Wicked Games: A Forbidden Romance

by T. K. Leigh

  It takes every ounce of resolve I possess not to avert my eyes to steal a glimpse below his waist. But that’s not a solution. Not here, not now.

  “I’m not asking you to move in,” he says, his voice softer. “Hell, I’m not even asking you to be my girlfriend. I’m just asking you to take a chance on getting to know me, on allowing me to get to know you. To see if this has the potential I feel in my heart it does.”

  On a long inhale, I close my eyes. Maybe if my life weren’t so complicated, I’d be able to say yes. Just like it takes a certain type of person to date a woman who already has children of her own, it also takes a certain type of person to date a woman who has an alcoholic mother. When she falls, I’m the only one who cares enough to catch her. And when I do, Lincoln will just let me fall, too.

  I open my mouth, wanting to tell him all of this so he’ll understand. Instead, all I can muster is, “I’m sorry.” I hold his gaze for a moment, then dash into the bathroom, closing the door behind me.

  Seconds stretch as I lean against the wall, hyper-aware of every sound. Every heartbeat. Every breath. Every frustrated sigh. Finally, after what feels like an eternity, I hear his footsteps retreat, the door to my room closing. I exhale deeply in what should feel like relief, but it isn’t. It’s something else.

  Regardless, I shake off the exchange, convinced I made the right decision. As great as last night was, it wasn’t real. We were in a fantasy world where nothing else existed outside the bubble. Fantasy and reality don’t mix. Lincoln and I in the real world won’t mix.

  Not wanting to get stuck in Vegas yet another night because I missed my flight, I turn on the water and take one of the quickest showers of my life. As I rush around the room, throwing my few belongings back into my suitcase, I spy a piece of paper placed on the desk next to the full wine glasses from last night.

  I stop in my tracks, my heart thumping as I walk toward it, admiring Lincoln’s neat, yet masculine scrawl.

  Dear Chloe,

  I meant what I said. I do believe we have a connection. This connection won’t go away simply because the blackout is over. I felt it before. And I still feel it now. There’s a reason we kept running into each other. The universe has a plan for us. You just need to finally realize that.

  Until then, I’ll be yours…

  Lincoln

  P.S. - I took your panties. If you want them back, meet me at The Living Room in the Park Hyatt. Thursday night. 9 o’clock.

  The sound of a door slamming reverberates through the house, and I snap my eyes away from the paper, dropping it on the desk. I listen as heavy footsteps storm from Izzy’s room, past mine, continuing down the hall. I get the feeling things didn’t end well between Izzy and Asher, either.

  My phone dings, alerting me to a text message and I rush to it, finding a message from Izzy.

  Requested an Uber. Will be here in ten. Meet me by the front gate.

  I type out a quick reply.

  Okay. Just packing up.

  I hit send, then finish throwing all my things into my suitcase. Once I’m confident I have everything I came here with, well…almost everything, I open the door to head out to catch our ride to the airport. Glancing behind me one last time, I spy Lincoln’s note, taunting me.

  “Oh, fuck it,” I exhale, rushing to the desk and stuffing the paper into my bag.

  The house is silent as I make my way down the steps, everything about this place different from the day before. It lacks life, vitality…hope. All the more reason I need to get out of this town as quickly as possible.

  I step out the front door and walk down the long drive toward where Izzy’s already standing, looking down the street for our ride.

  “Hey, Iz.”

  “Hey, Chloe.”

  Neither one of us says anything else for several long moments. Despite the silence, our thoughts are deafening. I glance at her, catching her eyes. We both shrug at the same time, then say, “Vegas.”

  Our laughter fills the air as we wrap our arms around each other, offering the comfort we know we both need.

  When our laughter dies down, Izzy comments, “So you’re not going to see him again.” It’s not a question. She knows me, is fully aware of my reasons for not getting involved.

  I pull out of her embrace. “What choice do I have?”

  She pinches her lips together, nodding. Thankfully, she doesn’t press the issue.

  “You’re not going to see him again?” I ask.

  She meets my eyes. “What choice do I have?”

  Chapter Twelve

  “Nothing interesting happened in Vegas? At all?”

  I smile at Nora’s doe-eyed expression, grateful to be back in New York and doing something I do every week — Thursday happy hour with two of my best friends.

  “It was just an uneventful weekend in the tenth ring of hell,” I say dismissively, taking a sip of my martini.

  “Apart from the blackout,” Nora says. “Do you have any idea how worried we were?”

  “I read the texts,” I respond, rolling my eyes. “All 187 of them, Nora.”

  “I did not send 187,” she scoffs, indignant, smoothing her strawberry-blonde hair. Then she gives me a devious smile. “It was more like 186.”

  The sound of our laughter carries through the trendy bar. This is exactly what I needed after my weekend. A night with my girls. As I take in my surroundings, it’s almost like I never left New York. The city’s still the same. Nora still gets distracted anytime I ask her a question about her own wedding plans. Evie is still madly in love with her boyfriend, Julian. And I’m the perpetual single girl. Same as it was last week, and the week before that, and the week before that. My experience in Vegas didn’t change any of that.

  At least that’s what I tell myself.

  “So, tell me…” Evie squares her shoulders. “How was the bachelorette party? Did you have to wear something ridiculous, like a crown of penises?”

  “No crown of penises, but I did have to wear a necklace of phalluses.” I furrow my brow, deep in thought. “Phalli? Phalluses?”

  I look between my two friends as we all murmur amongst ourselves, as if trying to answer a riddle.

  “Actually, it can be either,” Aiden, our bartender, interjects with a wink.

  I turn my attention to him and tip my glass toward him before taking a sip. “Thanks, Aiden. What would we do without you?”

  “Pay a lot more for your drinks than you do.”

  “I’ll drink to that.” Evie salutes him with her manhattan before sipping it.

  “Please tell me there are pictures of you wearing a line of phalluses around your neck.” Nora’s eyes all but plead with me to admit there are.

  “Probably. But that’s not even the worst part.”

  “There’s something worse than wearing penises around your neck?” Evie asks in disbelief.

  “Oh yes. We all had tank tops. Bedazzled tank tops.”

  “Oh god,” she laughs, a devilish glint in her eyes. “What was on it?”

  “Mine said ‘Bride’s Bitch’. And the maid of honor wore one that said ‘Bitch of Honor’.”

  They look equally horrified at the thought.

  “I can promise we won’t be doing anything that cheesy for my wedding.”

  “And this, my darling Nora, is why I love you.” I raise my martini glass, toasting her.

  “You’d love me even if I made you wear a crown of penises.”

  “You’re right. I would.” I pass her a sincere look, then bring my drink to my lips, sipping on it. When a song I recognize from Fallen Grace comes over the speakers, I choke on it, liquid shooting out of my mouth.

  Before Vegas, I never paid much attention to the band. In the past twenty-four hours since I landed back at JFK, I feel like I see and hear them everywhere, a constant reminder of what I did in their Vegas house while they were back in London.

  Almost like the universe refuses to let me forget it.

  “What is it?” Evie asks in c
oncern.

  “Nothing. Drink went down the wrong pipe. That’s all.”

  At that moment, a bar back rushes behind the counter, his arms filled with bottles. “Here’s the Belvedere you needed,” he says, handing them over to Aiden, who gets to work on restocking the shelves. All I can do is stare at the sleek bottle, trying to convince myself it’s just a coincidence. It has to be. I’d purposely ordered a different kind of vodka for my martini to avoid the memory of Lincoln. Yet someone, something doesn’t want me to forget.

  “Chloe?” Nora says.

  I whip my eyes to hers, my expression panicked, confused, and everything in between. “I—”

  A flicker from the large screen television hanging over the bar catches my attention. I lift my eyes, scrunching my nose at the low-budget commercial for a used car dealership. Normally I wouldn’t give it a second glance, but I can’t stop staring at the actors dressed as George Washington, Benjamin Franklin, and you guessed it…Abraham Lincoln.

  I could deal with hearing Fallen Grace. The radio stations play them at least once an hour. But the Belvedere vodka and a commercial with Abraham Lincoln? It’s too much. Maybe Lincoln was right. Maybe the universe does have a plan for us.

  Pushing out of my barstool, I grab a few bills to cover my drink and throw them onto the bar. I check my phone to see it’s just a few minutes after nine. If I hurry, I can still make it.

  “Where are you going?” Evie asks as I shrug into my jacket, then pull on my gloves and wrap my scarf around my neck.

  I meet their curious expressions, parting my lips as I struggle for a way to explain this. There’s so much I should tell them, but time is not on my side. Instead, I give them the short answer.

  “I need to go see a man about a pair of panties.”

  Then I turn from their confused faces, running as fast as I can in my rather impractical boots away from the bar and toward the Park Hyatt, pushing through the crowded sidewalks, tourists and locals not moving as quickly as I want them to. At least Lincoln chose somewhere close to our usual Thursday evening spot. I would’ve been screwed otherwise.

  The air is frigid, the wind whipping my face, but I’ve never felt so warm, so sure, so happy. When I reach the hotel, I momentarily pause, staring up at the tall building. Everything’s about to shift. I’m taking a risk if I walk inside. And I’m taking a risk if I don’t. But now I know which risk I want to take. I can no longer deny there’s a reason our paths crossed. The universe made that loud and clear tonight.

  Resolved, I step into the foyer, then take the elevator to the lobby. The ride seems to last an excruciatingly long time instead of the few seconds it actually does. When the doors open, I exit and am instantly swallowed up into the frenzied atmosphere of the lobby in the Manhattan luxury hotel.

  Spying The Living Room past the check-in desk, I move toward it, my heels seeming to echo in the cavernous space as I cross the threshold into the swanky lounge. Couches and chairs fill the area, giving it the feel of being an actual living room instead of a bar.

  My eyes float between the tables, looking for a familiar face. But I don’t see one. I grab my phone out of my purse to check the time. 9:30. Maybe I’m too late. Maybe he’s already left, thinking I wouldn’t show up.

  My shoulders dropping, I turn around, hoping the universe will ensure our paths cross again. At this point, it’s all I can do. Or Facebook stalk him. Thank god for social media.

  Just as I’m about to head out, my gaze settles on a pair of familiar green eyes at a table in a secluded corner, and my mouth ticks up into a smile, a tiny exhale of air escaping. He’s dressed similarly to the way he was during our first few encounters — tailored jacket, crisp shirt, designer shoes. It’s been less than forty-eight hours since I last saw him, but it feels like it’s been an eternity.

  His stare unwavering, he slowly stands, buttoning his suit jacket as he makes his way toward me. You know those scenes in movies when everything else falls away, leaving just the two main characters? That’s what happens here. The world around us instantly disappears. We’re no longer in a popular lounge in Midtown Manhattan. I’m no longer thinking about all the stress in my life. It’s just Lincoln. Just us. Just this bubble. An incredibly sexy and addictive bubble.

  As he approaches, his scent grows stronger, wrapping me in comfort. I thought it would be strange to see him anywhere other than Vegas, but it’s not. It feels…right.

  “You’re late.” His deep voice sends heat curling down my spine.

  “I’m rarely on time.”

  Several silent heartbeats pass as he peers at me, almost convinced I’m not real. “These panties must be pretty special if you came all the way here just to get them back.”

  I slowly shake my head. “You can keep them.”

  “Then why are you here?” He arches a single brow.

  I stand on my toes, my mouth feathering against his. “For you.”

  He brings me into his warm body, enclosing me in his perfect embrace. “God, I was hoping you’d say that.”

  He’s about to kiss me when I press my hand on his chest, stopping him. “But this doesn’t mean I’m going to move in with you,” I say, repeating the same words from his own plea. “This doesn’t mean I’m going to be your girlfriend… Not right away. All this means is that I’m willing to get to know you. That I’m willing to let you know me. That’s all this is. Just a chance.”

  “That’s all I ever wanted with you, Pixie. A chance.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  I’ve often wondered what heaven would be like.

  Not really as motivation to live a virtuous life. More like…curiosity.

  Is it like floating on clouds with beautiful music playing in the background, St. Peter welcoming you with open arms, as is depicted in popular folklore?

  Or maybe everyone’s heaven is personal. Maybe Mother Theresa’s heaven is filled with all the people she strove to help, no more signs of hunger or abuse. Robin Williams is probably free from depression, cracking jokes about anything and everything. And Steve Jobs’ heaven is probably a replica of that garage in Los Altos where he built the first Apple computer.

  Just like my heaven is wrapped in the arms of a man who was a mystery mere days ago, one I never planned to see again. But I couldn’t stay away.

  Yup. I have found my own personal slice of heaven here on earth. And his name is Lincoln Moore.

  An arm snakes around my midsection, pulling me against a large, firm body. Chest hair tickles my back as I relax into him. Nuzzling his nose into the crook of my neck, he inhales, then moans. The deep, guttural sound sparks my libido to life, although it doesn’t need much help. Not after our night of some of the most amazing sex I’ve experienced. Of acting like two long-time lovers who haven’t seen each other in months, maybe years.

  In reality, we’re practically strangers. All I know about Lincoln Moore is he’s a lawyer I kept running into while I was in Vegas for the bachelorette party from hell.

  Oh, and that he’s incredible in bed.

  And against a wall.

  And on the kitchen island.

  I’m looking forward to finding out how amazing he is in even more places and positions.

  “How are you feeling?” he rasps out as his tongue traces a circle on that spot where my neck meets my shoulder, causing a shiver to trickle down my spine.

  It’s amazing how he’s learned to read my body in such a short amount of time. What I like, what turns me on. A trained musician playing an instrument, familiar with the exact spot that makes me hum, makes me vibrate, makes me sing.

  “Horny.”

  It’s silent for a beat. Then his throaty laugh echoes against the walls of his bedroom. “What am I going to do with you?”

  I shift in the bed, peering into his lazy eyes, the green still dazzling first thing in the morning. Hooking a leg around his waist, I subtly circle my hips, his need for me already prominent.

  “I have a few ideas.”

  In one s
wift move, he rolls onto his back, pulling me on top of him. My legs fall on either side of him and I lean down, allowing my hair to form a curtain around us. I feather my lips against his, then retreat. He cranes his head, chasing my kiss, but I remain just out of reach.

  “Do you like being a tease?”

  Readjusting my position so I’m sitting upright, I bite on my lower lip, smiling coyly as I move against him. “I think you like it when I’m a tease.” My voice is demure as I bat my lashes.

  With a growl, he grabs the back of my head, his fingers digging into my scalp as he brings my mouth within an inch of his. My breathing becomes ragged, raw hunger flowing through me.

  No man has ever turned me on to the level Lincoln has. No man has ever brought me to the brink of the kind of pleasure I didn’t think possible, then pushed me over the edge to the point of oblivion. No man has ever brought me to my knees, made me want more.

  But I do.

  I want so much more from him.

  I lick my lips, then plump them out, encouraging him to dive in for a taste. Instead, his teeth clamp onto my lower lip. The ache hits me in my core, making me burn even hotter for him. He wraps his arm around me and flips me onto my back, covering my body with his. Brushing my hair away from my face, his eyes lock with mine, vibrant green to my lackluster gray. I wonder if he can read my thoughts, if he knows I’m mentally comparing him to every man in my past, every mistake, every reminder of why I’ve always done things my way.