? Sucking him?

  Goddamn. It’s not like him being with other women comes as some big surprise. I’ve always known. Hell, I witnessed it that night with Marlie! I was part of it!

  But that doesn’t mean a freaking thing when I get blindsided like this.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Noah’s too damn perceptive for my peace of mind. He hauls me to my feet, his hands wrapped tightly around my biceps, and his intense gaze searches mine.

  I shake my head. “Nothing.”

  “C’mon, sweetness.” He shakes his head, and a few strands of hair fall over his forehead and one eye. I want to reach out and push them back, but I don’t.

  “I know you better than that,” he adds when I don’t say anything.