Wicked Games: The Complete Wicked Games Series Box Set

by J. T. Geissinger

  This is madness.

  He senses my rising panic. “Only a few hours, and then I’ll let you run away.” His voice turns dark. “For a while.”

  With his hands on my shoulders, he lowers me to the bed and lays me flat. He stands looking down at me, exposed and vulnerable beneath his gaze. His expression is one of perfect concentration and total control. He slowly rubs the heel of his palm along the bulge in his jeans.

  When I lick my lips, his eyes flash.

  “Tell me what you want,” he demands.

  “You.”

  His smile returns, only now it’s edged in danger. He says softly, “Oh, you’re gonna get me.”

  I shiver with equal parts anticipation and dread. I hear the unspoken whether you like it or not, and know without a shadow of doubt that he’ll come looking for me after tonight is over.

  I might have intended a casual fling, but Ryan intends something else entirely.

  He’ll never find me. No one can. I’ll vanish like I always do.

  Even as I reassure myself with those words, I’m doubting them. Something about this man makes me believe he’d follow me to the ends of the earth.

  “I need to get you out of your head,” says Ryan, watching me.

  Those damn eyes. They see everything.

  I sit up abruptly, scoot to the edge of the bed, and take the top button of his fly between my fingers. Looking up at him, I say, “How many times do I have to tell you to shut up?”

  His laugh is husky, but turns to a groan when I rip open his fly and swallow his erection.

  He’s big and hard in my mouth, a pulsing heat against my tongue. I open my throat and take him all the way to the base, thrilling to the sound of his broken gasp. He settles his hands on either side of my head, and they’re trembling.

  Adrenaline surges through me.

  I want him undone. I want him to feel what I just felt, that sudden, jarring loss of equilibrium, knowing someone else has taken over your body. Knowing someone else—a total stranger—is in command. I want to knock him off his smug pedestal and leave him whimpering at my feet.

  I want to punch him in his pretty face.

  Who is he to control me?

  Then, without warning, I’m flat on my back with Ryan on top of me, his elbows braced on either side of my head.

  “We’re not doin’ this if you’re pissed off,” he says, breathing hard.

  Now I want to kill him. “I’m not pissed off!”

  He growls, “Lie to me again, and I’ll take you over my knee, woman.”

  I try to shove him off, but he weighs too much. Plus he’s bracing himself with his arms and legs. Budging him is impossible. I grit my teeth, seething with frustration. He puts his lips next to my ear.

  “Normally I’d tie you up right now and force you to tell me what the fuck is wrong, but since you don’t like bein’ restrained, we’re just gonna have to have a conversation like adults.”

  I can recall with perfect clarity how many times in my life I’ve wanted to commit murder. This is time number three. I want to strangle him. I want to squeeze his thick, tanned neck and choke the life right out of him, then maybe light him on fire and do a victory dance as he burns.

  I’m losing it. I close my eyes and suck air into my lungs.

  Ryan grips my head. His heartbeat thunders against my chest. His cock, wet from my mouth and rock-hard, presses between my legs. Into my ear, he says, “Be honest with me for once!”

  A sob catches in my throat. Suddenly, I’m fighting tears, mortified by these ridiculous emotions, hating how powerless I feel.

  “You make me feel weak,” I blurt, then groan at my own stupidity.

  A shade of tension leaves his body. His voice gentles. “You keep forgettin’ you’re the one in control, Angel. This is happenin’ because you want it to. Just ’cause you’re feelin’ some kinda way about me, about this thing between us, doesn’t change the fact that you’re here, lyin’ naked underneath me right now, by choice. Trust it. You’re not the kind of woman who’d be here by accident, no matter how different this is from what you usually do.”

  My chest rises and falls in rapid bursts. “How do you know what kind of woman I am?”

  Looking into my eyes, he says deliberately, “Because I see you. And I know that’s what really scares you. No one ever gets to see the real you, but I do.”

  Knife to the heart, slicing it wide open.

  God, the truth is awful. And this terrible intimacy is even worse. I think it’s probably the worst thing in the world.

  Ryan holds my head still when I try to turn it. At the end of his patience, he snaps, “Either you drop this hiding bullshit and be brave, or I’m kickin’ your ass outta my room! What’s it gonna be?”

  His stare is blistering. I stare back, hating myself for liking him, cursing whatever gods might exist for putting him in this room. Anyone else and I’d have stuck to my plan. Anyone else and he’d be deep in a peaceful, sedative-induced sleep right now. Instead, fate decided to put me in the path of this man, the trained killer with a beautiful laugh and addictive kisses and eyes that see straight down to the bottom of my soul.

  Finally, in a small voice I say, “I’ll be brave.”

  It’s not like I have a choice. If he kicks me out, I won’t be able to climb the balcony to Prince Khalid’s suite, and then I won’t be able to steal the necklace, and the consequences of failure aren’t something I allow myself to think about.

  Better to suffer here in this bed than at the hands of the masters I serve.

  Nostrils flared, Ryan inhales slowly. His gaze darts all over my face. “I mean it,” he warns.

  I swallow, muster my courage, then wrap my arms around his back. “I know.” My voice is a pathetic, wavering thing. When the tear slides from the corner of my eye, I don’t try to wipe it away. I just lie there and hate myself.

  “Oh fuck, Angel,” he breathes. He looks dazed, in happy disbelief, like someone just told him he won the lottery. Because of a tear.

  I don’t understand this person.

  At.

  All.

  He kisses me so gently, I want to break every piece of furniture in the room. “Stop it,” I beg. “Stop being so…sweet. I can’t take it! Just fuck me like you would anyone else!”

  “How do you know I’m not like this with anyone else?”

  “The same way you know I’m a liar!”

  He stares at me for a beat, blue eyes glittering. “Fair enough,” he says with frightening calm. “But just so you know, me not bein’ sweet is gonna leave marks.”

  I exhale in relief. “Thank God. That I know how to handle.”

  Not even a split second passes before Ryan shows me exactly what not sweet involves as his fingers, hard as stone, dig into my skin.

  7

  Ryan

  If she wants it hard, she’s gonna get it hard, and God help her if she changes her mind.

  Once I’m unleashed, there’s no stopping me.

  My kiss is savage. She returns it with a grateful noise, digging her nails into my back. She’s luscious heat and satin beneath me, killer curves and a million contradictions and walls so thick, a man needs blast charges just to uncover a true smile.

  Who are you, Angel?

  I pull her head back and kiss her throat. She cries out when I bite her, scratches her nails down my back.

  I’m glad she can’t see my smile.

  I flip her on her belly, then roughly drag her up onto her knees, hiking her beautiful bare ass in the air. Then I bite that, too, because I’ve wanted to do it since the second I saw her. Her face buried in the coverlet, she moans.

  I slap her ass and bark, “Quiet!”

  She gives me that kitten growl that tells me she wants to tear off my head.

  I rip my wallet out of my back pocket, find a condom, and open the foil package with my teeth. I’m sheathed in seconds. I grab a fistful of her hair and steady her with my hand gripped around one of her hips.

&nb
sp; Then without another word or any warning, I plunge my hard dick inside her.

  This time when she cries out, it’s guttural. Her back arches. She clenches her hands into the covers and bucks back against me.

  “That’s right, sweetheart,” I say, my voice a rasp. “Fuck yourself on my cock.”

  She obeys without hesitation, thrusting her hips back to take me even deeper inside. My balls slap against her slick pussy. My hand tightens in her hair.

  I haven’t even removed my jeans. Or shoes. Or gun.

  I’m in heaven.

  I slap her ass again, laughing darkly when she curses. My handprint looks branded onto her skin. Next to the little indentations of my teeth, it looks like a mark of ownership.

  Lust and possession surge through my body. I want to mark her all over. I want her to remember who had her, feel the ache of my passion tomorrow, see the bruises on her skin.

  I reach around and pinch her swollen clit, stroking it between two fingers. She breathes my name, and I lose my mind. I bend over her body, wrap my arm around her waist, brace my other hand against the mattress, and drive into her over and over, grunting like an animal.

  She fucking loves it. I know because she tells me.

  “God yes Ryan so good I love it so good please oh God please—”

  I growl, “Who told you you could speak, you bad girl? Who?”

  She mews and buries her face deeper into the blankets.

  When I can tell from her broken cries that she’s right on the razor’s edge of orgasm, I pull out and flip her over, manhandling her to get her on her back with her ankles over my shoulders. She hasn’t even caught her breath before I’m inside her again.

  She arches her back and grasps my biceps as I fuck her relentlessly, giving her exactly what she needs.

  A sheen of sweat glistens on her chest. Her breasts bounce with every thrust. Her lips are parted, her eyes are closed, and she’s so beautiful, it’s like a dagger to my heart.

  “Please,” she begs in a ragged whisper. I know she’s asking permission to come.

  But I’m not in a generous mood. I’ve let the beast loose, and he says she can come when he’s good and fucking ready.

  I fall still, and she moans in frustration.

  “One more sound outta you, and your ass’ll be bright red and burning.”

  She bites her full bottom lip. Her eyes drift open. She stares at me from under lowered lids with a look like she wants to slit my throat.

  I mutter, “I know. You hate me.” I reach between us and slide my thumb over the wet, engorged nub of her clit. She gasps, which makes me smile in victory. “Only you don’t hate me, Angel. You don’t hate me at all.”

  She flexes her hips, trying to move against my cock. I lightly slap her thigh in warning. She sends me a look of nuclear rage, and I throw my head back and laugh.

  Then I drop down on top of her, bending her in half. With her calves resting on my shoulders, I slide deep inside her heat, until I’m so deep, she’s gasping.

  Staring down at her, I order, “Take every inch of my cock, and don’t you dare come until I say you can. Your orgasm is mine, and if you go off before I say you can, you’ll regret it.”

  She loves every word coming out of my mouth, but still she has to grit her teeth and glower. She demanded it rough, but she fights against being made to submit. She wants it, but only on her terms.

  Which I understand completely. She’s a lioness. She needs a lion, but that doesn’t mean her lion won’t get clawed and bitten.

  I pull out slightly, thrust into her, do it again. And again. And again, until she’s pleading.

  “You better not!” I roar, feeling her clench around my cock. She cries out in frustration, pounding her fists on my shoulders. I laugh.

  She rakes her fingernails down my chest and shouts, “Laugh again and it’ll be the last sound you make, you smug son of a bitch!”

  The sting of my broken skin is nothing compared to the euphoria erupting in my chest. I can tell she doesn’t like the shit-eating grin on my face because she slaps me.

  Hard.

  I laugh so loud, they can probably hear it downstairs in the lobby.

  She tries to get out from beneath me, struggling and cursing, but it’s all part of the game. As soon as I give her my full weight and take her face in my hands, she stills, panting, glaring at me with killer intent in her eyes.

  “Wrap your legs around my back,” I say, panting too, “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. She whispers, “I do.”

  Her breasts are smashed against my chest. Our skin is slick with sweat. We’re both breathing hard and 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. 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.

  I murmur into her hair, “You okay?”

  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.

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

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

  “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 says, “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 be
d. “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.