Wicked Games: The Complete Wicked Games Series Box Set

by J. T. Geissinger

  Parker kisses me softly on the lips. He takes me by the hand. He leads me silently through his house, into the bedroom. He doesn’t turn on the lights. Standing at the foot of the bed, his gaze never leaving mine, he slowly unbuttons his shirt and drops it to the floor.

  He takes my hand and places it flat on his bare chest. “Do you feel that?”

  Beneath my hand, his heart pounds wildly. Because I don’t trust myself to speak, I nod.

  He wraps his arm around me and pulls me close. “That’s what you do to me. Every time I see you, every time I hear your voice. If you can’t trust me, trust that. Hearts can’t lie.”

  My eyes squeezed shut, I lower my head to his chest. When I don’t answer him, Parker flattens his own hand over my chest and waits.

  And my heart—my broken, withered heart—tells him the truth. With every throb and crazy beat, my own heart betrays me.

  With a soft groan, he whispers, “Oh, baby.” He kisses me again, this time with breathless urgency. I kiss him back, my arms around his waist, my breasts pressed against his chest, and feel his heart surge.

  His fingers find the zipper on the back of my dress. He pulls it down, exposing my skin to the cool air. I shiver, my nipples hardening, my body enflamed. He slides my dress down over my hips. It pools on the floor around my feet.

  When Parker looks down with ravenous hunger at my body, I feel a rush of desire so strong, my cheeks go hot.

  I push him down to the bed so he’s sitting on the edge of the mattress. He looks up at me, his expression expectant, eyes burning, pulse pounding in his neck.

  As he watches, I unhook my bra and let the straps fall slowly down my arms. I toss the bra aside. He reaches for my hips, slips his fingers beneath my panties, tugs them impatiently down my thighs. I step out of them so I’m standing nude before him wearing only my heels.

  What I see in his eyes, on his face…it’s intoxicating.

  I’ve never felt this powerful.

  I already know how this game will end. I know there are no happily-ever-afters to be had, no eleventh-hour reprieves to spare our fates. In hours or days or weeks, this house of cards I’ve built will come crashing down, and I’ll have my sweet revenge.

  That will come. But this moment isn’t for revenge.

  It’s for remembering. It’s for savoring. It’s for saying a final goodbye to whatever shred of compunction I may have been harboring.

  Because this is the moment Parker fully surrenders himself to me. Even though he has doubts, though I know he knows something about me he isn’t disclosing, I can see in his eyes that his desire for me has trumped his logic, and now he’s lost.

  A smile spreads over my face. Hello, little fly. Welcome to my web.

  Parker whispers, “Why are you smiling?”

  “Because I know something you don’t know.”

  “Oh? What’s that?”

  Between his spread legs, I sink to my knees. Still smiling, holding his gaze, I reach for his zipper. “You, my friend, are about to get royally screwed.”

  His laugh is husky but falters when I’ve got his zipper down and his hard cock in my hand. When I lean over and slip the engorged head into my mouth, he moans.

  I flatten my hands over his abdomen and push. He falls back against the mattress. The motion makes his hips flex, driving him deeper into my mouth. I pull aside the fly of his trousers, open my throat, and take him all the way to the base.

  Shuddering, he moans louder.

  That’s right, Parker. Moan for me, you son of a bitch. Let me hear you fall apart.

  I begin a ruthless assault on his cock, sucking hard on the crown, my fist curled around the shaft, fingers sliding up and down as I take him in and out of my mouth. I’m relentless, setting a furious pace, egged on by Parker’s helpless sounds of pleasure.

  An animal blinks awake inside me. It’s savage and dangerous, breathing fire, talons extended, ready to strike. With every moan that slips from Parker’s lips, the animal grows more and more agitated, thirsting for blood.

  When my teeth graze his cock on an upward sweep of my mouth, Parker grabs my arms, drags me up his body, kisses me, flips me to my back, and pins me to the mattress.

  Panting, he says roughly, “Why are you angry?”

  Just like that, because he can see me so clearly and I absolutely hate it, my temper snaps. “Fuck you, Parker!”

  He freezes. He looks as if he’s been slapped.

  I struggle to get out from under him, but it’s impossible. The man is too strong. He tightens his grip on my wrists, lowers his face to mine so we’re nose to nose, and growls, “What. The. Fuck.”

  His erection is pressed between my open legs. I feel the vein that runs along the underside throb, and resist arching my hips to allow him to slide inside me.

  “Get off me!”

  “If I thought you really wanted me to, I would. What the hell is wrong? Stop squirming!”

  I fall still, breathing raggedly. I can’t meet his eyes. Suddenly I feel claustrophobic. I have to get out of this room.

  I close my eyes and turn my head, wishing my heart would slow down.

  Parker gently nudges my earlobe with his nose. “Hey. Psycho. What’s going on with you?”

  With my lips pulled between my teeth, I shake my head.

  Parker adjusts his weight so he’s not crushing me quite as much, and says, “I like a challenge as much as the next guy, sweetheart, but this is getting ridiculous. Now spill.”

  “I’m…I…” I take a moment to catch my breath and compose myself. I might have been just about to say something dangerously truthful. Finally, I go with, “You lied to me earlier.”

  Parker’s entire body stiffens. When I open my eyes, he’s staring down at me, unsmiling, his expression wary.

  “When?”

  I find it interesting he has to ask.

  “When I asked you what was wrong in the car. You said you were tired. That was a lie.”

  He releases my wrists and props himself up on his elbows, his hands resting on either side of my head. He doesn’t move his pelvis, however.

  His cock is obviously very impatient with this break in the action.

  “It wasn’t a lie. I was tired. I also said it had been a bad night. Both of those things are true.” His voice drops. “Now ask me what made it a bad night.”

  My heart begins to flutter. “What made it a bad night?”

  He caresses my face, trails his fingers down my jaw. In a conversational tone, he says, “Well, this incredible woman I’ve been seeing—a woman who literally drives me insane in every way—left me alone in bed, didn’t return my calls for days, and then showed up out of the blue and told me an interesting story about how she had to go visit her sick mother in California.” His voice loses the conversational tone and becomes deadly soft. His gaze bores into mine. “When she was actually in Texas.”

  Ice water is injected into my veins. Oh God oh God oh God. “Texas?”

  Parker slowly nods. When I don’t respond, he says with gentle sarcasm, “Go ahead. Lie to me. I promise I’ll believe you.”

  I have several choices. I can follow my earlier impulse and tell him everything, and then get out of his bed and never look back, with the knowledge that at least I got him to fall for me and then dumped him. I know it will sting.

  A sting doesn’t seem very satisfying.

  I could also cry—which I know horrifies men—thereby gaining a momentary reprieve, at least long enough to concoct a good cover story.

  Unfortunately, at the moment the likelihood of me being able to summon fake tears is about as likely as pigs flying.

  So I decide to go with option three: sling some bullshit and see what sticks.

  “I did go to California to visit my mother. But…on the way, I stopped in Texas.”

  Though I have no idea what he knows, if perhaps a story has already run that exposes all my lies—or, worse, for some reason Parker has been having me followed—I’m proud of how even my voic
e sounded. Now I just have to figure out what to say next.

  Parker studies my face. “Why?”

  The image of my brother’s smiling face crosses my mind. “To visit the grave of someone I once loved.”

  My voice is no longer steady. It wavers with emotion. True emotion. Because I did visit the grave of someone I once loved. Someone I once loved very much, and still do, and always will.

  My little brother.

  I don’t tell Parker that, of course. When he asks who the person was, I fabricate a story about a college boyfriend who was originally from Texas, a boy I’d once planned to marry. When he died in the military, or so my story goes, his family had his body shipped back to his hometown so he could be buried like the hero he was.

  I keep my fingers crossed that this story jibes with whatever Parker’s found out about my trip.

  With genuine sorrow in his voice, he says, “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  Awash in relief, I close my eyes. “Thanks. It was a bad weekend.”

  More honesty, more emotion in my voice, more softening in Parker’s body.

  Well. Except there.

  He kisses my throat, his lips soft and warm. It feels exquisite. Against my skin, he murmurs, “I’m originally from Texas too. Did you know that?”

  This conversation is wreaking havoc on my blood pressure. “No. Small world.”

  Please don’t ask what city I visited. Please don’t tell me what city you’re from.

  He doesn’t. Seemingly satisfied by my story, Parker kisses a tender path down my throat, over my collarbone, to my chest. He rests his cheek against my breastbone. He holds still for a moment, listening. I know what he hears, because I feel it in every vein in my body:

  Boom! Crash! Thud!

  Stupid, traitorous, truth-telling heart.

  Parker inhales deeply. He cups my breast in his hand. He whispers, “Maybe you’re destined to fall in love only with men from Texas,” and lowers his lips to my hard nipple.

  When he sucks it into his mouth, I softly groan.

  He flexes his hips, bringing the head of his rigid cock to my wet entrance. I slide my hands beneath the waist of his trousers, cup his ass, and pull.

  As he slides inside me he says roughly, “We’re both still wearing our shoes.”

  “Would you like to take a moment to remove them, Mr. Maxwell?”

  He thrusts, burying himself to the hilt. “Not a fucking chance, Ms. Price.”

  He slides out and then thrusts in again. My breasts bounce against his chest. I gasp, arching against him. My fingers dig into the firm, succulent flesh of his ass.

  He stills. When I whimper, writhing, jerking my hips, he chuckles. “Again?”

  “Yes, again!”

  He lowers his lips to my ear. “Say please, my beautiful little liar.”

  Ah. It’s game time, is it?

  I inhale, languidly stretch my arms over my head, and then sigh as if utterly bored. I gaze up at him, smiling, my eyes half-lidded. “Or what?”

  A muscle in his jaw flexes.

  My smile grows wider. Oh my dear, darling bastard, how I love pissing you off.

  “Or I won’t just make you say please. I’ll make you beg.”

  He twists his hips in a small circle, wringing an involuntary cry from my lips, and then lowers his mouth to my breast.

  “And beg.” He sucks hard on my nipple, using his teeth in the way he knows I like.

  I gasp.

  “And beg.”

  He grips a hand in my hair, slides the other under my bottom, and grinds his pelvis into me, hard and fast, before falling still again.

  My groan is broken. My smug smile has left the building. I breathe, “Parker—”

  “I’m not your plaything, Victoria.”

  “I never said you were!”

  His unshaven cheek is sandpaper-rough against my skin, but his voice is even rougher. “Then stop trying to lead me around by my dick.”

  “You’re the one who’s playing games right now!”

  “Only to level the playing field. The only time we’re on even footing is when you allow yourself to be vulnerable. And one of the only things I know makes you feel vulnerable is asking for what you want. You’re so used to demanding, or manipulating, you’ve forgotten how to ask.”

  Slowly, gently, he flexes his hips. His cock slides deeper inside me, sending shock waves of pleasure through my pelvis. I bite my lip to keep from moaning.

  He whispers, “That’s why I like you to say please, baby. I’ll give you anything you ask for—God help me, I’d give you my own head on a platter—if only you say please.”

  Trembling, I say, “I-I’d like a Rolls-Royce. Please.”

  His chuckle is dark and eminently satisfied. “What color?”

  I exhale in a loud rush. “I’m thinking black on black. With the blacked-out rims.”

  Parker slides halfway out and then stops. I bite my lip harder.

  “Done. Anything else?” He peppers sweet, reverent kisses over my cheeks, my jaw, my nose, my lips.

  I tilt my hips up, but he won’t let me gain the upper hand. He simply withdraws in the exact amount I advance, keeping just the tip of his cock inside me. Frustrated, I pound the sheets with my fists.

  “I want my own island! In the Caribbean!”

  “Mmm. I’m on it. What else?” He lowers his head again and sucks even more aggressively on my nipple. His hot mouth draws hard. His hand is firm and possessive around my flesh.

  I pant, straining to maintain control, but ultimately crumble. The words tumble from my lips in a wanton rush. “I want you to please make love to me Parker please oh please oh God please.”

  A tremor runs through him. He raises his head, looks at me, and whispers, “Hearts can’t lie, baby.”

  “Shut up with that crap.”

  He laughs. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone you just fell in love with me.”

  “I hate you.”

  Parker flexes his strong pelvis. His glorious hard cock sinks all the way inside me. He says roughly, “Sweetheart, if this is hate, I don’t want to feel anything else ever again.”

  Then he gives me everything I’ve asked for, everything I need, and drives a stake straight through my chest when he climaxes, calling out my name like it’s a hallelujah.

  Hours later, Parker sleeping like the dead beside me, I rise from his bed and creep through the dark rooms, until I stand in front of his closed office door.

  25

  Parker

  Once again, I wake alone.

  My disappointment turns quickly to pleasure, however, because there’s a note on the pillow beside me. It reads:

  I promise I’m not running away. But you, sexy beast, sleep like a coma patient, and I really did have to be at an early meeting this morning. There’s a fresh pot of coffee in the kitchen, and I might have made you French toast.

  Don’t let it go to your head.

  Last night was a game changer. One more thing not to let go to your head. I’ll be thinking of you all day.

  I can still taste you.

  Victoria

  She signed her name with little hearts for dots atop the two i’s. I stare at them for minutes, grinning like a crazy person. The last time I felt anything close to this—the only time—I was a teenager, deep in the heady flush of first love.

  I leap from bed, shower, brush my teeth, and dress. In the kitchen, there is indeed a fresh pot of coffee. A plate in the oven holds three thick slices of French toast. I didn’t even know I had the makings for French toast in my kitchen.

  Wait—she said she couldn’t cook.

  I shrug that thought away. I doubt frying bread in a skillet qualifies as cooking.

  I drizzle the buttered toast in syrup, wolf it down with a cup of coffee—which may be the best coffee I’ve tasted in my life, because she made it—and, whistling, rinse my dishes in the sink. When the kitchen is clean, I head to my office to get my briefcase. I’ve also got a meeting this mornin
g, though I’ve got plenty of time—

  I stop dead at the end of the hallway.

  My office door is open.

  It’s not wide open, but it’s not fully closed either—and this time I know I closed it when I left for the restaurant yesterday. I haven’t been in there since.

  The skin on the back of my neck crawls.

  As if in a trance, I move slowly down the hallway. My heart can’t decide if it wants to burst or stall out, so it does something in between, a wild throbbing interspersed with seconds when it doesn’t seem to beat at all.

  I push open the door and look inside.

  Nothing’s out of place, except the faintest hint of Chanel No. Five lingering in the air.

  Without touching anything, I walk around my office, visually scanning it all: the bookcases, the coffee table and chairs, the credenza with the flat-screen TV, and my desk, which I pay special attention to. I toggle the mouse, and the computer screen lights up, asking for my password. The password is so long and convoluted, it would take an expert hacker with a codebreaker program to get in, so I’m satisfied there. All my desk drawers lock and don’t appear to be tampered with. Everything’s perfect. I release the breath I’ve been holding, relieved.

  Until I look at the Magritte.

  To anyone else, it would be impossible to spot. It’s only half an inch off kilter, an inch at most. But to me, it might as well have a sign hanging on it that screams, I’ve been touched!

  Behind that painting is my safe.

  A frozen hand clamps around my throat. My heart chants no no no, but my mind, cold and clear, growls back an emphatic yes.

  I can’t deny it, no matter how much I want to. Victoria has been inside my office. Victoria was searching for something in my office.

  Why? And for what?

  “Maybe she got lost on the way out,” I say aloud to the empty room. “She thought it was a bathroom.”

  Right. Let’s conveniently forget that the last time she was here, the office door was open too. And why would she have touched the Magritte?