Wicked Little Games

by Dee Palmer

  ‘The world’s a fucked up place, so why the hell would I want to go outside when everything I need can be delivered right to my door?’

  I’ve been living here for just under two years, and I have to say, he has a point. I only feel safe and happy when that front door closes behind me.

  The kitchen is the warmest room in the house courtesy of the Aga kicking out a gentle heat 24/7. Faint and delicious smells linger until they are replaced with Logan’s current cooking project. This morning it’s bacon. My mouth waters, and my tummy rumbles in anticipation. I silently pad the length of the kitchen in my bare feet and take my seat at the table where Logan has already poured me a piping hot cup of tea. The steam is rising in gentle plumes, and I dump a large heaped spoon of sugar before I blow to cool it enough to take a sip. He’s facing the cooker and most likely didn’t hear me enter from the other end of the forty-foot long room. His naked arse cheeks seem to be taunting me. The tight round muscles flex and move when he jiggles to the angry Irish folk music blaring through the speakers. He does have a white tie knotted in the middle of his back, the ends of the apron dangling perilously close to the crack in his arse. I smile at his only concession to clothing in the kitchen. Safety first when there’s bacon frying. It’s not that he’s always naked; he’s just mostly always naked.

  “It’s lucky I’m not working until tonight. What’s the ETA on those scrambled eggs?” I’ve finished my tea and skimmed the newspaper for anything remotely upbeat but settle on the crossword, which I’ve nearly finished.

  “You’re funny.” He doesn’t bother to turn but steps to the side so I can see him gently folding a golden-looking mound of what I assume are eggs. “This masterpiece needs none of your impatience and all of my attention.”

  “It does smell good, but what’s with the glass bowl. We have pans, you know.” Giving up on the last impossible clues on the last remaining words of the crossword, I fold the paper and walk over to the Aga. I nudge his side when he doesn’t respond.

  “Peasant,” he quips, lightly shaking his head with fake disapproval. “This is a bain-marie, the bowl rests in the simmering water, heating the glass gently and the eggs cook from that heat. It’s why they taste so damn good, and I’ve never heard you complain before.”

  “I’m not really complaining now. I’ve just never seen you cook eggs like this before.”

  “You’re normally still asleep while I’m cooking breakfast. My princess likes to have her breakfast in bed, remember?” he teases, but the smile I was wearing slips from my face. “What? What’s wrong?” He moves the pan from the heat and turns to me, lifting my fallen face high so our eyes are locked.

  “It’s…” I hesitate, but I know there is no point saying it’s nothing when he knows damn well I’d be lying. “Can you not call me princess?”

  “Why?”

  “I love all the nicknames you’ve given me, even when you call me fuckwit, but not…just not princess, please.”

  “Of course. Care to tell me…oh…” His jaw clenches, and the stubble darkens when the muscles twitching pull the hairs closer together. His dark brow thickens with anger. “He used to call you that.” He spits the words like he was the one abandoned, left broken, and completely heartbroken.

  “It’s silly, I know.” I try to shrug it off, and his eyes dip to keep the contact, and he strokes his knuckles along my jawline.

  “It is, but not for the reason you think.” His deep voice softens, and I shake my head, blinking back the pain of the betrayal I feel every damn time he crosses my mind. “Tia, listen to me.” Logan’s face is so close all I can see is his impossibly large chocolate eyes, swirling with tiny specks of gold and onyx, framed by the longest lashes this side of false. “He’s a cunt and a coward. If you give him this power over you, even with just a word, then he’s winning. It’s just a word, Tia. It lost all it’s meaning the day he left you to rot in jail.”

  “You’re right; I’m sorry.” The tears that threatened vanish, and I draw in a steadying breath. Logan pulls me hard against his solid chest. His strong arms envelop me as his body moulds protectively around my much smaller frame. I take every bit of comfort from him.

  “Don’t apologise; you’ve done nothing wrong.” He pulls back and holds my gaze with a look that speaks volumes, his words meaning so much more than this little exchange.

  I did nothing wrong.

  “Come on, fuckwit.” He raises a playful brow, and I let out an unladylike snort at the welcome change of atmosphere.

  He turns the heat off and removes the plates from the warming oven. Carefully placing the buttered toast, strips of pale pink smoked salmon in elaborate curls, he ladles the eggs into a soft mound in the centre of the plate. The bacon has its own side dish because it would spoil the aesthetics of the dish, but breakfast isn’t breakfast without bacon. I’m about to take the plate from the side when his disapproving growl makes me stop. My fingertips were poised to lift, but are left hovering comically in mid-air. He holds his finger up in warning, but really, that growl had me frozen to the spot. The finishing touch, he sprinkles with some finely chopped chives, and only then gives the go-ahead for me to take my plate.

  I scrape the surface and use the last piece of toast to wipe the plate clean. I survived almost entirely on bread and cheese the three months I lived in Logan’s basement. I thought staple foods like that no one would notice going missing. I may have had the odd piece of fruit that was on the turn, but staying hidden and safe was my main objective. Now, however, I eat anything and everything with gusto, but then Logan is an amazing cook. He takes the newspaper I folded away and irritatingly quickly fills in the missing answers on the crossword. He throws the pen down and leans back with his hands behind his head, a satisfied smugness plastered all over his handsome face.

  “Smart-arse.” I look at the words he’s entered and roll my eyes that I didn’t get them. They always look so obvious once you see them written down. He drains his coffee, and I pour him another from the pot on the table.

  “Want to tell me about last night?”

  “What do you mean? I had a nightmare. It’s not the first; I doubt it’ll be the last.”

  “I’m not talking about the nightmare. I’m talking about you getting up to paint. The picture was barely outlined yesterday, and now, it’s complete. Which meant you were asleep in my arms for maybe half an hour? Something made you stay awake so long, and I know it wasn’t my cock, so spill, little one, what’s worrying you?” His hands are now wrapped around his coffee mug, fingers interlocked like he is praying to some Mayan coffee god, yet his focus is on me.

  “Nothing, it’s fine.” He stops mid-sip. His dark eyes narrow, and he draws his lip in at the side. The only other movement is his slow, steady breathing. His eyes fix on mine, and it’s all I can do not to cower. He hates when I lie, and I hate that he knows every time I do. “I’m sorry. Look, I’m probably just anxious about my job, maybe that’s it.”

  “You don’t have to work as a cleaner, Tia.” His tone is filled with irritation at a conversation we’ve had a dozen times. He’s so used to getting his way, I know he’s really struggling with my stubbornness. It’s been just him for so long, I don’t think the word compromise is even in his vocabulary. I honestly think my refusal to do as he says is the bigger problem, not the job itself.

  “I do.” I hold his glare, and he instantly holds up his hands in surrender.

  “Let me finish, you nutter. I meant you don’t have to work there. I take it you knew it was his company when you applied, because I really didn’t have you pegged as someone stupid.” His tone is anything but playful.

  “I did know, yes, and I’m not stupid,” I snap, my arms crossing defensively.

  “So this isn’t some revenge thing?” he counters and leans forward, his expression dark and deadly serious. I swallow the thick lump in my throat. I hate this.

  “No,” I state with as much conviction as I can. I’m not lying, not technically.

 
“Because to anyone with a brain cell, it could look like you were walking into the lion’s den in a Lady Gaga meat costume.” He is pushing, and I have to fight not to cave under this level of intense scrutiny, but it’s for the best. I have to do this.

  “I’m not, and I would like you to give me some credit. I know what I’m doing.” My voice catches, and I can’t fathom why he’s giving me such a grilling. If he knew the real reason, he’d probably support me. I just can’t risk him. If I get caught, it’s one thing, but if he’s involved and goes down with me, it would destroy him. I won’t let that happen.

  “Good, because you would have to be seriously fucking deranged to start something with just under a year left on your probation…unless you did actually want to go back to jail,” he warns, and I feel the chill in my bones at the very thought.

  “No! I’m never going back,” I state with absolute conviction, which for the time being, seems to placate him. He sits back in his chair, and the tension eases from his shoulders. His bare chest heaves with steady, deep breaths, and he gives me a slight, acknowledging nod.

  I can’t have him interfering, either, so I offer a little more information in a way that I hope will convince him to back right off.

  I stand, pushing my chair back, and roughly snap up the plate from the table, my temper prickling my nerves. I drop the dishes in the sink with a clatter and spin to face him. He looks startled at my sudden and obvious mood swing. “This isn’t just some revenge thing, okay? Yes, I’m curious, but I’m not fucking stupid, and as much as I appreciate your concern here, Logan, it has fuck all to do with you.” I pinch out a tight smile that borders on nasty.

  “Really?” he fires back.

  “Yes really.”

  “Fine.” He stands abruptly, sending the chair flying, glaring at me. The fierceness would be extremely intimidating, if it wasn’t for the fact that he is still naked. He turns and starts to stride from the kitchen. His mighty fine arse is just a mild distraction from the heated exchange.

  “Fine,” I call out after him, and just as he reaches the door, I add, “The eggs were really good, by the way.”

  “I know.” He turns. I can see the anger in his face, but it’s already starting to soften. “Clean up that fucking mess you made.”

  Okay, maybe it hasn’t started to soften.

  “Fuck!” I punch the frame of the back door for the tenth time. My knuckles are spilt and bleeding, and I’m pretty sure I have a shit tonne of splinters digging in between the bones. My hand is a mass of throbbing pain, so it almost feels numb. My stomach is a knot so tight, a troop of scouts couldn’t loosen that fucker. I hate this, hate feeling so fucking out of control, which is why I never do this, never test myself. I know exactly where it ends up, only this time, I have a witness to my meltdown. One step forward threes steps fucking backwards. I can hear her light footsteps as they tentatively traverse the long hallway from the kitchen to the rear entrance of the house.

  I can’t even open the fucking door to take in some of the fresh morning air; my hand cramped on the handle like it had set with rigor. The sweats then started, making it impossible to grip, even if I did have the balls to turn the handle, which I don’t, because I’m a motherfucking pussy who hasn’t stepped a foot outside this house for ten years. I can feel the droplets of sweat running down my back, and my hair is slick to my face where it touches. I’m dripping, and I hate that. Until Tia came into my life, I wouldn’t have given a flying fuck never to leave this house again, but now…everything has changed.

  “Jesus, Logan, what are you doing?” Her tiny hand reaches for my arm, and she pulls my clenched fist away from the doorframe. “We’re going to need a new doorframe,” she mutters and slips her t-shirt over her head. It’s my shirt. I love it when she steals my clothes. They hang off her tiny frame like clothes on a horse, but I won’t deny she looks fucking sexy in my stuff. My cock twitches with the hope that she’s naked underneath. Shit out of luck on that score too. Today, she’s wearing one of those cami-tops that hugs her tiny waist and skims her perfect, round, pert tits. The thin straps are straining under the weight of those delicious curves. She’s not skinny, but at five foot nothing, she is tiny against my six foot four height, and whereas she is trim and athletic, I have spent ten years building bulk and muscle. She looks fucking perfect, almost naked, her pale, flawless skin next to my deep tan and ink—what is it they say about opposites? My cock continues to twitch and swell. “What’s wrong with you?” she huffs.

  “I’m just letting off steam.” I shrug.

  “No, I get that you’re mad at something or someone. What I mean is, your hand is cut to shit and you’re getting a hard-on. Do you get off on pain or something?”

  “Not this kind of pain, no, but you are, in fact, wearing the skimpiest fucking top known to man, and you have a great rack,” I state flatly and don’t hide my smirk when she flushes a beautiful shade of dark pink high on her cheeks.

  “Oh…damn it, Logan.” She wraps the shirt carefully over my bleeding hand and cradles it to her warm body. She turns and leads me like a wounded pup back to the kitchen. She pushes me to sit and then drapes a kitchen towel over my raging erection, which now looks like a floral tepee in my lap. She coughs to hide her laugh, but her cheeks have turned a ball-aching deep red now. And it’s really not helping that she keeps wetting her lips before sucking them into her mouth. Oh, man. I flex and squeeze my fist, splitting the skin farther just for some sort of distraction.

  “You’re gonna need some tweezers. I may have a splinter or two.” I can feel the stabbing like shards of glass, and I was hitting that frame with all my strength. Those are going to be buried deep.

  “Mind telling me what you were doing, aside from the obvious re-modelling.” She nods and digs around in the first aid box for supplies, pours the water from the kettle into a small bowl, and places the items on the table beside me. Pulling her chair in front, she shuffles and places her knees in between my spread thighs. I close my legs around hers and feel the spark of fire hit my balls, like it does every time her skin brushes mine. More recently, however, there’s been a warm hit in my chest too. Her long chestnut curls fall over one side of her face. She scoops the mass of hair over to the other side of her head and tries to tame it by tucking as much behind her ear as possible. Her pale green eyes search mine, and when I shake my head, her whole body deflates before I even utter a word. She knows what’s coming.

  “Nothing.” I grit my teeth when she unwraps the blood-soaked t-shirt. Looking at the mess, I’m thinking it might not be splinters after all, that looks like bone sticking out on two of the knuckles.

  “I liked that t-shirt.” She scrunches it up and throws it over to the bin, hitting it at the perfect angle to slide through the flap.

  “Nice shot, ace, and I have others I’m sure you’ll steal to replace it.” I chuckle, trying to lighten the mood, but she barely twists out a strained smile.

  “Hmm.” She lays a fresh towel on her lap and places the bowl of water on top. She gently submerges my right hand. The water instantly colours bright red as my hand continues to pour out blood. Damn! That stings like a motherfucker.

  “Is that just water?” I grimace.

  “Stop being a pussy; I put a little antiseptic in. Those are some deep cuts, and it’s not like I can take you to the emergency room,” she throws out, but before I can say anything, her eyes are wide with mortification.

  “Low blow, T,” I add even though I can see she already regrets her outburst.

  “Oh God, Logan, I’m so sorry, really I am.” She places her hand on my cheek. It’s wet from the water and warm droplets trickle down my neck. She cups my face, and her eyes become glassy with tears, and that’s not what I want.

  “Forgiven.” I turn my head and kiss the softness of her palm. She resumes washing my cuts, and after several long seconds of awkward silence, she huffs and straightens her back. Her face furrowed with concern and I’m guessing frustration.

  �
��Damn it, Logan, you have to give me more than ‘it’s nothing’.” She sighs, and her eyes seem to double in size, looking right through me, searching for my murky soul, wide and pleading like a damn puppy dog.

  I can’t.

  I shake my head and affix a dark, warning scowl I only pray she heeds. She takes a moment and swallows what must be a lump in her throat. Despite all our time together, I still make her tremble, though she must know I’d never hurt her. She shakes off her nerves and powers through regardless.

  “Nuh-uh, you don’t scare me.” She narrows her eyes, and her voice waivers just a little, belying her assertion. I raise a brow because I have to admire her stubbornness or her stupidity. “You’re not allowed to shut me out when I have to tell all. I’m damn well not allowed to give you the ‘it’s nothing’,” she declares, and if her hands weren’t busy washing the blood from mine, I imagine they would be perched on her hips, a mix of sass and indignation to go with that sexy pout.

  “My house, my rules,” I counter flatly, shutting the conversation dead with my tone.

  “You want to die of septicaemia? Because if I don’t get those splinters out…” she threatens, and I scoff.

  “Fine, I’ll just call a doctor.” I pull my hand from the bowl and shake the excess water and blood onto the floor.

  “Do you want to call a doctor?” A little line appears just at the bridge of her nose when she frowns with concern, and her face looks suddenly sad. The question itself sounded more like a worried gasp, the way she rushed the words. I should know better than to push her.

  “No,” I offer softly and replace my hand in hers, which she then guides back into the water.

  “Good.” Her face instantly lights up when she smiles, even when it’s tentative and only just curling the corners of her mouth.

  She looks so damn pretty when she smiles.

  We fall into a comfortable silence while she cleans the wounds and picks the splinters from my skin. Some are really deep, and she has to gouge at the flesh. She keeps apologising, but it isn’t her who’s an idiot with anger issues.