Wicked Games: The Complete Wicked Games Series Box Set

by J. T. Geissinger

  He flips me onto my back.

  Blood pounds in my head, in my face, in every limb in my body. Parker leans over, presses his weight into me, and takes my face in his hands. He slides a leg over both of mine so I’m pinned.

  I hiss, “If you try to kiss me right now, I’ll bite off your goddamn tongue!”

  He’s breathing hard. I can’t tell if he’s furious, excited, or both.

  Like me.

  “You didn’t like that?”

  “No!”

  “Good. You weren’t meant to.”

  I close my eyes. My breath is ragged. I can hardly drag enough air into my lungs to keep my head from buzzing. “No one has ever done that to me before. Not even my father.”

  He whispers, “I’m sorry.”

  I open my eyes. Parker stares at me. I have to admit, he does look sorry.

  Slowly he moves one of his hands from my face. It drifts over my shoulder, down my bare arm, over my waist to the top of my thigh—exposed by the stupid, ginormous slit in my dress—and then gently slides up and around. He cups my bottom. I gasp as he strokes my stinging behind with the softest of touches.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispers again.

  “No, you’re not.”

  Why am I not pushing him away? I should be pushing him away. But the way that feels, oh Lord…

  He’s silent a moment, caressing my burning skin. “I’m mostly sorry.”

  We’re both still breathing heavily. I become aware of his growing erection, pressing into my thigh.

  “Should I kiss it and make it better?”

  “No. I’m too busy hating you at the moment.”

  His gaze drops to my lips.

  “Don’t you dare kiss me.”

  “I really want to, though.”

  “No.”

  “What if I let you insult me a little more? Maybe you can call me a few more names, make yourself feel better.”

  He’s still staring at my mouth. He moistens his lips. In response, my nipples harden.

  “Let me try it out. Here goes. You’re a smug, no-good, lying, egotistical, heartless, money-grubbing bastard with absolutely no redeeming qualities whatsoever.”

  His brows lift. “Money-grubbing? Now you’re just being petty.”

  “I wasn’t finished.”

  His hard cock twitches against my thigh. “Excuse me. Please proceed.”

  “You’re overconfident. And bossy. And…mean.”

  Parker’s eyes soften. His caresses on my warm behind are getting a little firmer, a little more sensual than soothing. “Are you feeling better yet?”

  I swallow. My voice drops. “No.”

  He bites his bottom lip. We stare at each other, our faces inches apart. His erection is now insistently throbbing against my leg.

  I wish I could ignore it. Instead—much to my chagrin—I’d like to take it out and have a play date.

  All thoughts of Luciano and Marie-Thérèse are now toast.

  I whisper, “And you’re…scary.”

  Parker knows exactly what I mean by that. His brows furrow. He breathes, “Oh, baby.”

  “Please stop calling me that.”

  “Why?”

  Now it’s my turn to bite my lip. “Because I like it too much.”

  He gazes at me, unblinking, his gorgeous hazel eyes both hot and soft. “So that feeling I was telling you about yesterday? The one I can’t describe, that you called a crock of shit?”

  “Yeah?”

  He whispers, “It’s back. And it’s bigger than ever.”

  Because that really throws me for a loop, I decide to distract him. “Bigger than ever like the churro in your pants?”

  My little plan works. Parker’s smile is wicked. “The very same. I believe you said it was your favorite thing to eat?”

  “Churros in general, not yours in particular.”

  He chuckles. “Ouch. You sure know how to make a man feel special, Cruella.”

  “And you sure know how to push all my buttons. Which I hate, by the way.”

  “No, you don’t. You love it.”

  I roll my eyes. “Ugh. The ego has landed.”

  Parker growls, “Did you just roll your eyes at me?”

  I freeze. “Um. No?”

  “Yes, you did.”

  He pinches my behind. I gasp, both because I’m surprised and because it feels good. He says, “Do I need to give you another spanking?”

  I wriggle beneath him, an involuntary little twitch of my traitorous hips, which brings my crotch into direct contact with the steel rod trying to escape from his trousers. His breath hisses through his teeth as he sharply inhales.

  Seeing the look of lust on his face, I warn, “Remember what I said would happen if you tried to kiss me!”

  Without missing a beat, he says, “I’ll take my chances.”

  Then his lips are against mine. The kiss is hot and silky and demanding, and because he tastes so delicious, I moan into his mouth.

  That sound sets off a chain reaction.

  He moans too and presses himself harder against me, sinking his fingers into my bare flesh. I arch against him, opening my thighs to allow his erection to rub against my heat as I flex my hips. He makes a noise deep in his throat and, just above my tailbone, slips his fingers beneath my thong. I sink my fingers into his hair and pull, using my nails, scratching him. He slides his hand over the crest of my hip, then puts his open palm between my legs. He rubs me through my damp panties.

  I whimper, pushing against his hand.

  He growls, slipping his fingers beneath the silk.

  I mew like a kitten when his fingers find my wet center, again as he circles my clit with his thumb. When his fingers slip inside me, I break the kiss on a ragged gasp.

  “Goddamn beautiful treacherous viper,” he says, breathing heavily, and then takes my mouth again.

  His mouth is devouring, but his fingers are gentle. He knows exactly what he’s doing.

  This isn’t the sweet, fumbling teenager I knew, the boy who was more eager than experienced. The boy who cried in happiness after the first time we made love.

  This is a Man with a capital M. Every cell in my body recognizes it, is screaming it so loud they can probably hear it downstairs.

  Parker. Parker. Parker.

  I’m dizzy. Breathless. Aching. Low in my belly, a coil of pleasure winds tighter and tighter. His fingers push deeper. My hand finds his hardness. When I wrap my fingers around his erection, he groans.

  Parker.

  Parker?

  At the same moment I realize the voice in my head calling Parker’s name isn’t a voice in my head, Parker breaks our kiss, panting. He cocks an ear toward the door.

  “Parker, where are you? Someone find the guest of honor. He’s gone MIA!”

  Scattered laughter, a sharp squeal of feedback from a microphone, and we both realize that from somewhere downstairs, the mayor is hailing Parker to come speak to the crowd.

  Parker drops his forehead to my chest. “Jesus Christ. He’s killing me.”

  Me too, but I’m thankful for the interruption. Another sixty seconds and the Mistress of All Evil would be getting shagged on a velvet sofa by her archenemy.

  That’s just unbecoming for a Bitch of my stature.

  I push against Parker’s chest. He withdraws. I sit up, straighten my dress, wipe my swollen lips with my fingertips. Parker runs a hand through his disheveled hair and looks at me.

  “Stay here,” he orders, pointing to the sofa.

  I don’t answer.

  “Victoria.”

  “Your audience awaits, Mr. Maxwell.”

  His face darkens at my cool tone. He stands, pulling me to my feet with him. He winds an arm around my waist and lifts my chin, forcing me to meet his eyes. “Stay. Here.”

  “Okay.”

  He considers me in silence. “Was that a lie?”

  “Probably.”

  He curses under his breath. Downstairs, the mayor makes a terrible joke
about his wife’s cooking.

  “It sounds dire down there, Parker. You really ought to get a move on. We don’t want to kill your political career before it’s even begun.”

  “I can’t believe you’re smiling when you say that.”

  I push him away. “Believe it or don’t. Not my problem.”

  He makes a sound of exasperation and turns to go. At the door, he turns back and looks at me. “Will you be here when I get back?”

  My smile widens. “I guess you’ll just have to wait and see, won’t you?”

  He stares at me long and hard, his eyes burning. In a husky voice, he says, “If you’re not, you’ll only spend the rest of the night thinking about what I was going to do to you next.”

  Then he lifts his hand to his mouth and sucks on the fingers that were just inside me.

  He spins on his heel and is gone.

  17

  Parker

  “Ah! Here he is! Call off the search party. The guest of honor has appeared!”

  The mayor beams at me as I stride through the crowd, buttoning my jacket and trying to appear like a sane, responsible adult with political aspirations and not the single-celled organism Victoria Price has reduced me to.

  At this moment, I’m a giant walking cock. Nothing more. Everything I am is between my legs.

  I have no idea how I’m going to get up in front of this crowd and string a coherent sentence together. I can still taste her. I can still feel her body beneath me. I can still hear those erotic, enticing moans working from her throat as I sank my greedy fingers into her slick heat.

  Jesus. The way she responded to me. The way I responded to her. Our chemistry is thermonuclear. I’m lucky I don’t have an enormous sticky spot on the front of my slacks right now.

  “Thank you, David,” I say graciously. “I’m afraid I took a wrong turn on the way to the men’s room.”

  The gathered crowd chuckles. The mayor looks relieved. I smile widely, accept the mic he’s holding out to me, and turn to the crowd. “I’ll keep this brief so everyone can get back to their cocktails.” Cock. Oh, for the love of God. “Most of you know me. Some of you don’t, and I hope to remedy that this evening. New York has been my home for the last six years, and of all the places I’ve lived in the world, I can honestly say this is where I feel most connected. This is where I feel most…”

  Victoria appears at the top of the stairs. She’s looking right at me. She’s wearing a Cheshire Cat grin. She licks her lips, tosses her hair over her shoulder, and begins to descend the staircase. Her gorgeous bare legs gleam in the light, courtesy of the most perfect hip-high slit ever created in the history of dressmaking.

  “Alive.”

  The word is spoken before I have time to think. Looking amused, Victoria arches a brow and then shakes her head, her smile turned acerbic.

  Is she mocking me?

  I want to drop this mic, sprint across the room, grab her, throw her over my shoulder, carry her into the nearest room, and fuck her until we both come so hard, we pass out.

  Only once before in my life have I felt this level of heat, of utter, soul-shaking need.

  I screwed that up royally. I won’t allow myself to make the same mistake twice.

  “There are many things to love about my adopted home, but first and foremost, the people are what make it so special.”

  Almost to the bottom of the staircase, Victoria laughs. She shakes her head again as if bemused by my audacity—because we both know I’m speaking directly to her—and flashes me a look that could be either derision or desire.

  Fuck. I have to have her. I have to have her now.

  Abandoning the prepared speech that I can’t remember anyway, I blurt, “It’s my commitment to the amazing people of New York that’s led me to the decision to run for a seat in Congress, representing this great state.”

  The room erupts into applause and cheers. Now on the bottom step of the staircase, Victoria, still holding my gaze, stifles a fake yawn.

  I’m going to spank you so damn hard, you won’t be able to sit for a week, you impossible, infuriating woman.

  Two can play at this game.

  I say loudly into the microphone, “Marie-Thérèse, will you please join me?”

  Victoria stiffens. Her eyes gain a murderous light. Marie-Thérèse makes her way through the crowd, smiling broadly, and I can tell Victoria wants to turn away but can’t. She watches with glittering malice as Marie-Thérèse approaches and takes my outstretched hand.

  And I feel a satisfaction so profound it’s almost sexual.

  I was right. Victoria is jealous.

  It’s her eyes that always give her away. Her expression might be bored, her indifference feigned, even her words smoothly lying. But those knife blade eyes always tell me the truth.

  I imagine if she knew that, she’d put them out with acid.

  I drape my arm around Marie-Thérèse’s shoulders. She clasps me around the waist, gazing up at me adoringly. Victoria’s hand, white-knuckled, curls around the polished wood staircase balustrade.

  “My mentor, the late Alain Gérard, once told me that the true meaning of life could be found only in service to others. He embodied the values of selflessness and service, and this legacy lives on his daughter, Marie-Thérèse, whom I’ve recently appointed head of The Hunger Project, my foundation that serves the underprivileged children of the rural South.” I look down at her with fondness. “She and I are siblings of sorts, though of course I’m much older and therefore, in her view, very uncool.”

  She smiles and pokes me in the ribs. Across the room, Victoria looks confused.

  This is starting to be a hell of a lot of fun.

  “So tonight I’m very proud and grateful to stand before you and announce my candidacy for the House of Representatives of the United States Congress, so that I may continue to honor the memory of my mentor by serving others, giving a voice to the voiceless, and using my practical business experience and passion for this community to make it a better place for all.”

  As the crowd applauds and whistles, I plant a chaste kiss on Marie-Thérèse’s forehead, and look at Victoria, making sure she sees that there’s nothing whatsoever romantic about the gesture.

  What does the Queen B do in return for this olive branch I’m extending?

  She golf claps.

  Three slow, sarcastic claps, her eyes half-lidded, with a mercenary smirk on her face that would look at home on a barracuda.

  My fingers tighten around Marie-Thérèse’s shoulders. She glances in the direction I’m looking, and shudders.

  “That woman is scary,” she whispers through her smile.

  “She’s all bark and no bite,” I reply through one side of my mouth, nodding at the crowd. “A pussycat.”

  Marie-Thérèse snorts. “Cats have long claws and sharp teeth, and kill billions of small mammals a year. They’re basically cute serial killers.”

  As people move forward to shake my hand and offer congratulations, I watch from the corner of my eye as Victoria locates the still-wobbly Luciano Mancari, takes him by the arm, and leads him to the front door. Over her shoulder, she pauses to confirm I’m watching and then sends me a withering smile.

  My chest tightens in anger. I have to concede that Marie-Thérèse is probably right.

  18

  Victoria

  The first thing I do when I’m back inside Luciano’s ridiculous limousine is call Tabby. The second thing I do is shush Luciano as he slumps, moaning and holding his face, against the door.

  His nose is a bloodied mess. Leave it to the Italian stallion to use his schnoz to break his fall.

  “Tabby!” I shout into my cell when she answers.

  “Uh-oh. I can already tell things aren’t going well in the evil empire. Should I send out the flying monkeys?”

  “You can find out everything and anything about Marie-Thérèse something-or-other, daughter of the late French chef Alain Gérard, and do it before I get back.”


  She makes a noise of disbelief. “Back? You left like an hour ago!”

  I ignore that. “And what have you found out about the other stuff?” I glance at Luciano, who now appears to be crying. I want to smack him upside the head.

  “If by ‘other stuff’ you mean the dirty deets about Parker Maxwell, unfortunately nothing at all. The boy’s clean as a whistle. Not even a traffic ticket.”

  “Are you sure? You dug deep? Deeper than deep?”

  “I’m looking into some other avenues, but so far we’ve got nada.”

  I curse. “And his father?”

  “Nope. His dad retired about ten years ago. The only thing he seems to do is play golf. His mother’s the president of the Laredo opera, heads up all the charity events at their church. The Maxwells are practically the friggin’ Cleavers, boss.”

  “Drat!”

  There’s a weighty silence on the other end of the line. “You didn’t just say ‘drat,’ did you? Because if you did, I might have to hand in my resignation. ‘Drat’ is totally cliché, even for a super villain like you. Especially for a super villain like you. You’d never hear Darth Vader saying—”

  “Can we please forgo the Star Wars references and get back to the fact that you have to find me something I can work with?”

  Tabby makes a disgruntled noise. “Maybe there’s nothing there. You ever think of that?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Everyone has something they’re hiding. It’s just a matter of finding out where they’re hiding it.”

  “I know. I was just trying to be positive.”

  “Or negative, in this case!”

  “Well, if it were me and I had some dead bodies to hide, I’d bury them in my own backyard, if you get my meaning.”

  Beside me, Luciano withdraws a monogrammed handkerchief from his coat pocket and uses it to dab delicately at his swollen, bloody nose. When he whimpers, I shoot him an exasperated glare.

  “Don’t be obtuse, Tabby. I’m in no mood.”

  She sighs. “Look, if he’s really smart, he’ll have burned, shredded, or paid someone like me to scour the interwebs clean of any incriminating evidence. So the best place to find something is going to be right in the dragon’s lair, so to speak.”